The Chronicles of the

Sentient Sword Vol.2

The Golden Child

Copyright 2012 by

Gerald L Black

www.chroniclesofthesentientsword.com

© Gerald L. Black

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted by any means without the written

permission of the author.

Mohandas Gandhi:

I like your Christ; I do not like your Christians.

Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.

ARTIST BRANDON DALE KEEN

Brandon Keen was born at the United States Army

hospital in Wurzburg, West Germany in 1983, while both

of his parents were enlisted soldiers at Larson Barracks in

Kitzingen, Germany, and spent his school-aged years

growing up in La Mirada, California. Brandon was

educated at The Art Institute of Philadelphia, and later

transferred to The Art Institute of California – Orange

County, majoring in Media Arts & Animation. Brandon’s

artistic talents were evident quite early in childhood with

his prolific drawings of fantasy character and replications of

action figures.

With use of Photoshop to shade and color, Brandon

regularly is commissioned to colorize, or digitally enhance

rough sketch characters upon request to take a rough draft

concept and bring it to life with clarity, force and exquisite

reality. Brandon’s work includes clay modeling of fantasy

characters, colored pencil drawings, and digitalized story

board illustrations, character conceptualizing, as well as

animation in various formats.

Brandon’s own characters, as well as those he has

enhanced by request for others can be found

at http://tus.deviantart.com/gallery/.

Brandon Keen is currently living in Olathe, Kansas,

seeking short and long-term collaborative projects. Contact

Brandon at: urackadisaprin@yahoo.com

This novel is dedicated to Ronald G. Hoff, my stepfather

and one of the true heroes I have known in my life. His selfless,

courageous outlook even in the face of death was an inspiration.

May he rest always in peace. And as always, my beautiful wife,

Kimberly.

Copyright 2012 by Gerald L. Black

All rights reserved

Cover art by Brandon Dale Keen Copyright 2012

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to: Kimberly Black my wife for undying

love, support, and believing in me, Dean Beers, again for all the

assistance, Brandon Keen for the amazing artwork, and a huge

thanks to all who read the first book and follow the adventures at

www.chroniclesofthesentientsword.com

i

Chapter One

A Most Addictive Drug

He was wrapped in darkness. Swirling mists of memory

clouded his mind. A strange voice whispered to him, a sibilant

hiss of unintelligible words. Blindly, he stumbled toward a pin

point of light in the distance.

“Such is the fate of killers,” the voice stated.

“No!” he screamed in reply. But he felt the warm blood on

his hands, smelled its copper taint. Sobbing, he increased his

pace through the choking shadows.

A rustling above his head had him shaking his head back

and forth seeking any sign of his tormentor, but there was none.

Just blackness and the persistent voice.

1

“You killed me,” the voice hissed. The words brought

another sob from deep in his chest, and fresh blood spattered

from his fingertips.

“Leave me alone,” the boy wailed. He fell to his knees, face

in his hands. He could taste the blood, now and he retched.

“Such an easy thing is killing, no?” The voice was followed

by a chuckle. Definitely a female voice, he observed, and a

familiar one. He had heard it many times in the past month.

“Shut up,” he pleaded as he had over and over again, but the

speaker would not be silenced. He rose to his feet and stumbled

onward.

The darkness grew deeper and with it came the smell of rot.

His body reflexively wanted to vomit, but he held it in, a bloody

hand over his mouth. The voice began to laugh in a musical tone

full of amusement.

“It is pleasing to watch another suffer as I once did,” the

voice said.

A tear began to course its way down his cheek as he came

closer to the light. All he wanted was to leave the darkness

behind, be free from the mocking voice. The blood again was

drying on his fingers leaving them stiff. His hands unconsciously

dropped to his tunic and he wiped them. Where the blood

touched, the tunic burst into flame, though he felt no burning.

The light of the flames showed him the path of bones littered at

his feet. Fear began to choke him. It was difficult to breathe. A

faint stench of rot still burned his nostrils.

Ahead, the light grew larger as he stumbled forward. He

entered into the scene from a nightmare. Bodies lay stacked in

2

great piles around a red haired woman who was tied to a stake,

flames at her feet licking at her thighs. He recognized her as the

woman he had slain in the castle. She showed no sign of pain,

just smiled wickedly as she stared into his eyes.

“You killed me,” she said. “I can smell the stain upon your

soul.”

Cannivone screamed again in anguish. All he loved had

been taken away in one moment of anger. How could Alinard

ever forgive him?

“It is your fault,” he snarled. “You killed the king.”

“Did I?” The woman smiled. “Or was that your hand as

well?”

“You can’t be speaking to me.” Cannivone shook his head

to clear it. “I watched you die.”

“You must finish slaying me,” the woman added. “Or I will

haunt you forever.”

“I cannot.”

The woman smirked. “You killed me once. Just take the

blade and repeat your actions.”

Cannivone shook his head violently. “No! There will be no

more blood upon my hands.”

“It is too late for you, Cannivone. End it now.”

Another tear ran down his cheek as he glanced at the silver

sword at his hip. It had a dragon claw hilt and shone in the

firelight. He gripped it and slid it free.

“Alinard forgive me,” he sighed as he thrust the blade in the

woman’s chest. She smiled and groaned as if in ecstasy.

Suddenly her face began to waver and change, her hair

3

lengthening and turning the color of straw. Her white eyes

became blue and stared deeply into his soul.

“What in…. Perinia?” He dropped his sword and listened to

it chuckle in his head.

“Why?” the young girl asked, her gaze dropping to the

wound which reddened the front of her white gown.

“Perinia!” Cannivone’s voice echoed through the darkness.

“Perinia, Perinia, Per…..”

Cannivone awoke covered in sweat with her name

screaming from his lips.

Morrigan left the fortress in the rising daylight and

followed the trail east. The cool breeze kissed her bald pate,

soothing the burn of the fresh tattoos adorning her skull. The

smell of fresh water assailed her nostrils as the wind blew across

the wide river.

She traveled light, dressed in her thin leather tunic and

breeks, cloak of fox fur, and knee high leather boots. Across her

back she carried her greatsword, black blade covered in runes

and specially blessed by her deity, Denosia. At her waist was a

thick belt from which dangled several vials of holy water filled

from the sacred spring in the jungles of Tir-na-Faiche, several

coils of rope, and a small pouch filled with coin and herbs.

A string of garlic cloves adorned her throat. Morrigan

had been trained since youth by the Ratus. They were a strange

and solitary temple presiding at the edge of the vast jungle. Their

4

entire lives were dedicated to eradicating the vampiric leanashe

and vile demons.

For ten years she had trained and just a week before had

been given her holy tattoos of protection. Against her caramel

skin, they stood out, brightly. Her weapon was blessed by the

Holy Prefect himself, Ogdar Banhai. When word came of the

attack on Talantas, the Ratus had felt obligated to send an agent

to the King.

When she was selected, Morrigan was at first

apprehensive. She had never been further than a day’s walk from

the temple, but as the time for leaving approached she became

excited. Adventure was a thing that kept the soul alive. She

vowed to make a name for herself and Denosia.

Morrigan knew it was a short walk to the river. Time and

practice had embedded it into her subconscious. She would walk

to the river and follow its path over plains and hills until she

reached the principal city of the Kingdom and request a meeting

with the King.

Her heart fluttered in her chest as she looked back over

her shoulder at the fading shadows of the Ratu fortress, her eyes

of blazing blue searching her path. The sun had just reached its

zenith and baked the ground at her feet. Sweat began to run from

her forehead as she walked, but she showed no sign of

discomfort. After all the training she was an adventurer at last.

She thanked Denosia with a short song and her smile

widened. Freedom was something that she could only have

dreamed about in the past, now the world stood before her in all

its vastness and colors. Sure, the temples allowed the members to

5

venture into the jungle to hunt or to the river to fish, but further

journeys were privy to the more experienced monks. The fact

that she had been allowed to embark on such a journey showed

the faith the temple had in her skill and fortitude.

It was a difficult life being the only woman in a temple

of men cut off from the world for years. The experience had

made Morrigan hard. It had convinced her that men were

disgusting animals that thought only of sticking their members in

whatever warm hole they could find. Many a Ratu had lost his at

Morrigan’s hands. Lessons were sometimes harsh.

Eventually, her reputation and the mens' fear kept them

from trying to bed her. There was always an admonishment for

her actions, but the reprimand was always harsher for the men

who couldn’t keep their urges under control. Soon, many men

turned to each other in the night. Morrigan could still remember

the grunting and heavy breathing that kept her awake.

She longed to be gone from the place even though it had

been her home for many years. Most of her life was spent behind

the ivy covered walls. The monthly garlic harvest was one of her

favorite times. That she would miss. She would also miss her

closest friend, Amrith, the mute scullery worker. Many a time

had the simple man sneaked an extra helping to her after the

kitchens were closed. He was a gentle man and the target of

much ridicule, but inside she knew the man possessed a great

strength.

She vowed to return someday and take the man from the

temple, setting him free. He deserved better than what he had

been born into. Often she prayed to Denosia to give the man a

6

voice that he might reply to the constant ridicule. He smiled

through it all and never let anyone know it bothered him, but

Morrigan had heard his cries at night after everyone was

supposed to be in bed asleep. The anger seethed inside her and

she put it into her training, quickly besting every one of the

monks.

This had gained her the blessed tattoos and the chance to

do Denosia’s work. As her feet kicked up the sod, she reflected

on the mantra of Denosia. Take only what the earth provides.

Self -worth is only found within. Never turn your back on evil.

There was no doubt in her mind that she was ready. Only

Denosia could deem her worthy, but she was, at least, on the

right track. She would rely on her strong body and intense

training to prove her worthiness. Nothing would sway her; not

demon, ghoul, or leanash.

She sneered at the thought. There never was a vampire

to match the strength of the Ratus. Domhan knew no greater

force than the formidable monks. They had even learned to tap

into the energy to use a limited form of magic, specialized to

their field. All undead and diabhols feared the mighty Ratus.

It was a sense of pride amongst the monks to be chosen

and Morrigan’s heart swelled. Hard work and adherence to the

temple codes had finally paid off. She hitched the buckle of her

scabbard tighter on her chest and she soon stood beside the

raging river.

Strong currents cut through the grasslands on their

journey south. Morrigan knelt upon the muddy bank and dipped a

hand into the cool water. She smiled at its familiar feel. Forming

7

a cup with her hands, she took a few drinks of water, then stood

and surveyed the area.

Small ferns grew at the river’s edge and the whole area

was a canvas of bright colors as a myriad of flowers dotted the

landscape. Thin trees grew in small bunches along the river’s

path. Morrigan spied the tracks of some animal in the mud.

The Ratu weren’t versed in animal lore or the ecology of

Domhan, so she had no idea which creature had left the prints. It

didn’t really concern her. If she came across something edible,

she would kill it; if not she had a lot of hard tack to sate her

appetite or she could catch fish from the river. No, it was better

to worry about the task at hand; reaching Talantas.

She looked down at her wavering reflection. She

grimaced when she saw the dirt that streaked her face. She was

pretty despite her lack of tresses, her body taut and lithe with full

muscles. Eyes of gray stared back at her and she smiled her

crooked smile in return.

She still remembered clearly the moment the message

had arrived tied to the leg of a raven. Though the temple had no

rookery, many birds made their homes in its lofty attics. Ogdar

was more ecstatic than normal when he unrolled the parchment

and read the words that were scrawled in a scribbled hand.

He had very few choices. Most of the brotherhood was

already away on missions of “world cleansing.” To ignore the

King, however would bring dire consequences upon the Ratus, so

a council was convened. Advice was freely given and prayers to

Denosia echoed through the stone halls of the temple.

8

At last it was decided. A delegate would be sent to aid

the King as was fitting. The choice of whom to send was the

matter of more deliberation. Finally, Morrigan was chosen as

much for her proven skills as to remove the chance that another

monk may become maimed by her vicious dagger.

“All they had to do was keep their hands to themselves”,

she thought. “Was that really so difficult?”

Her thoughts wandered back to her first weapons trainer,

Mareth, a fine man with a gruff tone, dead now these past five

years. He sensed the woman’s loneliness so he always provided

her with extra attention, honing her skills and building her

confidence. She missed the man terribly, but when the Ratu’s

mission in life was ended, Denosia called him home. Such was

life; devotion followed by death.

The problem was some creatures did not remain dead.

This was an affront to nature and to Denosia. Undead were

unclean spirits and the sole purpose of the Church of Denosia

was to put them back at rest.

Lost in her daydreams, she almost didn’t hear the

snuffling of the creature. It followed her for many paces,

slobbering as the scent of human flesh assailed its nostrils. Silent

as death, it stalked its prey.

At the last moment, she heard the heavy breaths and the

pounding footsteps of a lumbering creature. She ducked,

squatting in the mud and a large figure rushed overhead, roaring.

Morrigan snatched her greatsword and pulled it from her back.

She looked up at the creature that now was before her trying to

raise itself up from the ground.

9

With a small twinge of fear she saw that it was the

deadly jungle jagat, a striped cat twice as long as a man, with

sharp claws and deadly teeth. It turned and roared, baring its

fangs. Normally, the cats were docile toward humans, so

Morrigan wondered what had provoked the attack.

The beast circled Morrigan, ears lying flat against its

skull. It was then she heard the faint mewling from the brush.

“Babies,” she realized. “That explains much.” She raised

her hands in an nonthreatening manner and began to speak in a

soft voice. The slayer had no desire to leave the cubs motherless,

so she would attempt to avoid the creature’s death.

One hand slowly crept to the hilt of her sword, tightening

her grip.

“Denosia,” she whispered, “get me through this

unscathed and let the beast return to her family.”

As if in answer, the jungle cat roared again, but didn’t

attack. The slayer and the cat moved in small circles, facing off

against one another. Morrigan still spoke in soft tones to the

animal, trying to keep it at ease.

“I mean you no harm, girl,” she whispered. “Return to the

kids. I’ll go my way, you go yours.”

In the beast’s dark eyes, she saw a slight glimpse of fear.

The muscles in its legs and back were tense, ready to leap at the

slightest provocation. Morrigan’s fingers played lovingly across

the leather bound hilt of her sword, while her other hand still

remained in front of her, an attempt to ease the beast’s

apprehension.

10

The jungle was far in the distance, so Morrigan couldn’t

help but wonder why the cat had strayed so far. It wasn’t

common to spy a jagat so far from its natural habitat. In the

jungle’s circle of life, the jagat was on top of the food chain.

There had to be something menacing in the jungle’s dark interior

to force the large cat from its home.

Morrigan’s curiosity was peaked, but she had no time to

give in to it. Her journey would lead her north where, in the next

few weeks, the weather would be changing drastically. Already,

the season had changed to fall and soon, by all accounts she had

read, snow would be falling in the northern countries.

“Easy, girl,” she said again. The cat wasn’t backing down

and she feared she may have to kill it.

I would make cat orphans, she thought. She shuddered at the

thought. It wouldn’t be sensible to leave young animals at the

mercy of nature. However, given the choice between her life and

that of a powerful predator, she would choose her own, every

time.

It happened so quickly, she barely registered it. The cat

suddenly sprang with every ounce of strength in its legs, claws

raking the air before her. She rolled beneath the body as it hurtled

over her. The slayer came to her feet, sword in her tight grip, a

scowl giving her face a menacing look.

“Damn it,” she cried. “I don’t want to have to kill you.”

The beast replied with another roar, claws clenching in the

loose dirt at the river’s edge. The sun glinted off the water

directly into Morrigan’s eyes, momentarily blinding her. As if

sensing a weakness, the jagat attacked.

11

“Shit.” Morrigan swung her blade nearly blind. She felt a

resistance and heard a strangled cry; felt the warmth of the

creature’s blood splash on her hand as the sword bit deep into its

hide. The creature’s weight and momentum brought Morrigan

down beneath a mass of fur and gore.

Breath was knocked from her lungs as she hit the earth. Her

sword was ripped from her hands. She could feel the icy hand of

death gripping her about the throat, but it never came. She knew

the creature atop her was dead. No breath whistled from the half

open jaws, the body lay motionless and heavy against her chest.

With a grunt, she pushed the corpse from her. It fell aside,

her sword embedded deep into its chest, the point peeking from

its back, glistening crimson in the sun’s light.

Morrigan knelt beside the body of the cat and sang a song of

mourning. Since the creature was dead anyway, she decided to

use the beast to her advantage. With her knife, which she wore

on a leather scabbard upon her forearm, she skinned the beast.

Jagat meat was notoriously tough, so she didn’t take any.

Instead, she wrapped the fur around her waist and walked toward

the brush that grew knee high near the water.

Soon, she stumbled upon the cubs. Two of the young cats

about four weeks old looked up at her from their nest of packed

earth and hissed. She smiled at them and reached to grab them.

They slashed with their sharp claws, but Morrigan evaded the

tiny razor sharp weapons and grabbed the beasts by the scruffs of

their necks.

She sat down near a small willow and fished out a small

pack of venison she was saving for the journey. With gentle

12

fingers, she fed the jagats until they were sated, then she stood

and closed her pouch.

“Fare well, young beasts,” she said. “May nature protect its

children.”

The slayer turned on her heels and returned to her path. She

could hear the mewling as she went and looked back over her

shoulder. To her surprise, the cats were following her.

“Shoo,” she cried and the cats fell back, nervously. She

quickened her pace, but the jagats continued to follow,

persistently. With a sigh, Morrigan stopped and knelt in the

grass, facing the beasts.

“If you are going to follow,” she said, “there will have to be

rules.”

The cats mewed and looked at her with heads cocked to one

side as if listening to her. She laughed.

“You shall be Roki,” she said to the larger jagat and to the

smaller added,” and you shall be Loki.”

The cats growled as she spoke and it brought another smile

to her face. Her hand reached out to pat their heads, but they

shied away, hissing.

“Rule one,” she said. “No biting.” Her mood was restored

and she started to whistle, tonelessly. The jagats followed her

loyally.

As the days passed, the cats began to come closer to her

while she rested. Soon, they slept curled up against her warmth

beneath her blankets. The weather began to cool as she made her

way further north and she was glad to have the jagat hide with

13

her, sometimes wrapping it about her shoulders when the nights

became colder.

The days grew shorter and the cats grew bolder. Soon, they

were leaving small gifts for their adopted mother: rabbits, voles,

and pheasants. With the cats along, she had no worry about food.

They became her cherished companions making the journey

much less lonely and monotonous as it would have been

otherwise.

Two weeks of travel brought Morrigan to the Ogre Swamp,

a vast and inhospitable tract of marshland, nearly impassable.

Her path led around the swamp to the east, eventually bringing

her to a town called Gralic that was erected on the swamp’s edge.

Her strange appearance brought her much unwelcome attention,

but the ever growing pair of jungle cats kept any potential threats

at bay.

She did not tarry in the town, staying long enough to fill her

water-skin from a central well then she was back on the path

north. She crossed leagues of flat-lands for weeks without a sign

of any other creature. Another ten days brought her to the

southern leg of the Aibhainn Roint where she rested for two

nights, replenishing her water supply and gathering what paltry

berries she could find. The frost had begun to form in the

mornings and only the added warmth of the jagats cuddled next

to her kept her from freezing at night.

Over land she strode with the snow-capped peaks of the

Sliabh Cruinn beginning to form on the horizon. She awoke one

morning, the ground covered in a thick blanket of snow. The

14

jagats continued to grow and soon stood to her knees. Days

passed into weeks and soon the moon began a new phase.

She at last found herself at the Aibhainn Folaidh which she

followed ever north. Finally she came to the town of Belton,

nestled in the foothills of the Sliabh Cruinn, where she was a

target of awestruck stares. A few coins saw her warm and snug in

the hay filled lofts of a stable surrounded by the comforting

warmth of the cats.

A few days’ rest, she decided would do her good. It’s not

like Talantas was going anywhere.

The wind that blew down from the Sliabh Cruinn brought

the frigid bite of winter. The land was covered in a thick layer of

fresh snow.

Tavish had returned to a semblance of his former humor,

albeit without the constant yearning for alcohol. Every time he

smelled the stuff, now he would retch. With a wide grin, he

admired his reflection in the ice that covered the river, a hand

combing the hair around his mouth.

“I’m cuttin’ a foin figure,” he said.

“Yes you are,” Hennesi agreed peering over his shoulder.

“Instead of admiring your own, you should be spending more

time admiring mine.”

His grin widened. “Don’t ya’ be worryin’.” the bard added.

“I still admire yer nice round….”

15

“Be nice” the warrior woman stopped him with a punch to

his shoulder. They laughed together and Tavish stood. He took

the lute from his back and began to strum.

“Been workin’ on an ode to yer foin self,” he said.

“You can sing it for me later,” the woman said with a smile.

“I’ll be usin’ me tongue fer other things, lass.” The bard

grinned again and they shared a laugh.

They crossed the thin layer of ice that encased the river in an

icy tomb and headed back toward the forest. For weeks they had

wandered the outskirts of the woods, hunting and enjoying each

others company, the memory of the battle in Talantas still fresh

in their minds.

A rancid smell came upon them, carried by the frigid wind.

Following the scent, they came upon the rotting carcass of a

sirite. He had been gutted and left to rot on the frozen ground. A

trail of congealing blood led toward the thick woods amidst the

remnants of four toed tracks.

Hands went to weapons and all eyes scanned their

surroundings. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but they

proceeded with caution, nonetheless.

Tavish didn’t recognize the tracks, but that in itself was no

cause for worry. He had been trained in the arts of song and

poetry, a far cry from matters of nature. Even so, there was

something mildly disturbing in the strange tracks that

disappeared into the darkest part of the Coill Ughrannach.

“I’m thinkin’ we might be followin’,” the bard said sofrly.

“I have to agree,” Hennesi replied dragging the blade from

her back with a flex of well used muscles. Carefully, they

16

followed the tracks through a tangle of brambles, cursing as they

felt the bite of thorns.

Small drops of blood and a tuft of red fur lay on the ground

near a patch of broken branches. Here, the tracks were deeper

and more defined, more so from the soft ground than any change

in weight or pace. Tavish decided he too would draw his weapon

and the blade of his long sword glittered in the swirling flakes of

the snow as it began to fall beneath the canopy of twined

branches, darkening with the setting sun.

With a glance at each other they continued following the

trail of blood as it led deeper into the woods. Soon, they came

upon the torn and ravaged body of a wolf, its innards strewn

across a small clearing. In the waning light, they could barely

make out the tracks, leading past the scene of violence.

“This doesn’t look good,” Hennesi said, her eyes roaming

the area in search of the perpetrator. There was no sign. The area

was eerily still and quiet, the falling snow giving the sense of

calm, but there was an underlying menace that made the hairs

stand up on the back of Tavish’s neck.

“We gotta proceed with caution,” he replied in a most

serious tone. Hennesi looked at him sidelong and gripped her

sword tighter.

Through the brush they trampled, leaving twisted brambles

in their wake. Ahead they could hear the snuffling of some

creature, the thunderous footsteps of something large and heavy.

They shared a glance before continuing on their way.

“I hope the gods be smilin’ upon us,” Tavish whispered.

Hennesi nodded, grimly and together they followed the strange

17

sound. Ice and snow crunched beneath their boots, the sound

echoing loudly in the stillness.

Soon, they saw the beast standing a head taller than Hennesi

and covered in a shaggy red fur. It tore aside the branches of a

naked tree with dagger length claws, nearly uprooting it. The

motion revealed three sirite, blades drawn, cowering at its base.

“A red yeti,” remarked Tavish with awe. “So far away

from its natural habitat, it is.”

They watched the sirite avoid the sweeping claws with a

nimbleness born from life deep in the woods. The yeti roared

again, its huge paw striking one of the sirite across the face. In a

spray of blood, the humanoid flew like a rag doll to lay broken

and oozing gore in the deep snow.

With a piercing war cry, Hennesi raised her greatsword and

rushed forward.

“Here we go again,” said Tavish, his eyes rolling. He

gripped his long sword and strode forward, cautiously. This was

not their fight, he knew, but he would not see his companion

injured without his interference.

The presence of the yeti so far from its mountainous habitat

was worrisome, but Tavish would hold his concern for a few

moments while they dealt with the marauding beast.

He watched as Hennesi ducked beneath the sweeping arms

of the yeti and slashed it across the chest with her heavy blade. A

deep crimson gash appeared across the beast’s dull fur. It let out

a roar of pain while the sirite circled to the rear, swords flashing

in the twilight.

18

One of the sirite, a female of slight build, sliced the yeti

behind the knees and was rewarded with another cry of pain as it

staggered. Taking advantage of the distraction, Hennesi ran it

through with her greatsword. It bared its fangs, let out a gust of

foul breath, and toppled face first into the snow. Hennesi had to

leap aside to avoid being crushed.

The female sirite leaned over, her breathing ragged. She

rammed her sword blade first into the firm ground and glanced

up at the warrior woman.

“Thank you for your timely assistance,” the sirite said. “The

creature surprised us. You came at a most fortuitous time.”

“Happy to help,” the tall warrior woman replied, placing her

greatsword to the side. “I’m Hennesi.”

“Q’ilaqiqi,” the sirite said with a bow. “Bard of the Rowans.

I am in your debt.”

Cannivone scowled as he lounged in languid lethargy inside

his tiny cubicle. Beside him the silver sword leaned against the

cot. He had arrived weeks before and pleaded for sanctuary. The

High Priestess of Peace, Bekka Warmhands, immediately agreed.

All she saw when she looked at him was a young boy in need of

shelter. None could know of the mistakes and violence the lad

had known and some secrets he would keep to himself.

“I grow bored,” the sword said in a woman’s voice. “I miss

the feel of the wind on my face.”

19

Cannivone screwed his face into a sneer. “You don’t have a

face.”

“You take pleasure in reminding me that, don’t you?” The

sword seemed agitated. “I feel like a prisoner. We need to go

find blood.”

The boy shook his head. “I will not shed innocent blood

ever again.”

“Who said anything about innocent? There has to be

someone who has wronged you.”

“There have been many,” was the boy’s curt reply, “but that

doesn’t make them worthy of a grisly death.”

“More of your sanctimonious swill,” Bloodletter sighed. “I

wish I would have met you before they corrupted your head with

all this religious nonsense. You want to worship a god? Worship

Antius or Cromm. At least they have balls.”

The boy ignored the sword’s constant yearning for blood. It

still confused him how a sword could speak inside his head

anyway. His young mind was having a hard time wrapping itself

around such a concept.

“Let me rest,” he growled.

“At least let me get my revenge on the one who put me

here,” the soft voice pleaded. “I was tricked.”

“As much as I wish I could help, your fate has been sealed.

Now be quiet so I can get some sleep. Of all swords to find, I had

to grab the gabbiest blade ever.”

The sword sulked. “You will give in one day. We all do.

Power is a most addictive drug.”

20

Cannivone rolled over and placed a pillow over his head.

This did nothing to block out the constant twittering of the voice

in his head and he groaned.

“You are going to drive me mad,” he finally screamed.

“Welcome to the club,” was all the blade said

“If you let me get some rest,” Cannivone sighed, “I promise

we can hunt for someone to sate your thirst with.”

“Anyone special?” Bloodletter asked excitedly.

Cannivone nodded. “I have someone in mind.” The corners

of his mouth tugged upward in a wicked smile.

.

21

Chapter Two

Freedom At Any Price

When Gearalt awoke from his coma and heard he was King

he was elated. People thought his brain was addled by the wound

he had suffered, as he didn’t shed a tear for the loss of his father.

Rather, he seemed to be relieved that a burden had been lifted

from his young shoulders. Something dark and putrid rotted in

his stomach. He was constantly beset by nausea and his mood

had grown even fouler than it had been prior.

The transition was sudden and it was difficult. Gearalt had

his own ideas about governing the Kingdom and in the first

month of his reign, he abolished the carrying of weapons within

the city walls unless a member of the military or town guard.

22

Mabsant and Manech argued against such a policy, warning that

oppression of the citizens would only bring about rebellion, but

the will of the new King won out. He argued that his father’s

ideas were archaic and outdated.

Already, several corpses of those caught wielding weapons

within the gates were festering above the gate house, a warning

to any who might question the authority of the new king.

Establishing the law kept the King busy, at least for a while,

but soon his agenda began to change. Two weeks into his rule he

called for a council meeting. The council of the Kingdom known

as An Corran met in their chamber, murmuring in hushed voices.

“What new business does the King have?” Duach Bluetoes

asked, but Mabsant could only shrug.

“I only heed the requests of his majesty,” the council chief

replied, “I do not know his thoughts.” The obese man frowned as

his stomach grumbled. He had only eaten a small breakfast and

was becoming agitated.

“It has only been three weeks since his father’s death,” the

aged shaman grumbled. “You would think he wanted to change

the world already.”

“That is precisely what I fear,” Mabsant mumbled beneath

his breath. He peered around the large chamber. The council

members were just arriving, taking their seats at the long curved

table that was set before the throne. He spied Manech MacMal,

the general of the King’s armies as he entered, a long tattered

cape of deep red spilling out behind him like a pool of blood.

The man seemed disconcerted and walked with shoulders

slumped. The once proud warrior had been cut deeply by the loss

23

of his close friend Uilleam O’Duibh. It showed in his vacant eyes

and in his demeanor, once harsh and proud, now quiet and

subdued. Mabsant worried that the man may not be able to fulfill

his function as Rifennid.

The entire kingdom had felt the blow of the king’s death.

Never before had there been a ruler of such fairness and honesty,

firm in his judgments, yet never cruel. Since the Prince, Gearalt

had taken the throne; however, things had begun to change.

Gearalt was a vile, angry young man full of spite and

malice. A deep rooted anger resided in his breast as well as a

desire for power. Now that the power had been attained there was

no telling what he would do.

The new edicts of his reign were giving Talantas an

unsavory reputation. The thieves’ guild had gone deeper

underground. Travelers no longer came through in the vast

numbers as before, opting instead to trade in Fialscathac, her

neighbor to the south and west. Nobody wanted to be relieved of

their weapons as most felt it was their right to have protection.

Gearalt argued that had the law been in place before, his

father may have lived and he swore to apply his rules to all cities

in Domhan by year’s end. Peace he reckoned was only attainable

by giving the people less freedoms. Fear, he knew would keep

the citizens docile. Fear would be his weapon.

The lack of workers had set the rebuilding of the city

back, so Gearalt had brought in slaves from Guntham, as well as

broad backed tarbhac from Abhacod. This was a source of

outrage to the council and the people themselves. In their

estimation, slavery was a cruel and inhuman thing to allow.

24

It was hard to believe it had been such a short time since

the King’s death. Mabsant still remembered the fear and the

blood that permeated the throne room; the king’s bloody death at

the hands of the red haired thief, Pantania. The Prince had very

nearly died that day as well, his head crushed by the youth

Cannivone. It was a dark day, Mabsant pondered.

The council members were in place at last and the King

entered, flanked by Cwchmwri, the capallach’s horse head

glancing left and right, and Cunnartach, the royal guardsman.

There was a nervous buzz in the air as Gearalt sat upon the

wooden seat, his voluminous robes pooling at his feet.

“Let the council come to order,” he said. Mabsant rose

from his seat on shaky legs, sweat already beginning to form on

his upper lip. He wiped the moisture away with a small cloth and

cleared his throat.

“The An Corran recognizes the presence of all

delegates,” he said. They stood in turn making their presence

known and returned to their seats.

“Why have we been summoned to council?” Atheala Ith

asked from her seat on the far end of the curved table. She was

second speaker and a member from Kuell. “The old King has

been dead but two weeks and already we are called before you.”

“And as your king, it is your duty to attend,” Gearalt

sneered, ”even if I ask you three times in a week.” His eyes

emitted a faint yellow glow.

Atheala scowled and said no more. She crossed her arms

across her breasts and slumped back, fire burning in her light

blue eyes.

25

“Now hold your tongues and listen,” the King said. “There

are matters of great importance that I have waited too long to

address.”

“Your majesty…,” Mabsant began, but was silenced by a

dark look from Gearalt.

“It seems you have forgotten how to listen to your king,”

Gearalt said with a scowl. “My father is on the throne no longer.”

“On to business, then,” Duach said trying to diffuse the

tension. All eyes turned to the young man with the wavy brown

hair and eyes of blue who took a seat, regally the gems on his

crown sparkling in the torchlight.

“I’m sure you wonder why I summoned you here,” Gearalt

said. “All will be answered.” He took a moment to register the

looks upon the faces of his audience.

“We have traitors in our kingdom,” he continued. The

chamber filled with a murmur of horrified voices. The new king

raised a hand to silence them. Manech looked at the lad with a

sidelong glance, barely able to disguise his disdain.

“As you know,” the King continued, “my father was

brutally murdered and I myself was attacked as I walked the

halls.”

There is some question to that, thought Manech, but he held

his tongue. Many had seen the wounds on the young girl’s

cheeks, but none would mention it for fear of angering the young

king. His temper was well known and he was known for having

little patience for questions about his methods.

26

“The girl Perinia has been thrown into the dungeons for

aiding the young boy Cannivone,” he continued. “She will be

questioned regarding her involvement.”

“This is ridiculous,” a voice cried out from the council. “She

is the one who alerted the priests in time to save your life.”

The king sneered and rose to his feet. “Conveniently,” he

added, “she was there with the boy.”

“If she wanted you dead,” Atheala asked, “why wouldn’t

she just leave you lying there?”

“Who can guess the motives of the demented?” Gearalt

shrugged. “Am I to answer for everyone who commits a crime in

the name of passion?”

“Passion?” Duach called out.

The king nodded. “She and the boy were intimate, secretly. I

do not think they acted alone.”

“You think the assassin bitch sent them?” The voice

belonged to Elleth of Cliath.

Gearalt nodded again. “I think she sent spies to infiltrate our

lives, gain our confidence, and then kill us all.”

Manech couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The boy

Cannivone had arrived with the paladin, Renarthane and his

cleric companion. It just didn’t make sense. The king’s wits must

have really been addled.

“The boy was brought here by Darius,” Manech said. The

new king looked at him, jaw set firmly.

“Maybe you were involved in it,” he said accusingly.

Manech’s jaw fell open.

27

“You cannot be serious.” Manech was growing angry.

“Your father was my closest friend. I would have given my life

for him.”

“Yet, strangely,” Gearalt added, “he died while you still

live. Where were you when he was being killed?”

“How dare you accuse me of treachery, you brat.” Manech’s

rage manifested in a rush toward the king. Cwchmwri stepped

forward to block the way, muscles bulging. Cunnartach’s gaze

shifted from the Rifennid to the king in confusion.

“An attack against the king,” Gearalt cried. “is treason.”

“You are no king,” Manech cried, “but a boy playing at it.”

“I’m afraid we disagree,” the king said. “Because you have

been loyal to my father for so many years I will forgive your

angry words, but another transgression will find you in the

dungeons with the girl.”

Manech took a deep breath and calmed himself. His gaze

shifted toward his booted feet and he stepped away, resignedly.

“I was also threatened by the sirite bard, Q’ilaqiqi. I believe

she was working with the others to tear down the kingdom from

the inside.”

“What would be the motive?” Mabsant asked.

“The kingdom, you fat fool,” the king replied and the

council speaker bristled at the insult.

“Why send a boy and a young girl instead of an assassin?”

Rochad Ruadh added, his red robes standing in stark contrast to

his surroundings.

“I was thinking the same thoughts,” Elleth said.

28

“It’s all nonsense,” Manech growled. “I will not be a part of

this.” He turned and stormed from the room.

“I understand your apprehension and why you want to see

the good in everyone, but ask yourself this.” The King paused,

briefly. “If the boy is innocent, why did he run?”

Manech turned to face his new ruler, sadness etched upon

his features.

“I’m sorry, Gearalt,” he said, quietly, “but I think it’s time I

retire from the position of Rifennid.”

They watched as the once proud Rifennid walked from the

chamber with his head held high. Undaunted, the King turned

back to the council.

“Send in the mercenaries,” he ordered. Brawth and Bolan

were ushered in bound in chains, the spears of guards prodding

their backsides. Dien followed, glaring holes in the new king’s

face. He, too, was bound, but he walked with head defiantly held

high.

A quick rap to the back of their knees caused the trio to

kneel. They looked at each other for the first time in weeks and

each noticed the bruises and fresh scars adorning their bodies.

“On your knees,” Gearalt said with a grin. “That is where

you belong.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Brawth bellowed. “We have

been in your dungeons for weeks.”

“Silence.” The King snarled the word. “Was it or was it not

during your watch when my father was slain?”

“He wanted to be left alone with you,” Dien said, but

Gearalt merely gave him a wilting look.

29

“And now he is dead,” the King stated. “Not quite the result

he was looking for from his well-paid bodyguards, eh?”

The mercenaries and their wizard friend could think of

nothing witty to say, so they stared at the floor in humiliation.

“Luckily for you,” Gearalt responded, “I am feeling

merciful today.”

The trio of condemned men looked up at the tempestuous

youth who sat so easily on his ill begotten throne.

“You will kill us swiftly, then?” Bolan asked.

“Bridghe’s breasts, no.” The one time prince laughed. “I am

going to give you one more chance to prove your loyalty.”

“Your majesty?” Brawth managed to force the words from

his cracked and parched throat.

“I want you to do a service for me,” Gearalt continued. “I

want you to find the boy, Cannivone and return him to me alive.”

“He could be anywhere,” Bolan sputtered, “It would be

nearly impossible to…”

“Fail me again,” the new King interrupted, “and your lives

will be forfeit. Bring what I desire and you will be back in the

King’s good graces.”

“Is that all?” Bolan sighed. The King laughed again and the

members of the An Corran were speechless. They feared the

wrath of their new King.

“There is one more thing.” Gearalt said, sipping from a gem

encrusted goblet. “Bring me the head of that sirite bitch,

Q’ilaqiqi.”

“She is a Rowan,” Dien said. “They are nearly impossible to

track.”

30

Gearalt leaned forward in his chair, his gaze boring into the

wizard’s soul.

“I don’t care if you have to tear down every forest on

Domhan,” he snarled. “Bring me her head. You have two

moons.”

“Impossible,” muttered Bolan.

“I can have you executed immediately, then,” the King said.

He turned to issue the order.

“Wait,” Brawth said through clenched teeth. “We agree to

your terms.”

The King smiled a large toothy smile and raised his cup.

“I knew I could count on you,” he said. “Unchain these men

and, for Alinard’s sake, give them a bath and something to

drink.”

“We are bounty hunters now, it seems,” Bolan mumbled.

Brawth grumbled under his breath.

“You wish us to do this alone?” Dien asked, a scowl etched

deep into his features.

The King stared at him for a brief moment, then sighed.

“Very well,” he reluctantly added, “you may hire three

mercenaries to aid you, but I warn you…” he sat forward in his

throne, his eyes boring into Dien’s…“You will fail at the cost of

your own lives. Am I clear?”

“Clear as piss,” muttered Brawth.

“Now, about that costly war….” The King drawled, the

mercenaries already forgotten. His eyes glimmered with a wan

yellow light.

31

The Cave was just as comfortable as Neftet remembered,

cozy and dry and furnished with a small bed, a table, and a

bookcase. When he awoke weeks ago to its comforts he thought

he had died. That was before being recruited by the Leaf lord;

before the dragon ride; before the death of Uilleam.

He still shuddered at the ruthlessness of the bitch Pantania.

He still bore scars received in her name. The scars ran a path on

his soul as well as his body. His only regret was that he hadn’t

killed her himself.

He scratched his thick beard in contemplation. For two

weeks he had lived, hidden in the cave, his only companion a

large brown bear, which was now in hibernation. Many times he

thought of leaving, but he would miss the weekly visits from

Kimber, the beautiful ranger. They had acquired a sort of

friendship and he cherished it.

It was strange to him that he once was a conscienceless

killer and now knew the beauty and value of friendship. Had he

known such kindness as a youth, his life would have taken a very

different path.

He sighed as he spied his wide bladed sword where it leaned

against the far earthen wall. Roots protruded from where its hilt

lie forming a natural cloak rack. Dressed in warm furs to fight the

cold that had seeped into the forest over the last months, he sat

alone, a cup of tea at hand.

A small fire blazed in the fire pit, carved into a side

chamber, well ventilated with thick fissures. His boots hung

32

upside down, drying by the fire’s warmth. He shivered, not so

much from the cold, but from the memories of the deranged red

haired bitch and her sword. He hoped that he could one day leave

the memories behind.

A small rabbit was roasting over the fire which cracked as

the juices dripped from the blackening flesh. The smell assailed

his nostrils and his mouth began to water. The rabbit was a gift

from Bailey, the ranger’s huge war dog, left at the cave mouth

two days before.

As comfortable as the cave was, Neftet missed the city life.

He missed interaction with people, the noises and the smells.

Mostly, however, he missed Geondi and the Dollhouse, a tavern

in Talantas where he spent much of his time and coin for drink

and pleasures of the flesh.

Intimacy for Neftet was difficult to find. From an early age

he realized he was not handsome, crooked teeth and a large nose.

Life’s scars had not helped to improve his countenance, nor had

his thrice broken nose, leaving it lying flat between his small

dark eyes. Coin had always provided him with the means to

obtain all his desires and he had but a handful of silver

remaining.

A visit to the city would be good for his soul, he decided. It

was a mere half day’s journey from the forest edge, but in the

knee deep snow, travel would be ponderous. He sighed. Maybe

he would wait until the spring thaw.

He needed fresh air. The cave, although comfortable

enough, was too stifling. He felt imprisoned in the small space.

With a groan, he lifted his bulk from the chair and walked toward

33

the warmth of the fire. He grabbed his boots and pulled them on.

The moisture had caused them to shrink and he cursed as he

struggled to get his feet in them.

Boots finally on, he grabbed his sword from where it lay and

wrapped his fur cloak tighter around his shoulders. He crept past

the slumbering form of the great bear and exited into the frigid

air.

At least it had stopped snowing, he thought to himself as he

made his way toward where the portal lay. He hadn’t used the

magical gate in some time and didn’t intend to use it now: the

place merely gave him comfort. He had spent much of a night

and day there thinking he was going to die after a battle with a

Greater Minion and it was there he had first met the ranger and

her druid friend, Kisabuk.

An unfamiliar feeling of sadness overcame him when he

remembered the druid, killed in the battle for Talantas. The

feeling made him uncomfortable and he cursed at himself.

“You’re a fool,” he grumbled.

“I was thinking the very same thing,” said a voice from

behind him. Neftet spun around, his sword at hand in an instant.

Stepping from the brush was a tall man dressed in dark blue satin

britches, a thick leather vest and a black cloak that covered most

of his pale face. Neftet could see the man’s lips as they spoke, his

eyes glinting in the dark folds of the hood, but the voice he

recognized.

“Gioffri?” he said, softly.

“You remember me, then?” the man replied, his hands

reaching up to remove the hood. He revealed a ghostly pale face

34

with pink eyes and thick lips. The albino smiled, slyly and stood

with his arms crossed across his chest.

“I can’t believe I didn’t hear you,” Neftet said.

“They do call me The Ghost,” the pale man replied with a

smile.

“How did you find me?” Neftet asked. Gioffri grinned,

revealing canines that were filed to a sharp point.

“Come, Neftet,” he said. “We were trained by the same

man, after all. Did you really think to escape from the Fangs?”

Neftet shook his head. “That was never my intent.”

“Really?” Gioffri scowled. “Why then, my old friend, did

you never return to the citadel? Rhollo is furious.”

“I have been distracted,” was all Neftet could think to say.

He gripped his blade tighter. The albino held his hands up in

surrender.

“I have not come to kill you,” he said. “I have come to warn

you. The Fangs have placed a price on your head.”

Neftet nodded. “I assumed as much.

“Because we were once friends, I will pretend I never saw

you,” Gioffri stated, “but more will come and they may not be as

generous as I.”

“Thank you.” Neftet grimaced. He knew freedom would be

a hard thing to keep. The Fangs didn’t let a person walk away.

There were only two ways to quit the Fangs, official release or

death. The master assassin couldn’t afford the former and he did

not desire the latter.

“If I were you,” Gioffri said, “I would keep a lower profile.

If I can find you, any of the others can do the same.”

35

“I have been warned,” the ugly assassin stated. “Now

what?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in for a drink?” the albino

asked. “Hunting is thirsty work.

Sigov was pleased with the progress Ghia was making. Two

months and she was already excelling in the art of pick-

pocketing. Under the tutelage of Heathrose Longdartz, the guild

was thriving. Many thieves had returned from Talantas, led by a

man named Duromond to find a new master and were relieved to

find their old lives intact. Lucky they were, to have survived the

whims of Pantania.

A new King had been crowned and laws were being

enforced, making the guild’s activities more dangerous. They had

been forced to re-set the traps that lined the underground tunnels.

Sigov, However, was not worried. He had seen his former mentor

Skrubb survive worse. Now, guild war at an end, they could

concentrate on what they did best.

Ghia sat in her usual seat, brushing the hair of the porcelain

doll she had acquired, a gift from Iomar. It had an uncanny

resemblance to the girl and it often made Sigov shudder to look

upon it. Where he got the doll, Iomar would not say, but Sigov

knew that it was enchanted. He knew by the way his teeth tingled

when he was near the thing. It didn’t seem to bother Ghia,

though, so he decided to let it be.

36

He smiled as the girl looked up at him with those innocent

eyes of brown. In the months since he had aided in her rescue

from a destroyed orphanage, he had grown very close to the girl.

She was much like the daughter he never had.

Into the room, laughing, burst Lomaldor and Heathrose.

Between them they carried a small chest, which they tossed to

the floor at Sigov’s feet. It clattered with the sound of coins.

A smile split the bwbach Heathrose’s face. He knelt to pick

the uncomplicated lock. The lid opened and a pile of coins and

gems spilled onto the floor.

“A gift,” Lomaldor said with a grin, “from the merchant’s

guild.”

“A donation?” Sigov asked. The two thieves exchanged a

glance.

“We can call it that if you prefer,” Heathrose replied with a

sly smile. Sigov cringed. What trouble had the bwbach gotten

him into?

“With the guild’s coffers full,” the bwbach said, “I must

now leave you. I have been too long away from my mentor,

Mesz. I must report back to him. I will leave you in the capable

hands of Iomar and Lomaldor.” With a small bow and a twist of

his ring, Heathrose was gone.

“Duromond,” Sigov called out. “I need you to find me a

scribe.”

37

Morning brought the scattered creaking of limbs as the

snow’s weight became too much to bear and they sloughed it off

to the forest floor. Kimber sat brooding in the tiny cabin of her

houseboat, remembering lost companions. At her feet, tongue

lolling from her wide mouth, Bailey lay flat on her back, paws

curled to her chest, breathing heavily.

Kimber’s gaze traced the path of the scars across her dog’s

belly, a grim reminder of the battle in Talantas. The attack had

plunged the Kingdom into despair and darkness. Suffering,

starvation, and death awaited the citizens in a frequency never

witnessed before.

During Uilleam’s reign, the Kingdom prospered. Since

Gearalt had assumed the throne all had changed. The boy ruled

with the angry intensity and purpose of a spoiled child. His

actions were selfish and greed fueled.

Kimber was glad she lived far away from the political

trappings of cities. She had her freedom at least and had nobody

to dictate the daily actions of her life. Every decision she made

without outside influence. She could come and go as she pleased.

The forest did not judge her harshly; did not steal the crumbs

from her table, leaving her broken and starving in the filthy

streets.

With regret, she looked back upon the day when Uilleam

was killed. If she had only been able to best the red haired bitch

sooner the King may still be alive. She still could see the young

boy Cannivone impaling the guild mistress with her own sword,

a silver blade with dragon claw hilt. Was she the only one who

witnessed the darkness that swirled around the collapsing corpse?

38

The boy had not been seen since and it was a point of

contention with Mesz, the dark sirite. He swore the sword was

more than it seemed and Pantania’s death had released an evil far

worse onto the mortal plane. Their only hope, he said, was to find

the boy and gain the sword, but where to look? Domhan was a

huge land and the boy had two weeks to disappear. She waited

for any word; any sign, but so far had nothing.

She sipped her tea, cooling rapidly in the brisk air and

sighed. She hated having no driving force; no purpose.

Complacency was always the breeding ground for wicked

thoughts. In the past she would go hunting with her druid friend,

Kisabuk, but, alas, he had been one of the casualties of

Pantania’s war.

Outside a small window, Kimber spied a hawk. It was

the same hawk she had been seeing every day for weeks.

Everywhere she went, the hawk seemed to be following her.

Something about the large bird was familiar, the way it looked at

her, a certain glint in its eye that she had seen before, but she

couldn’t put her finger on it. So she contented herself with daily

walks through the woods with her hound, breathing in the scents.

The hawk had not threatened her, so she paid it no mind and soon

became comforted by its presence. It was as if Banba herself had

sent the bird to look after the ranger.

She smiled and held the cup up to the bird in a salute.

“Good morning, bird friend,” she whispered. “May your

day find you successful with the hunt and may the Gods guide

the wind beneath your wings.”

She could swear the bird began to laugh.

39

There was a loud noise outside her door. Bailey rose to

her feet, hackles raised, and a low growl in the back of her throat.

“What is it, girl?” Kimber asked. The hawk outside her

window took flight with a shrill shriek.

Bailey growled louder, facing the door. Kimber, ever the

cautious one, reached and grabbed her sword belts, pulling her

dual blades from their scabbards. In her right hand she held a red

bladed sword, in her left, a short sword-both wickedly sharp.

There was the sound again, like cloth scraping against

wood. Bailey leaped toward the door, teeth gnashing. The ranger

backed herself into a corner of the houseboat and waited, blades

woven in her hair tinkling.

The knob on the door turned, slightly. The dog increased

its agitation. Slowly, the door creaked open revealing two men

dressed in midnight blue, their faces covered by thick scarves.

Both held razor sharp sabers.

“Where is Neftet?” one of the men asked, one eye

missing, the other looking at her. It was a deep brown, she

noticed as she gripped the hilts of her weapons tighter.

Bailey jumped forward, bowling one man over with the

sheer weight of her immense bulk. He grunted as he hit the floor,

one arm held above his face, screaming as the big dog’s fangs

tore at his forearm.

His companion approached Kimber, slowly, his eye

roaming the ample curves of her body.

“We tracked him to this forest,” the man said, trying to

ignore the screams of his companion and the unnerving crunch of

the man’s bones.

40

The momentum of the dog’s leap had tumbled them

outside and the man approaching Kimber slammed the door

behind him, effectively blocking Bailey’s re-entry.

“You tracked him to the forest?” Kimber asked. “What

brings you to my door?”

“You aren’t fooling anyone,” the man said. “We all

know he has been seen gallivanting across the countryside with

you.”

Kimber scowled. The blades woven in her hair clashed

together with a slight tinkle.

“How is it your business who I gallivant with?”

The man chuckled from deep in his throat. He scratched

at a filthy beard with his empty hand.

“Your business doesn’t concern me,” he replied.

“However, the whereabouts of my…brother, is business to me.”

“Then I suggest you get to finding him,” she snapped.

“I have a better idea,” the man chuckled. “What if I can

get him to come to me?”

“Try it, you cock-less gnat,” she warned. The man pulled

a package from a small hidden pocket in his vest and opened it.

Inside was a strange blue powder.

“We will see who is cock-less,” he snarled. With a quick

breath, he blew the powder into her face. The screams of the

other man had died down and Bailey was scratching and barking

at the door. The powder stung her eyes, bringing her to tears.

Before she could regain focus, she felt rough hands grabbing her

hair and pulling her forward.

41

“Bailey!” she shouted. “Get help.” Then all went black

as something struck her in the cheek.

Skrubb was more cautious since the newest proclamation

making any illicit activity punishable by death. Thieves were told

to venture forth only in pairs or groups and keep their activities

limited to the easier prey or the extremely wealthy that were less

likely to get the gentry involved. He sat at his chair, puffing on a

small pipe and blowing smoke rings toward the low ceiling. His

offspring, Skallion and Shallot took turns tossing coins into a

small conical helm they had recovered from the rotting corpse of

a goblin, an unlucky victim of their traps, they assumed.

Since the war with Pantania, the guild master had become

quiet and introspective, his thoughts kept secret to all but

himself. He had taken to drinking large quantities of whatever

alcohol he could get his hands on. An advantage of being the

leader of a thieves’ guild was that he could get his hands on

anything.

Thofric sat in a padded chair, swirling a clear wine in his

bone cup. A walking stick leaned near at hand against the seat

back and a thick brace covered his leg from ankle to mid- thigh.

The injury had left the foul tempered bwbach even dourer.

He stared at the liquid in deep meditation, events of the past

few months swirling through his head. What had happened, he

wondered, to the life of veritable tranquility they had shared for

so many years? Gone: in a fountain of blood. Now, they were

42

hunted at every turn like animals by the new King, a tempestuous

youth barely old enough to grow hair on his chest.

Laughter from the younger bwbach siblings broke his

moment of contemplation as Shallot won another round.

“That’s seven,” she cried with glee. Her brother crossed his

arms and pouted. “Play another round?” Her grin was infectious,

so with a sigh, Skallion agreed.

Carraig Laidir, corani messenger of the guild entered the

room leading a short figure buried deep in dark clothes. By the

tufts of hair adorning his bare feet, they knew he was a bwbach.

Carraig smiled as he entered, obviously amused.

“An old friend to see you,” Carraig said. Skrubb grunted and

raised his eyes to observe the newcomer, who tossed back the

cowl of his deep black cloak, revealing the tapered points of

small ears and a smiling, boyish face.

“Toric?” the guild master cried. “Can it be you?”

“In the flesh,” was the reply with a flourish of the cape and a

slight bow. The speaker had short cropped hair of russet brown

and a spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Wide

eyes of brown regarded the guild-master with interest. Skrubb

nearly leapt to his feet.

“Where in the Hells have you been?” They embraced. The

younger bwbachs rushed forward with squeals of delight upon

seeing “uncle” Toric, the famed bwbach adventurer, one time

guild member and friend to their family.

“Although this kingdom retains some of the same stink,”

Toric said with a smile, “I wouldn’t quite compare it to the

Hells.”

43

“Always the cad,” Thofric snorted. Toric turned to face the

injured bwbach.

“It’s good to see you, too,” the newcomer replied with a

grin. “Things sure seem to have changed since last I was here.

They seem more…subdued.”

Skrubb nodded and said, “It’s the new king, Gearalt. Let’s

just say he has entirely different views than his father on how a

kingdom should be run.”

Toric grunted. He had noticed the filth in the once pristine

streets, the smell of decay that permeated the air. Once the jewel

of the kingdom, Talantas had been left to rot like a corpse since

the battle with the diabhols.

“Unacceptable,” the dark clad bwbach growled. “I used to

enjoy coming here now the place is too damned depressing.”

“Have a drink,” Skrubb offered, but Toric shook his head.

“I’m of a mind to pay this new king a visit and tell him what

I think of his ways.”

“Watch yourself,” Thofric grunted. “He has no tolerance for

critics.”

“And I have no tolerance for the disregard of a good city,”

Toric replied. “I think I will have a quick drink before I go to

face the human.” He poured an ample portion of ale into a cup

and lifted it to his lips. “And what is with this new no weapons

policy? A person can’t make an honest living.”

“Or a dishonest one,” quipped Thofric. Toric lifted his glass

and chuckled.

“We’ll see about that,” the dark clad bwbach said before

downing the contents of his mug in one swallow. He slammed

44

the empty cup on the table and strode across the room, pulling

the cowl of his cloak up over his head.

“Where are you going?” Skrubb asked.

“Out,” Toric replied and added with a grin, “Don’t wait up.”

The barking of the dog alerted Neftet and Gioffri of danger.

They tossed their cups on the small table, caring not if they

spilled. With a quick glance at each other, they rushed outside.

Into the clearing, jumping and barking, excitedly, loped

Bailey. Neftet still remembered his first meeting with the

Gandwyian warhound-the gnashing teeth and thick muscles of

the huge beast as he was pinned to the ground.

“Where is Kimber?” he asked. Never had he seen the dog

leave the ranger’s side. Bailey seemed anxious-more excitable

than was usual.

“Kimber?” asked Gioffri, raising an eyebrow. Neftet gave

him a silent look that spoke volumes and the albino decided not

to press the issue.

“The ranger is never without her dog,” Neftet replied. “She

may be in trouble.”

Gioffri chuckled.

“You really have gone soft,” he said.

“Get bent,” Neftet growled. “She has saved my life many

times. It would be wrong to not return the favor.”

Gioffri let out a robust chuckle. Neftet merely scowled, his

ugly face getting even uglier.

45

“Lead on, then,” the albino said. “How could I pass this up?

The deadly Neftet turned gallant.”

Consciousness returned with full force-dizzying stars and a

throbbing in Kimber’s skull. She struggled to rise and found her

hands were bound behind her back with thick cords. Across the

room, smiling at her was her assailant, the bearded man in

midnight blue. On his lap rested Kimber’s red blade.

“Ah,” the man said. “You rejoin the waking world.”

“Reaver is not meant for the likes of you,” Kimber growled.

A thin tendril of blood trickled down her temple, tickling her

cheek.

“Spoils of war and all that,” the man said, his irritating smile

growing wider.

“Bastard,” she grumbled, pain throbbing in her head.

“Alas,” the man sighed. “It is true. I do not know my

father.”

The ranger slumped against the wall, dejected. She did not

hear the barking of her dog. Nor was there any sign of the man’s

companion. Maybe one of the bastards got what was coming to

him.

“Now,” the man said. “We need to discuss what you can do

for me.”

“I’d rather die,” she replied.

“That, too can be arranged,” the man retorted.

46

Kimber spat, the sticky mass landing just short and

splattering at the man’s feet.

He scratched his beard and sighed. Rising to his feet, he

brandished the red blade pointing it at the ranger.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to this,” he said

softly, “but you are leaving me little choice.” He moved toward

her slowly, purposefully, his face a mask of apathy.

His eyes were dark pools of emptiness. A killer’s eyes.

They reminded her of eyes she had seen before. The eyes of

Neftet Grimm. She bowed her head in supplication and awaited

the killing blow.

Suddenly, the door burst open, the wood splintering from

its hinges. Neftet Grimm entered the room, followed by the

palest man Kimber had ever seen. Bailey stood behind the men,

growling.

“Drop the blade,” Neftet cried. Kimber’s attacker turned

to face him, his cloak a dark swirl of cloth.

“Speak the name of a diabhol and he will appear,” the

man said. “It’s been a long time, my friend.”

“You are no friend of mine,” Neftet growled. “Back

away from the woman. It is me you are after.”

“I see Gioffri found you already,” the man replied. He

sighed. “I always was one step behind that man.”

“Soon you will join your companion we found outside,”

Neftet said with a wicked grin. “Or what was left of him.”

“Ah, poor Tidius.” The man continued to smile.

“Sometimes a sacrifice must be made.”

“I agree,” Kimber added from where she sat.

47

“Release her, now,” the ugly assassin continued, “and

you may escape with your life.”

“We already have you captured,” the man holding the

red blade replied. “Good work, Gioffri.”

Gioffri smirked, his thick lips twisting into something

feral.

“It is not my fight, Atros” he said. “Nor was it the fight

of this woman.”

A look of understanding came over Atros’ face.

“I see how this is to be played,” he said. “You and me

then, Neftet. The famous and feared assassin gone rogue. We will

see who the better killer is.”

Neftet Grimm clenched his jaw and pulled his wide

sword from his back.

“We will,” he agreed, “if you are so fond of joining

Marbhan in his dark embrace.”

“If such is the case, then I will await you in Hell.”

They circled each other warily, while Bailey padded on

silent feet to the still bound Kimber and began licking her face

and whining.

“I’m fine, girl,” the ranger said. Gioffri appeared at her

side and using a short bladed knife, cut her bindings. He smiled

without warmth and Kimber stood, rubbing her chafed wrists.

The clash of steel rang out as the red blade met Neftet’s

wide one. The shock that ran through his arms upon impact was

worrisome. The red blade was obviously enchanted, sending a

magical jolt through his arm.

48

“A fine blade,” Atros said through his grin. “I think I will

keep it.”

“Over my dead body,” Kimber growled from across the

room.

“If you insist,” the grinning assassin replied, his eyes

never leaving the wary Neftet.

The combatants came together again with a clash of

steel. Neftet spun immediately upon impact, attempting to smash

his elbow into Atros’ nose. The other assassin moved his head at

the last moment. The blow missed by a hair.

Gioffri and Kimber exchanged a glance. They could

sense the apprehension in Neftet’s movements. He seemed

unsure and overly cautious as if fearful of the red sword the other

man held lightly in a clenched fist.

“You are as ugly as I remember,” Atros said to Neftet as

they circled each other again. “How did you get such a fine piece

of tail?”

Neftet’s face reddened with rage.

“Speak ill of her again,” he growled, “and I will cut your

heart out.”

Atros smiled. “Maybe I will enjoy her before I take her

eyes,” he said with a sneer.

“Try it,” Kimber said, “and I will feed your manhood to

my dog.”

The assassin chuckled and swung the red blade at the

retreating Neftet, who ducked beneath it. He kicked at the man’s

knee. Atros received only a glancing blow, however, and barely

stumbled. Neftet smoothly moved away, drawing his foe away

49

from where the ranger still stood, scowling next to the silent

albino.

“I wonder,” Atros added. “What will the Fangs think

about Gioffri shirking his duty to return with your head?”

Neftet advanced upon him, delivering three quick strikes.

Atros retreated, nimbly, knocking the blows aside. His

momentum carried him back toward the ranger and the albino.

Bailey growled and made to leap, but Kimber restrained

her with a quick tug on the loose skin about the dog’s neck. Atros

stopped, suddenly, ducked beneath the final swing of Neftet’s

sword, and thrust the red blade forward.

Neftet grunted as the blade pierced his shoulder, bringing

forth a welling of crimson. He dropped his wide blade with a

loud ringing on the oaken floor of the houseboat. Atros’ grin

widened and he pulled the blade back for a killing blow.

His eyes suddenly widened as a knife blade erupted from

his throat. Warm blood gushed down the front of his cloak.

Before he could register the surprise in his brain, he collapsed to

the floor, dead, the red blade landing at Neftet’s feet.

Gioffri knelt and wiped his knife blade on the dead

man’s cloak.

“We need to get that wound looked at,” he said.

“What have you done?” Neftet asked in bewilderment.

“You weren’t a part of this.”

“I chose sides,” he replied with a shrug. “He forced my

hand. Besides, we all deserve freedom. At any price.”

50

The Golden Child

Chapter Three

Fear Is Not An Option

Cannivone followed the whim of the sword, saying goodbye

to the temple and thanking them for the hospitality. Head

Priestess Bekka kissed his cheek and wished him well. His

journey took him west toward the small town of Belton. His

uncle once mentioned it as the place of his birth and he decided

it was as good a place as any to start his search for the foul man

who had raised him.

He entered the village, glancing at the snow covered humps

of huts, smoke drifting lazily to the sky. The streets were a

quagmire of mud and ice that threatened to send him sprawling.

“What a shit hole,” the voice spoke to him. He grabbed the

hilt to ease his depredation.

“You wanted blood,” Cannivone replied. “This is as good a

place to start as any.”

51

Gerald L. Black

“There is nobody here,” the sword complained. “What

good will it do me? I can’t believe I have been reduced to

feeding on blood like a….”

“Please shut up,” the boy grumbled. “I’m trying to think.”

“I wish I could let you experience the pain that I went

through when I wielded the blade.”

“Seriously,” Cannivone warned, “I can just leave you to rust

in the snow.”

“Why don’t you?” the sword dared him. It should be easy,

he thought, to drop the annoying blade and walk away. Why

couldn’t he? Was it the guilt he felt for the blood on his hands?

Would he feel alone without the voice constantly urging him on?

He shook his head, violently and groaned.

“Give me some peace,” he pleaded. The sword snickered,

but said nothing more. Cannivone made his way through the mud

toward the only tavern, called The Broken Wheel. He had no

money to purchase a meal or a bed, but he would try and find out

all he could about the place he was born, since he remembered

nothing about it.

Inside, the inn was warm. A roaring fire blazed beneath a

wide stone hearth and the succulent smell of roasting meat filled

the air. A large table sat near the fire, a single man sitting

amongst a pile of empty cups and dirty plates, his face in his

hands.

The man was old and dressed in ragged robes. He seemed to

be muttering to himself turning his head in his palms. Cannivone

slowly approached the man, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

52

The Golden Child

Grumblings from the robed man brought a small smile to

Cannivone’s face.

“We should do the man a favor,” the sword hissed, “and

put an end to his grumblings with a quick stroke.”

Cannivone ignored the sword’s request. He vowed to take

no innocent lives and the man had done nothing to wrong him.

“Get bent,” he whispered to the blade. He got the

impression the sword wasn’t happy, but it was being silent for

the moment so the lad would enjoy the moment.

He approached the wine stained man, cautiously.

Ioras, The Golden Child watched the army assemble on the

great plains of Galis. For years he had waged war on the Sinforce

of Colm Sadach and watched many brave soldiers die, their

blood feeding the ground. He was a tall man in his late twenties

with good looks despite his hawkish nose. Long hair of coiled

yellow fell to his shoulders from beneath a burnished helm of

gilded steel and graced his firm jawline in stiff whiskers. Bright

armor of hammered gold covered his well-muscled body, the

holy symbol of Alinard emblazoned in silver upon his breast. At

his side, the winged hilt of his long sword peeked from a dragon

hide scabbard. A long spear held his banner: the double-tined

cross of Alinard on a blue field.

A grimace wrinkled his youthful face as he tried to count the

numbers assailed against his army. Small groups of demonic

53

Gerald L. Black

forces gathered in separate groups like the various wards of a

city.

On one end, her weight spread out upon a large divan,

carried on the shoulders of six ogres, the immense bulk of

Marbha Leisg, the Knight of Sloth, yelled orders at a throng of

the yellow skinned, brutish beasts. The ogres strained beneath her

bulk and only the threat of the huge silver hammer in her pudgy

fist kept them moving forward.

The colorful silks of her flowing gowns were a bright

contrast to the greenery that surrounded them and was offset by

the orange hued tresses piled high upon her huge head.

Just behind her marched her husband, Craosaire Ramhar,

Knight of Gluttony, also immensely obese in his purple robes. He

carried a bucket from which he would grab a handful of eyeballs,

place them in his gaping maw, and chew vigorously. He was

surrounded by a veritable sea of what appeared to be shirtless

men wearing black hoods-Lesser Minions of Marbhan. His bald

head was barely visible between the creatures.

At the lead of the immense army, flanked by a horde of

fachan and francagach, riding a black mount was Dunmharu

Fuilteach, Knight of Wrath. His mount’s flaming hooves left a

trail of ash where it stepped. Dunmharu’s body clad in blood

spattered plate armor, face covered with a bloody cowl, bobbed

in time to the clopping of the hooves. A huge axe adorned his

back, the haft wrapped in the skin of a succubus.

The pale faced, but beautiful Knight of Lust, Banntrach

Gradach led her forces of scorpion bodied men to the north, far

away from the rest of the army. Clad only in a half-length

54

The Golden Child

chainmail tunic and breechclout, showing more flesh than was

necessary, she swung a shortsword lazily in a fist at her side.

To the south, amidst a swarm of goblins, riding upon a

skeletal mount was the Knight of Greed. In life he was a

merchant, now he was Breagadoir Santach, a slender man in

oiled leathers carrying a slim rapier at his side. The goblins

pulled a large cart filled with treasure.

The hill giants were led by Uabhar Gortaithe, Knight of

Pride. Once a prince of Fenia, he still wore his red hair and beard

in long braids. A saber and an axe were crossed upon his back.

Bacach Ead, Knight of Envy, brought up the rear with his

squadron of tarbhac, bull heads snorting at the darkening sky.

Whatever flesh peeked from the wrappings he wore bore the

scars of burning. He carried a gnarled cudgel with which he

struck at the tarbhac eliciting small roars of pain.

In the middle of the camp was a large tent adorned with a

huge red eye. Before it, sitting on casks of ale, nearly invisible in

his deep blue leathers, sharpening his twin sabers, was a large

man Ioras knew as Bron MacBas, a heartless killer. Milling about

the man was a crowd of featureless men-the dreaded Greater

Minions.

Ioras knew that inside the tent he would find Colm Sadach

and his two generals, the lich Baab and the leanashe known as

Creel. Still incomplete, his scattered body parts never completely

recovered, Baab had turned his wrath toward all living things. It

was his power alone that had kept the King’s men at bay and it

took all of Ioras’ patience and willpower to wait and watch.

55

Gerald L. Black

Into the camp, leading a motley assortment of mhallacht,

former humans who have had their souls removed turning them

into thoughtless zombies, walked a small, hunched figure. The

word was an ancient name meaning cursed, and to Ioras’

estimation, the name fit. The dark figure’s fingers were red with

blood and its eyes glowed with a deep yellow. At the head of the

mhallacht was a slender woman with spiked red hair, wearing

bloodied leathers, feet dragging as she stumbled in undeath. The

bloodied stump where her hand should be hung useless at her

side.

Ioras ducked behind the hill and rode his mount back to

where his army waited for yet another in a long line of battles.

Pennants flew in the breeze displaying an array of symbols. The

Crimson Keep’s red tower on a white background, The Temple

of Light, yellow circle on a white flag. The gold lion of the

Leonach Or, the black dragon of the Wyrmslayers. The banners

of The Faithful, the Fennid, and the Uachtar Lamh were all

represented as well as a large contingent of abhac, corani,

bwbach, and sirite. They were the kingdom’s only hope to stem

the flow of the dark forces before they could overrun the

continent.

Ioras was tiring of the constant warfare. He removed his

helm, shaking out his golden curls. Barely slowing his horse, he

leaped from its back and rammed his spear into the ground.

Solemnly, he marched toward his tent of blue and white striped

cloth and called for his generals, Noinion Bui, the tattooed wild

woman from Cruithnia wearing a thorn necklace and Ceol Binn,

56

The Golden Child

the bard in the mismatched clothes, tripping on his long sword,

too long for his short frame.

“We need a plan,” Ioras grumbled. “We will have battle by

tomorrow.”

The generals followed him into his tent and the planning

began. There would be more blood soaking the Galis plains,

Ioras feared, but as long as the black hearted Colm waged his

war, the King’s men would defy him.

Darkness gave way to pinpricks of light that burned behind

her eyes. Morrigan groaned and rose from the tiny bed, gripping

her head in her trembling hands. The pain subsided.

“How much of that damned ale did I drink?” she mumbled.

On shaking legs she staggered across the floor to the mirror,

hanging crookedly on the wall. A pitcher of fresh water had been

placed on the small desk and she took a long drink.

Her mouth was still dry, as if she had eaten her cloak in the

middle of the night, but the coolness eased her parched throat and

dulled the throbbing in her skull.

“Never again do I accept drinks from an abhac,” she

growled. Though her faith warned of the dangers of excessive

drinking, the imbibing was not forbidden.

She looked at the reflection, staring back at her with sunken

eyes. The tattoos on her head had healed nicely, leaving the

57

Gerald L. Black

marks like a dull gray swirl across the skull. Hair had begun to

grow in a thin covering over the surface of her head and she

scowled. She would need a razor as soon as she could find one. A

Ratu was defined by their ritual tattoos and they were displayed

with honor.

She poured some of the water on her hands and splashed it

onto her face attempting to slap some wakefulness into her

addled brain.

There came a knock on the door, startling her from her

semi-awareness. She looked down at her soiled furs and wrinkled

her nose. A bath, she figured would probably be the second thing

on her agenda, but first: to open the door.

Behind the door, sheepishly holding clean linens and a plate

of steaming quail eggs with bacon was a young girl of around

fifteen; the same girl that had brought her meal for the last few

days. Morrigan attempted again to smile at the girl, but after

setting the food down on the small table, she rushed out as fast as

she could manage.

The slayer sighed. She would never get used to the fear and

prejudice shown against her just because she looked different.

Her appearance was a matter of faith; not a choice. Denosia the

Protector carved the tenets that her faith would follow and she

would follow them to the letter like a loyal believer.

Her deity asked so little of her. He did not require sacrifices

or nightly prayers. All he asked was the ritual tattooing and

cleansing of the soul. With all his power, he filled the Ratus with

the means to complete their mission of light.

58

The Golden Child

She took a bite of the eggs and smiled at the slight hint of

salt, a spice seldom used in her homeland, but one that she had

grown fond of as she made her way north. It would be a welcome

addition to her diet from that moment until she left the world’s

soil and made her journey to the Palace of Light to sow the fields

in Denosia’s palatial estate. ‘Ever the servant, she thought, even

after death.’

The thought didn’t bother her. She was raised to serve and

knew no other existence. The small taste of freedom she had

enjoyed over the last two months was like being born anew in a

huge world of discovery and she was relishing in it.

She contemplated as she chewed what her next course of

action should be. It was true there was a new king in Talantas

and news of his negligence to the ways of Alinard was

disheartening, but she needed to aid the Kingdom in their time of

need to gain and keep her God’s favor.

She tore a piece of bacon with her hands and nearly choked

on the acidic tang of the salt exploding on her tongue. Too much

for her delicate stomach, she tossed it back to the plate.

She decided it was time to ask her new friend, the abhac

named Yor Granitespire where she could get a razor and a bath.

She poured some water on her head and rubbed it over the

surface until her tiny hairs glistened. Fairly presentable, she took

a deep breath and left for the common room.

“Denosia guide my steps,” she mumbled.

59

Gerald L. Black

Gearalt walked calmly through the halls of Castle Dubh,

Mabsant loyally at his side. The advisor was telling him of

important matters, but the King was paying no mind to the

blathering fool. His thoughts were on other matters. Some fool of

a bwbach was requesting an audience, claiming to be an old

friend of his father’s. He decided to humor the creature. He was

in a good mood today.

Mabsant continued his incessant jabbering at the King’s side

and Gearalt’s patience was wearing thin. He had a brief vision of

shoving his boot down the fat man’s throat until he choked to

death and he smiled to himself. Taking this as a sign of approval,

the obese advisor raised his voice, confidently.

The King raised a jeweled hand to silence the man as they

approached the audience chamber. The bwbach had been waiting

since early afternoon. Now, the hall was lit only by torchlight,

the sky outside the broken window turning a charcoal gray.

Gearalt sat in the flickering shadow and sighed. He leaned

forward chin on his entwined fingers.

“You wish to see me?” he asked the scowling bwbach who

stood before him with arms crossed.

“Your father would never have left me waiting so long,” the

tiny demi-human growled.

The King narrowed his eyes. “My father no longer has the

throne.”

“Much to the detriment of the kingdom,” was the terse

reply. The guards surrounding the king held back snickers at the

chastisement of their ruler.

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The Golden Child

“Who do you think you are?” Gearalt screamed. “I am the

ruler here. My father has left this world.”

“I am Toric Tusslegut,” the bwbach replied. “Many times I

came to your father’s aid.”

“He won’t be needing your aid any longer.” The King

sneered.

“You are destroying everything your father has built.” Toric

was clenching his fists in anger. “Is this the legacy you want to

leave?”

“How dare you speak to me like this,” Gearalt snarled.

“Show some respect to your King.”

Toric smiled. “Here’s what I think of your rule,” he said.

Quickly, he untied the front flap of his breeches and urinated at

the king’s feet.

Outrage filled the throne room. Gearalt was livid, his face

turning a bright red.

“Seize him,” the King cried. “Throw him in the dungeons

with the girl.”

Toric was still grinning as the guards surrounded him and

dragged him away.

Tavish was pleased to have found the bard. He vaguely

remembered her from the court and knew her skill in the arts was

unrivaled. What she was doing so far from the castle was a

61

Gerald L. Black

mystery, but he wasn’t going to pry into the business of a fellow

bard. The order had their secrets and knew how to keep them.

The sirite had led them deep into the forest where the wind

had less of a bite and the snow was lessened by the thick canopy

of branches overhead. Her companions were silent as the wind as

they flanked Tavish and Hennesi.

There was a worried look etched on each of the faces of the

normally stoic sirite. Tavish noticed the way their eyes flitted left

and right, nervously as if expecting something. The woods were

eerily still and silent, but it was the dead of winter so Tavish had

no idea if that was the norm.

“The pointy ears are nervous about something,” Hennesi

whispered in his ear.

“Aye,” he replied. “It could well do with the fact that they

were attacked by that hairy beast.”

“No,” the woman replied, shaking her long tresses. “There is

more to it than that. See the way they look around?”

“Aye”

“The Rowans know the forest better than any creature alive.

Do you know how difficult it is to surprise one on their own

soil?”

“Can’t say that I do,” the bard replied. “Haven’t had much

experience with the foiner folk.”

“The sirite have uncanny instincts and reflexes.” Hennesi

frowned. “There is definitely something amiss.”

“Maybe ye should just ask the lass and get the worryin’ over

with,” Tavish suggested.

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The Golden Child

“Maybe I will,” she sighed. “Maybe I will. Until then, keep

your wits about you.”

The bard laughed. “Ever are me wits about me,” he said.

The look Hennesi gave him was not one to instill confidence.

Somewhere in the murky depths of his wine addled brain,

Bredain staggered to the privy. Since his humiliation against the

two Alinardians, he had fallen into a pit of despair. He tried to

adhere to the tenets of Alinard, but such piety was difficult at

best.

He sighed in relief as his urine steamed in the brisk air. It

was freezing outside, but the small wooden outhouse gave at

least slight respite from the wind.

A knock on the wooden door made him jump and he

dribbled on his trousers.

“Oghma’s balls!” he growled. “Can’t a man piss in peace?”

There was no answer so Bredain grumbled under his breath,

put his manhood away and pulled the fabric of his trousers away

from his leg in a feeble attempt to dry it.

“Bastards,” he grumbled. There was another knock and he

scowled. Who would be disturbing his pissing in the middle of

night? The Temple of Banba let him sleep in a dilapidated

henhouse near the temple gardens. He refused to urinate where

he slept, however, so each night he made the hundred paces trek

to the line of privies near the back door.

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Gerald L. Black

Everyone else should be asleep, he thought. He had never

seen another soul all the weeks he had used the outhouse. Why

tonight? And why wouldn’t they answer?

“I’m nearly done,” he cried. “Patience.” It was followed by

another thump as if something heavy fell in the snow. Worry

creased his brow. Slowly, he opened the door and peered around.

Lying face down in a deep bank of snow was one of the

temple guards. A thick pool of blood froze into crystalline shards

beneath the lifeless corpse.

There was a sound behind him, much like the crunch of

crusted snow. He froze not so much from the icy air, but from the

voice that broke the silence.

“Hello, uncle,” the voice said. He turned, quickly, nearly

slipping on a patch of frozen ground. “I knew you would return

here.”

The voice belonged to a young man, with lean muscles,

wearing a simple white tunic and holding a silver sword in his

fist. A thin covering of whiskers covered the boy’s chin and there

was a murderous glint in the boy’s eye. Not a drop of blood

covered the blade, though it was apparent the boy had used it to

dispatch the guard.

The boy looked familiar, but in Bredain’s besotted state, he

couldn’t focus. If one took the muscle away and threw a pile of

dirt and shit on the boy he could almost be-

“Cannivone?” Recognition hit him like a slap in the face.

“How have you fared, lad?”

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The Golden Child

“Shut your hole,” Cannivone growled. “Since when have

you ever cared about me or anyone?” The blade in the boy’s

hand added a menacing tone to the words.

“I’m a changed man,” Bredain said, slowly backing up, his

hands waving before him as if they would shield him from the

sharp blade.

“I wanted to tell you,” the boy said, “while I have the

chance, that you were a rotten uncle. Less than the shit that we

trudge through.”

Bredain nodded and looked to the ground in shame. Truth

be told, he had to admit that he had treated the boy poorly. What

did he care about his dead sister’s kid? One more mouth to feed

in a place that didn’t have enough to spare.

“I am sorry, Can..”

“I wanted to tell you,” Cannivone interrupted, “before you

die, that never again will you victimize anyone else.”

“Never again. I promise.” Bredain was nearly to the

bleeding corpse of the guard. He knew there was a weapon close

at hand, but he didn’t dare take his eyes from the youth, clearly

gone mad with rage.

“I don’t blame you for hating me,” he said.

Cannivone raised the blade. “I don’t hate you. You are not

worthy of emotion. You are worthy only to sate the thirst of my

blade. The world without you would be a much better place.” He

moved toward his uncle slowly.

“Kill him already,” the blade whispered. “I can sense his

fear. How lovely it will taste.”

65

Gerald L. Black

Bredain felt his heel bump against the prostrate guard..

Already, the blood was freezing into crimson ice. Bredain fought

against the chill that was turning his own flesh blue and made to

kneel.

“Stand and take it like a man,” Cannivone cried. “Isn’t that

what you used to tell me on those long nights when you couldn’t

find a woman to share your rat infested bed?”

“I beseech you,” Bredain stammered, his voice cracking, his

body trembling in fear as much as from the cold. “Have mercy.”

“The mercy you showed all our victims? Or the mercy you

showed my mother, your own sister while she lie there choking

on her own blood? Is that the mercy you want from me?”

“No!” Bredain shouted, hands grabbing his head. “Alinard’s

mercy.” He fell to his knees.

The words hit Cannivone hard. Would Alinard approve of

vengeance? Had he already forgotten all that Darius and the

church had taught him about forgiveness? About love? He

hesitated as Perinia’s face came to his mind, beautiful and

smiling. What would she think of the deaths upon his soul?

“Alinard be damned,” Cannivone snarled. A quick flick of

his wrist and the blade severed Bredains ear. The man screamed

in agony and covered the wound with his palm.

The sword trembled in Cannivone’s hand, as if in pleasure.

A soft hum echoed through his skull, pleasing and hypnotic. A

tremor of power surged through him. The boy smiled, the

emotionless grin of lunacy.

“Sweet as gorse pears,” the sword warbled in ecstasy.

“Revenge truly does taste sweet.”

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The Golden Child

Cannivone’s eyes narrowed. He gazed upon the man who

had tormented him and treated him so horribly for most of his

life. He raised the blade above his head, his hand trembling as he

fought the urge to finish the pathetic, crying man at his feet.

“Feed me his heart blood,” Bloodletter cooed. “Let me

regain my power. No one will miss this man.”

Cannivone, eyes glassy, brought the blade down with a

grunt, reveling in the warmth of the blood that splashed across

his face.

Brawth looked down upon the thick forest from his vantage

point atop the grassy knoll. The wind fluttered his ragged locks

like a banner, A few paces behind, Bolan and Dien waited in

anticipation. Beside them stood a pair of dark clad figures, a male

with close cropped hair of cinnamon, and a female with dark

eyes and charcoal skin.

“What do you see?” Dien growled. “Don’t leave us waiting

all day.”

Brawth smiled to himself. The pressure of a death threat had

clearly rattled the wizard. Brawth, on the other hand, had lived

his entire life under threat of death. The two hired bounty hunters

accompanying them seemed unaffected.

“Patience,” Bolan said in a quiet voice. “He will see what he

sees when he sees it.”

67

Gerald L. Black

Dien grumbled to himself and this brought a snicker from

the bounty hunters.

“You are being paid to help capture the bard,” Dien snapped

at them. “not laugh at my companion’s lack of urgency.”

They exchanged another look, their eyes flashing secret

signals. Bolan, noticed the way they patted the weapons at their

sides and stepped to intervene.

“Peace, Mannin,” he said. “Liana.” He acknowledged each

as he spoke their names. They relaxed at Bolan’s soft voice.

“The wizard doesn’t take well to threats on his life,” Bolan

added. “I’m sure you understand.”

Mannin, the male, shrugged. Liana grinned, her pointed

teeth giving her a feral appearance.

“Da mon take life too serious,” Liana replied. She chuckled,

her tightly braided hair shaking. At last, Brawth returned from

atop the knoll.

“They camp just inside the edge of the forest,” Brawth

stated.

“Good news,” Bolan added. The look on his companion’s

face soured.

“Did I mention there is bad news, as well?”

Bolan shook his head and crossed his arms. “Just tell me.”

“The bard and the swordswoman from the battle in the

throne room are with her.”

“Shite on a cracker!” Bolan cursed. He wished no harm to

the two heroes. How to achieve their goal and avoid

confrontation with the pair? Another dilemma to add to the pile.

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The Golden Child

At least they had tracked the bard down. First things first.

All else would have to take care of themselves.

“Form up,” Bolan growled. “We have our prey in sight.” He

clutched his axe in sweaty palms and called for the wizard.

Lughdo decided to celebrate. With a crooked smile splitting

his face, he entered the woods, hoping to find some berries to

whet his appetite. Snow blanketed everything in its cold embrace.

His pig eyes scanned the area for any vegetation. Seeing

none, he sighed. He would have to hunt for game; a prospect not

to the half-ogre’s liking. Hefting his huge axe, he stepped from

the confines of his warm den and headed south toward the deep

forest.

Tracks led in several directions through the thick woods. In

the air, he caught the scent of roasting meat. His stomach

growled as saliva filled his mouth.

“Quiet, tummy,” he said. Nose to the air, he headed in the

direction of the comforting smell. The wind blew cold in his face,

but he pressed on, undeterred by a minor inconvenience.

Through a break in the trees, he spied a campfire and nestled

around it a group of cloaked figures. One stood, fingers plying an

ornate lute, the sounds of his clear voice now reaching Lughdo’s

ears.

They stood strong and brave

69

Gerald L. Black

As the city streets became a grave

And the last of the diabhols were slain

The red haired bitch and her demon horde

Were repulsed by the Dragon Lord

And the terrible wizard was clove in twain

Even the smallest found that day

The power to keep evil at bay

Though many a friend lay at their feet

Through the castle the battle raged

In the throne room the last battle was staged

Until the bitch stood in defeat-

“That’s all I have for the now,” the singer’s voice stated in a

clear, yet recognizable tone. Lughdo smiled. The voice belonged

to Tavish McOugan. Together they were instrumental in

defeating Pantania and her diabhols. The half ogre stepped into

the clearing.

Upon his appearance, several of the figures leapt to their

feet, brandishing weapons. Lughdo stopped, upon his face a look

of puzzlement.

“Lughdo, friend,” he said. The tallest of the cloaked figures

jumped to her feet and rushed forward, waving off the others.

“He is a friend,” her voice rang through the wintery day.

She dropped her hood revealing her clear eyes and a touch of her

brown hair. Hennesi grinned.

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The Golden Child

“Pretty lady,” Lughdo said.

“It’s good to see you Lughdo,” the swordswoman replied.

“Please. Come share our fire.”

With a lopsided grin, the half-ogre rushed forward and

flopped himself down in the snow.

The Golden Child wiped the blood from his face and

surveyed the battlefield. His sword cleaved numerous misshapen

skulls and his arm was weary. He took a deep breath and

instantly regretted it as his nostrils filled with the smell of blood

and death, choking his lungs with the foulness.

From his left he sensed the arrival of another demon,

shambling toward him as it dragged a half severed foot behind it,

brandishing a pitted scimitar.

Ioras swung to meet the new foe as the sound of battle filled

the air around him. His shield blocked the downward swing of

the scimitar and pushed it aside. With a wide swipe of his

glowing blade, Analil, full of Alinard’s power, he took the

demon’s leering head. The body spouted a copious amount of

foul smelling blood and toppled.

Somewhere something large screamed in pain. An all too

human voice yelled and was silent. The horrifying sound of

blades chopping through bone echoed in the sweltering heat. At

Ioras’ feet the corpses piled staining the sand a dark brown. He

kicked the latest from him and scowled.

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Gerald L. Black

“Father,” he cried to the heavens. “Why do you not aid me

in this battle?”

An errant arrow flew by and creased his cheek, but no blood

welled to the surface. The Golden Child turned and spied the

culprit; a small orange skinned beast with squat nose and yellow

bat eyes. In its hands it held a bow of twisted wood and it

reached for a second arrow.

Suddenly, Corp Leisg the abhac was there, axe burying

itself in the goblin’s shoulder. The beast gave a shriek of pain

and dropped its bow. A second chop took the creature’s head.

The abhac smiled at Ioras and went in search of another foe.

There was a grim harvest this day. Too much blood. There is

always too much blood. The Golden Child leaned heavily upon

his blade and his breaths came in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked

every inch of his flesh. Blood became sticky on his face and

hands, little of which was his own.

The horn sounded in a long blast, calling for retreat. The

dark forces of Colm Sadach escaped from the battlefield back to

the border of Galis, leaving their dead piled in huge mounds

among the numerous corpses of human, sirite, abhac, and

bwbach.

Ioras felt a tear in his eye as he did after every battle. He

shed a tear for each companion that fell in battle in his father’s

name. Someday, he hoped, the battle would be over and his

purpose fulfilled. Then, he could at last join his father at the

eternal table.

“Fear is not an option,” he reminded himself. “The war will

go on until we prevail.”

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The Golden Child

He longed for an end to the war, but, for now, there was

more blood left to soak the earth.

73

Chapter Four

Fraught With Peril

The mayor of Belton, a plump bwbach named Fennel

Flatfoot, trudged through the chest high snow drifts, grumbling

beneath the fox fur scarf that covered his face. An emergency

council had been assembled and he had been dragged out of bed

at the ungodly hour of noon by the apologetic Jem, a newly hired

messenger, just arrived in town a few months before. The man

never revealed any of his past, merely swore he wanted to change

his path toward righteousness. The scars that crisscrossed his

body spoke of a history of violence. Alinard’s cross had been

carved into the man’s forehead.

“Bloody religious fanatics,” Fennel grumbled. Past the

livery he worked his way, leaving a deep channel cut like a

trough through the snow. A trail to return by, he thought, unless

it snows again and buries all my work. He frowned at the

thought.

74

Why in the Nine Hells had he moved to this place where the

seasons changed so dramatically? In his homeland of Bwbachod

it was sunny most of the year and rainy at times; the perfect

climate for the growing and cultivation of crops. As a youth

Fennel had been inflicted by the desire to travel and ended up in

this small town at the base of the Sliabh Cruinn. There he had

married and raised a family. Scores of years later, a highly

respected member of the council, he was elected mayor.

His were the tough decisions to make. Justice and

punishment were his responsibility and he tried to be fair.

Sometimes he wondered if the people he had cast into exile

would come back to haunt him one day. There was nothing to be

done about the past. It was the present predicament he was in the

middle of that worried him.

His thoughts went to his wife, Tryna and their twin

daughters, Meladi and Harmoni, two aspiring bards trained at the

University. They were a close knit family and the very reason for

his constant tolerance of the townsfolk’s insistence that he be

more involved with the council. Being mayor had let him live

quite comfortably in his palatial estate, although he still preferred

the comforts of a dry burrow, but he had the comfort of his

family to think about.

He made his way through one more drift and was relieved

when the ground leveled out. The way to the Broken Wheel

tavern was clear of the deep snow, the path a soggy mess of

churned mud. Fennel looked down at his once pristine clothes

sighing as he spied the dark, wet stains covering his tunic and

breeks.

75

“I should make them buy me new clothes, too,” he huffed.

He made his way slowly through the filth toward the sign, a cart

wheel with broken spokes. The muffled sounds of merriment

emanated from the thick walls. He hoped the fire would be

blazing at full when he entered as he wrapped his arms around

himself to ward off the chill.

He opened the door and was assailed by a mixture of noises

and smells of such strength they nearly sent him reeling

backward. He despised the cloying stench of humankind, but

mixed with that of orc, vomit, piss, and alcohol, it was nearly

sickening.

The Broken Wheel was the only inn serving the small

village, so Fennel preferred to do his drinking at home. The

council demanded a more public meeting spot, however, so every

citizen could voice their concerns and displeasure. The more

involved in politics the citizens were, the easier to placate them,

Fennel found, so he reluctantly agreed to the public assemblies.

“They better have a cup filled for me already,” he mumbled

to himself. Already, the bare soles of his feet were warming from

the combination of a roaring fire and a hardwood floor that

retained warmth. Slamming the door behind him, he slowly made

his way across the room to a small table where five men sat

sharing a pipe and filling stone cups from a pitcher. Plates were

strewn about the table’s surface.

The men stood as he arrived at the table. He glared at them

as he climbed into the chair.

76

“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “I’m going to need an ale

and some hot porridge if I am going to keep my strength through

this all.”

“Fennel,” said a smiling, heavily whiskered man named

Hammel. “Glad you could join us.”

“Yes,” the bwbach spat, “I’m sure you are.”

The mayor of Belton looked across the table at the four

others and named them mentally: Dryffyd the tanner, bug eyed

and thick jowled; Faren the smith, a large muscled man with eyes

set too close together; Grillius the baker, a man with stomach so

large he could barely squeeze his way up to the table; and Valen

the local wizard, a stern, serious man of advanced years with

only two teeth remaining in his withered gums.

This is the cream of the crop, the bwbach found himself

thinking. Aren’t we in good hands?

“What is this all about?” Fennel cut to the chase. “I don’t

have all day to give judgments.”

Valen scowled, his mouth tugging down at the corners as if

gravity had taken over.

“This is a matter of great importance,” the wizard growled

in his raspy voice.

“It better be,” mumbled the bwbach, immediately adding in

a louder voice, “Let’s get on with it then. Give me a cup of mead

and make it quick.”

Valen blurted out the words. “There have been two deaths at

the temple. A priest and a citizen. One called Bredain.”

“I do not know him,” Fennel replied.

77

“A recent arrival,” Grillius added. “He managed to find

work as a messenger.”

“The more disturbing part is the death of the priest,

”Dryffyd said. The man had the smell of piss about him, a side

effect of using the foul stuff to tan hides.

“What is being done about it?” Fennel asked, scrunching his

nose to avoid the smell. “Has the church been notified?”

“The church knows. Two deaths and they coincide with the

arrival of the strange woman,” Dryffyd added, the foam from the

mead clinging to his lips.

“The strange markings upon her head,” Valen added. “I did

some research. She is one of the mysterious Ratus.”

“The rat-whose?” Fennel was becoming bored with this

whole affair. Travelers came through their town quite frequently

and no matter how strange, they were not a matter of such

importance as to call an emergency meeting. Unless they started

fire to the granary, he added as an afterthought.

“The Ratus,” Valen continued, his agitation clear on his

wizened face, “are a secret sect of demon slayers thought to be

mythical.”

“Then how do you know of them?” Fennel shot his irritation

back at the arrogant mage.

“You really should read more,” Valen retorted, in a flat

tone.

“It cuts in to my drinking time,” the bwbach growled.

“Continue, by all means before I start to snore.”

78

Valen scowled, his dark eyes staring into Fennel’s face. He

cleared his throat a little louder than needed to make a point and

continued.

“According to Heriod’s History of Religion, the Ratus are

rarely seen, appearing from their temple only when the undead

are a threat to Domhan.”

“So…?” Fennel began.

“You idiot,” raged the wizard. “She made a stop in our

town. The murders began at the same time. Near the priest we

also found that of Bredain, a simple laborer.”

“And you think this woman did this?” the mayor narrowed

his eyes. “I thought you said the Ratus were demon slayers, not

the slayer of innocents.”

“We will not jump to conclusions,” Valen said with a shrug,

“but it isn’t the usual practice of the Ratu to kill priests. It garners

further investigation. We cannot have our clergy being

slaughtered.”

“I was visited by a young boy earlier,” Valen said. “He was

asking about this Bredain.”

“You think they are allied in this? ”Grillius asked.

“Maybe.” Fennel growled back, “you have let paranoia seep

in through the hole in your head. It could be purely coincidental.

I have heard enough for today, thank you. If you have any more

emergencies, you know where to find me.”

He rose from the chair, quickly downed the mead and wiped

his mouth with a sleeve. As he turned to leave, Faren spoke.

“Ignoring the problem will not make it go away.” This

caused Fennel to turn back, his face a mask of rage.

79

“You need no help in the investigation. I pay you good gold

to do these things,” he roared. “My energy must be spent

readying for the spring instead of worrying about something that

you can handle quite easily.”

“You are the mayor,” Valen reminded him. The bwbach

crossed his arms and looked the mage in the eye.

“The town has flourished under my watch,” he said. “Do

you think it was due to ineptitude? “

“No one is saying that,” the shrill voice of Grillius cut

through the tension.

“If you are so worried about this situation,” Fennel added,

his focus on the wizard, “I give you permission to take whatever

measures are necessary.” He turned on his heels and walked

toward the room.

“We have sent Yor Granitespire to befriend the woman,”

Valen said.

“That may not be enough,” Faren said softly and Fennel

bristled.

“It will have to be,” was all the bwbach said before he

stepped back out into the bone chilling cold. If he hurried, he

might still make lunch before it grew too cold to eat.

80

Mesz stood before the Pantheon, an angry scowl upon his

dark face. Severely admonished, he seethed in silence as Eochaid

finished his speech. Faces of the various Gods stared at him from

the vastness of the cavern. The myriad of deities that inhabited

the Seven heavens and even a few of the darker Gods listened in

silence at the Old God’s tirade.

“You have meddled in the affairs of the mortals too many

times,” the ancient deity thundered. His bearded face was creased

into a scowl, the crown of mistletoe atop his head writhed as if

alive. “You were advised that your sphere of influence was to be

dragons, not the mortal races.”

“They will destroy us all with their idiocy,” the sirite

countered, but a fist slammed upon the granite table silenced

him.

“Are you the only God, then?” Eochaid’s gaze burned into

him with ferocious intensity. “Should we all relinquish our

powers to you? You shall be the One God?”

Mesz wanted to smile. Nothing would please him more.

Great was his power as a mortal and greater it would be if he did

not have to share the worship with these clods. He held his lips

firm with great effort.

“We all have our responsibilities,” Eochaid reminded him.

“Though we seem to be sharing them with the new God. Every

year our numbers of followers dwindle while his rise.”

81

“I will not interfere again,” Mesz agreed, though the words

burned his tongue.

“You are dismissed,” the eldest god said. “Take care of your

Dath Drachan. We will concern ourselves with the rest.”

Mesz grumbled and replied, “The more your kind ignore the

prayers of your flock, the weaker you shall become.”

“The lesser races need us as much as we need them,”

Eochaid grunted. “Mind the business that is your own.”

“When is the last time you answered a prayer that wasn’t

from the lips of your doting priests?” Mesz sneered.

“Silence, whelp.” Eochaid’s voice thundered through the

cavern. “It is the duty of the priests to speak for us. Our will is

known to them.”

“What of the farmer who lost his crops to plague or fire?”

Mesz was persistent. “Should they hope for a blessing from a

priest of Banba before they starve?”

“Now you attack Banba?” Eochaid shook his great bearded

head, braids tinkling with the thousands of bells tied into them.

“There was a time when the Gods took an interest in their

people. Elymas still does.”

Eochaid sighed. “We do not dictate the actions of our fellow

deities when it comes to how they handle their sphere.” The God

narrowed his ice blue eyes. “We do, however demand that the

Gods meddle only in the affairs of their followers.”

“So…”

“You can meddle with dragons all you wish,” Eochaid said.

“The mortals you must leave to us. And to their own free will.”

82

Mesz grunted his agreement and stepped down the wide

steps.

“Do not take it so hard, my friend,” the LeafLord said. “We

all must stick to our responsibilities.”

Mesz glared at him. “You have interfered many times. They

show you no ill will.”

Sithic smiled. “I have only done so when it came to

protecting the forests. I am the Leaf Lord.”

Mesz turned on him with a furious gaze. “What of the

assassin? Was he a Rowan in disguise?”

Sithic smiled. “The man was recruited in my woods.”

“And brought to my swamp,” Mesz snarled. “How is this

different? The fools are going to be their own undoing with their

apathy.”

“It is not our place to question the Greater Gods,” the Leaf

Lord replied. “We do what we must.”

“There is more than one way to skin a dragon,” the dark

skinned sirite said. “I will use other tools at my disposal.”

“Careful,” Sithic warned. “Do not think the Gods are blind.”

Mesz whirled. “They are blind. And foolish. Let them argue

and squabble while the earth is destroyed. I will make a throne

atop their smoldering bones and it will be I that rules the

heavens.”

“Do not overstep,” Sithic said. “You can still be stripped of

power.”

Mesz grinned. “That would be a form of action. And the

Gods seem unable to do anything so strenuous.”

83

“It is true the Gods have become less involved in the lives of

their followers,” the Leaf Lord agreed. “But do not think they

have become impotent.”

“It matters not,” Mesz dismissed the thought with a wave of

his hand. “We will have to try things a different way. I do not

wish to start a war with the Gods.”

“I am thankful that you have seen reason.”

“Reason has nothing to do with it,” Mesz replied. “Someday

there will be a reckoning. I hope they will be prepared.”

Together, the sirite left the cavern.

Gioffri followed Kimber, Neftet, and the huge dog as they

made their way into the forest. He admired the way Neftet had

found something to care about in life other than the next head to

be taken. He had never seen his fellow assassin so enamored with

anything before and it filled him with envy. How he wished he

had found something worth dying for.

Then again, maybe he had. He had made an instant and rash

decision to choose friendship over duty to the Fangs. He still

questioned the wisdom in that choice, but it was done and there

was no going back. His heart soared at the possibilities that

freedom could open for him, but where would he go?

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There were few opportunities for an albino in the regular

world. Most considered his condition to be a sign of demonic

possession or a disease brought upon by rodents. Few stopped to

consider that he may have all too human feelings beneath his

thin, pale skin and pink eyes.

The Fangs didn’t care about what its assassins looked

like. They were supposed to be unseen by their victims anyway,

or in worst case scenarios, the last face the victim would see. The

more frightening the better, as far as Gioffri was concerned.

Suddenly, the ranger stopped. Her dog growled low in its

throat. She raised a fist as a sign for silence. Silence. Something I

am adept at.

Reaching high into a tree, trying to pick the last

frostapple, they spied a two-headed brute of a giant. In one hand

it wielded a large knotted club. One gnarled face peered around

the clearing as the other kept its eye on the prize. It wore tattered

hides across its chest and loins, held together by orc skulls at

shoulder and waist.

Upon its hunched shoulder sat a small creature with a

wide mouthed face. He spoke in a high pitched squeak into one

of the giant’s ears, but none of the words were intelligible.

The creature seemed to be a great ventriloquist, as its lips

never moved as it screeched into the beast’s ear. Cautiously, the

group entered the small clearing approaching the strange pair

with weapons drawn.

The giant grunted in triumph as it plucked the still ripe

fruit from the high limb. The whiteness of the fruit was hard to

spy amongst the snow covered boughs, but the giant had the

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advantage of great height and could spy what those closer to the

ground might miss.

Bailey let out a bark, causing the giant to start with a

roar. The creature lost its balance and crashed heavily to the

ground, the tiny creature crying out as it was forced to tumble

from the shoulder in a somersault and spring to its furry feet.

Furry feet? On a goblin? Kimber tried to make sense of

this while the giant struggled to raise its considerable bulk from

the icy ground.

“We mean no harm,” the ranger called out.

“And no harm was done,” the small goblin-like creature

replied, lips still remaining motionless. His small hand went to

the jeweled dagger at his side in an apparent defensive mood.

“Tell your companion to stay where he is,” Kimber added.

“We want no trouble from an ettin.”

The small creature chuckled. “Nuzzgo is the tamest ettin

you will ever meet.”

“What are you doing in the woods?” Neftet asked. The tiny

creature turned its dark eyes set deep into its skull upon him and

sighed.

“I live here,” it replied. “The question is why you are here?”

Kimber sneered. “I protect the forest from darkness and

evil,” she replied.

“Excellent,” the creature said with a laugh. “You must be

the famous ranger all the forest creatures speak about.”

Gioffri chuckled. “It seems we have a celebrity in our

midst.” Kimber gave him a wilting gaze and slammed her red

sword back into the empty scabbard upon her back.

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“We are hunting,” the ranger said, “but there seems to be no

game around.”

The small one nodded. “Scared probably. By the fire and the

fighting.”

Kimber’s face went livid. “Fire?”

The ettin stood up and rubbed a bump on one of its heads. It

spoke.

“Yup. Fire burn forest. Animals run.”

“Take me to this fire, umm, whoever you are.”

The small man held out a tiny flesh colored hand, “You can

call me G’narish,” he said. “This is my friend Nuzzgo,. “ He

motioned toward the ettin.

“He is known as Gnarlface for obvious reasons.” The small

creature reached to his face and pulled back the goblin mask,

revealing a boyish face with twinkling brown eyes.

Gioffri laughed again. “A bwbach disguised as a goblin.

With an ettin companion. Is there anything better?”

“Follow me,” the bwbach who called himself G’narish said.

The ettin scooped him up, placed him back on the humped

shoulder and led the way through the snow covered forest.

“This day keeps getting stranger,” the albino said. Gioffri’s

laughter echoed for miles.

Hennesi groaned as the flaming limb fell from the tree

barely missing her shoulder. They were minding their own

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business when the fireball came crashing into the camp,

scattering the sirite and setting the forest ablaze.

Lughdo seemed especially upset and kept muttering the

name of Alinard in his guttural voice. With the large axe he

carried, the half-ogre chopped at burning trees trying to down

them before they could spread the fire deeper into the woods.

Q’ilaqiqi cursed under the name of every God she could

manage to think of and was cowering behind a large boulder,

doing her damnedest to avoid the spreading flames. Tavish, to his

credit, never dropped the lute he still clutched in his large hands.

In a loud voice he yelled out the words of a song. Strength

flowed from his quavering tenor and into the bodies of his

companions.

One of the sirite lie dead, flames engulfing his body. The

remnants of his bow turned to ash just beyond Hennesi’s reach.

She turned her gaze toward the outer edge of the woods where

the wizard stood preparing another spell. The air was filled with

the stench of burnt flesh.

Lughdo roared and lifted a large stone, which he hefted

toward the mage. Although it missed by a few feet, it rattled the

nerves of the robed wizard, completely ruining his spell.

Three men and a woman stood behind the wizard with

weapons drawn. Through the thick haze of smoke they were hard

to make out, but there was a familiarity in the stance and gestures

of the two larger men.

Snow melted from the branches in large gushes of liquid

slush that slid to the ground. Hennesi hefted her greatsword, but

was not foolhardy enough to attempt to make her way alone

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through an inferno of blazing trees to face five opponents. So she

stood her ground and snarled at her ineffectiveness.

A well- muscled sirite in green robes, carrying a wooden

staff appeared from the thick trees, his face a mask of fury.

Tavish recognized the LeafLord immediately as he approached.

“What in the Nine Hells is going on?” his voice roared.

“Why is the forest aflame?”

“Yer guess would be as good as mine,” the bard said with a

shrug. “We were mindin’ our own business when the fire came

upon us by s’prise.”

The Leaf Lord, Sithic raised his arms and shouted a syllable

of power. A huge cloud of vapor appeared above the flames

dousing them with gushes of water. The wizard growled in

agitation at the banishment of his fire.

“What is the meaning of the attack on the forest?” Sithic’s

boisterous voice sliced through the noise.

The wizard’s voice called out in reply. “We came for the

sirite bard.”

“And does she wish to go?” Sithic bellowed.

“It does not matter. The King has sent us for her head. Or

we must forfeit ours.”

“The king is dead,” shouted Hennesi. She gripped her

greatsword tighter. Q’ilaqiqi removed herself from hiding to

stand beside the tall warrior woman.

“He is but a boy playing at being a ruler,” the sirite bard

cried. “No good can come from his reign.”

“It matters not,” the wizard answered. “We have no quarrel

with the others, but Q’ilaqiqi must come with us.”

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“Come and take her,” Hennesi said with a wicked smile.

The wizard frowned and turned to his companions. The haze

began to clear and Hennesi, Tavish, and Lughdo all recognized

the three men who were guarding Uilleam. Two more figures,

unrecognized by anyone, stood a little behind, arms crossed

awaiting orders.

With a resigned sigh, the wizard, Dien replied. “So be it,”

Bolan and Brawth exchanged a look of hesitation. The

unfamiliar bounty hunters rushed forward, the man spinning a

small sword in his hand, the woman with a kukri, her muscles

rippling beneath her ebony skin. They passed Dien and entered

the thick woods, followed closely by the wizard.

It took a mere three steps before Sithic raised his arms and

shouted, “Lumanath!” Suddenly, a breeze began to whirl through

the trees. Of such fierce heat it was, the snow instantly was

blasted away into small droplets which turned to steam and

dissipated with the wind.

Needles from the pines began to shake themselves loose and

swirled in the maelstrom. Dien, Mannin, and Liana tried to duck

beneath the searing winds that ripped at their clothing, tearing

them to tatters.

Dien began to chant a spell in retaliation, but Sithic was too

quick. He shrugged his shoulders forward and sap burst from the

bowels of the ancient trees toward the trio in a searing spray.

Only Liana avoided the full brunt of the attack by twisting and

falling prone, her face deep in a bank of freezing snow. Still, she

felt the molten liquid as it blasted her skin leaving a long furrow

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of lacerated flesh down her spine. She grunted and lay

motionless, her spilling blood steaming in the cool air.

Mannin took the barrage full in the chest and was torn open

like a sack. He looked down briefly at his wide open abdomen,

instantly cauterized, but spilling his entrails like pink sausages to

the ground. Then, he collapsed in a gore spattered heap.

Dien was still mouthing the words to a spell when the sap

took his face, immolating it into strips of raw meat. His eyes

were torn from their sockets in a gelatinous spray. The heat of the

liquid flensed his flesh from the skull leaving it bare. Instantly

dead, the wizard collapsed.

Brawth and Bolan cursed aloud as they watched the

slaughter. They threw their weapons to the ground.

“Truce,” they cried as one. Their hands held toward the

darkening sky, they fell to their knees in the mud.

“Leave the woods and never return,” Sithic roared. “Or die

as the others died.”

“Maybe we can help each other,” Brawth replied. He made

to move forward, hands still weaponless and aloft.

“Speak,” the LeafLord said.

“We would join you, instead. The new King is an obnoxious

bastard.”

“What of your lives?” Hennesi asked. “Are they not

forfeit?”

Bolan shrugged. “Death comes to us all. Few get to choose

the reason for their death. Some things are worth dying for.”

“And this is one of them?” Sithic queried.

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“The right thing is always worth dying for,” Brawth added.

“At least if we go with you, we can die in battle, not rotting in

some dark cell or having our heads taken by a faceless

executioner. This was never our fight.”

“What say you?” Sithic asked the swordswoman.

“You have never shown us any ill intent. Welcome aboard,

then.” She said, replacing her sword on her back. Brawth and

Bolan entered the burned out camp, giving a cursory glance in

the direction of their dead companions. A quick prayer to

Marbhan died on the wind.

Liana heard them pass and struggled to her feet. She

staggered from the forest, blood pouring from her grievous

wounds. She would report the treachery or die trying. Slowly,

painfully, she made her way toward Talantas.

The girl had cried her last tears. In the dark cell, nobody

could see. There was no one to hear her sobs even though they

echoed through the cavernous passages of the dungeons. She

crouched in the corner over a small bowl and urinated. It was

humiliating, but she was left with little choice.

She rose at the sound of clattering keys, followed by the

sound of boots tapping down the hall. Perinia leapt to her feet

and rushed to the iron bars, gripping them tightly, face pressed

against the coolness.

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“Set me free,” she wailed. “I have done nothing.” There was

no answer other than the echoes of her own voice and the steady

steps coming nearer.

Torchlight lit the floor from around a corner and washed her

cell in a dim glow. Now that she could see the mess her dress

was, covered in filth and excrement, she wanted to cry again, but

she held it back, her lip quivering.

Three guards came into view. One held a torch and a ring of

keys. The others dragged a small bwbach in a dark cloak who

smiled a mischievous grin. Puzzled, the girl stepped back from

the bars.

“You get some company,” the burly guard told her as he

fumbled at the lock with a large key. “At least until the

executions.”

Perinia’s face went pale, the fading pink of her scars

showing brighter on each cheek. Tears had left mud caked in

thick clumps on her face. For days she had sat in darkness, alone

with her thoughts. She missed her family, her daily chores.

Mostly, she missed her friend, the boy Cannivone who had

suddenly disappeared the night of the attack.

Although he had nearly killed the prince, she knew the boy

had a good heart and she hoped no harm had come to him.

The cell door swung open and the bwbach was tossed into

the small barred room. He landed unceremoniously on his rump

with a gasp, no longer wearing the smile. The guards laughed and

slammed the barred door shut.

“You have a whole room to piss in now,” the key holder

said. They turned away to leave.

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“Wait,” Perinia cried. “Don’t leave me in the darkness.”

Panic was creeping into her voice. A small hand gripped her

wrist.

“Ssh,” the tiny man said. “It won’t do any good.”

Perinia turned to face the bwbach as the light disappeared

around the corner. She could barely make out the beginnings of

another grin before the darkness swallowed them.

“No,’ she screamed, tears pouring from her eyes all over

again. She hammered her fists against the unyielding iron bars.

“Quiet,” the bwbach said, flatly. “You’re gonna give me a

headache.”

Perinia barely heard the words. She slid her body down the

bars until she rested on her knees, still clinging to the iron, her

face pressed against it.

Suddenly, the tiny cell was engulfed in light. Perinia gasped

and raised her head. She looked at the bwbach who held a tiny

glass ball in his hand that glowed brighter than any torch.

“I can see in the dark,” he said, “but it’s obvious you can’t.

This should help until we get out.”

Perinia was relieved to have the light, but seeing her living

quarters illuminated was even more depressing. The floor was

bare stone except for a small pile of hay covered in excrement.

There was no bedding. Perinia had been forced to sleep on the

hard floor with no blanket to keep out the chill that seeped

through the stone and mortar.

“They won’t let us out,” she sobbed. “They accuse me of

treason.”

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The bwbach nodded. “The prince would do well to remove

his head from his arse,” he said. “Besides, who said I was going

to wait for them to release me?”

Perinia looked incredulous. The bwbach was confusing her.

He spoke in riddles and she didn’t like it. The light was a

welcome addition, however, so she tolerated his prattle.

“My name is Toric,” he said. “What is yours?”

“Perinia,” she replied, knees pulled up to rest her chin upon

them.

“It seems we are both enemies of the kingdom now,” Toric

said. “As preposterous as that sounds.”

“It seems so,” the girl was sinking deep into depression, the

bwbach could tell by her tone.

“Don’t worry that pretty human head of yours,” he replied

with a wink. “I intend to free us in mere moments.”

“And how are you going to do that?’ Perinia snapped.

“Squeeze between the bars? Bend them with your great

strength?’

“Nothing so base as all that,” Toric said. A strange glow

emanated from beneath his cloak as his body wavered briefly and

he began to disappear. Where he stood was a strange mist that

spread itself across the small cell and between the bars.

Perinia stared in shock. The light orb had fallen to the

ground and was still lighting the prison. She reached to pick it

up.

“That will teach them to check a person more thoroughly

next time they toss him in a dungeon.” The voice startled her and

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she jumped. She turned to find the grinning Toric on the outside

of the bars, solid once again.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go get the keys.” He laughed and

suddenly disappeared. Perinia stared for long moments in

disbelief as the bwbach’s laugh echoed down the hallway.

The smoke filled room was causing Manech to cough. It

was difficult to enjoy the mug of warm mead he held when his

lungs burned and his eyes watered. Across the room Darius and

Cipsis sat, a censer burning, filling the air with foul smelling

incense. The Rifennid had come to say his goodbyes and was

spending a last few moments with the heroes of the battle of

Talantas. Darius was planning to return to the temple in

Fialscathac the next morning. He was bringing dire news.

Manech smiled at the pair as they went through their ritual.

He wished Uilleam could be there to witness the growth of the

Alinardian religion, but the former Rifennid knew that he

watched them from above. Manech hoped he was smiling.

“..and in Alinard’s name we beg thee.” Darius ended the

litany and Cipsis blew out the incense. The priest turned to face

the warrior and smiled.

“Always good to see you,” he said. Manech smiled back and

grasped his forearm in greeting.

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“This may be the last time, I’m afraid,” Manech said with a

sigh. The priest seemed shaken.

“What do you mean?” Darius asked. Manech scowled and

began to pace the floor, clearly agitated.

“That damned fool,” he muttered. “His father would be sick

to his stomach to see his Kingdom abused this way.”

“What happened?” Darius put a comforting hand on the

warrior’s shoulder and the man stopped in mid stride, took a deep

breath and smiled humorlessly.

“He actually accused me of treason,” Manech nearly

shouted. “Can you believe that?”

“Maybe you misunderstood,” Darius stated, but Manech

just shook his head, his long braid brushing the back of his

chainmail.

“He spoke plain enough,” the warrior added. “I walked out

of the throne room and I do not intend to return.”

“How can you abandon the Kingdom?” Darius asked,

sincerely.

“It is not the Kingdom I am walking away from,” Manech

replied with a touch of sadness in his voice. “I walk away from

the mad man on the throne.”

“Where will you go?” Cipsis asked from his place across the

room where he was rolling the ritual rug into a tight cylinder.

“I’m not quite sure, yet,” the warrior replied. “I always

thought about seeing Kinar.” Darius nodded. Many had

wondered about the strange lands that lay across the Aigeann

Salann, known by some as the Metal Kingdoms for their

97

abundance of ores and their uncanny ability to work it into

powerful artifacts and weapons.

“Well,” Darius said, “before you do that, accompany me to

Fialscathac. Stay with me at the temple for a while. Kinar will

still be there in the future, right?”

Manech smiled, suddenly, the first sincere smile he showed

since the death of his friend, Uilleam.

“That it will, friend Darius. A stay at the temple may be just

the thing I need.”

“It is decided then,” the priest said with a grin.

“So it seems,” Manech replied. He drained the mug and

placed it gently on the table. The temple in Talantas was not as

large as its sister to the south and its furnishings were plain, but

the rooms were cozy enough, Manech decided.

“If I will be accompanying you,” the Rifennid said, rising to

his feet, “There are a few things I will need. See you on the

morrow.” He rose and made to leave.

“One lump or two?” Ghia asked her doll as she pretended to

fill a small teacup from a stone ewer. The doll, she named

Ghambi, merely stared at her with glass eyes that seemed to

flicker with a sentience of their own.

Smiling, the girl placed the cup before the doll and lifted her

own cup to her lips.

She screwed up her face as if in distaste and said, “Too

much lemon juice. Mine is sour. How is yours?”

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The doll turned its head, slightly and a smile spread upon

its painted mouth. A hand of porcelain daintily picked up the

teacup and held it up in a toast.

“Glad you like it,” Ghia said. Together they sat and

planned that night’s excursion.

From his underground cavern, Mesz watched through the

doll’s glass eyes and smiled. As usual his plans were unveiling

themselves before his violet eyes. He would not allow the guild

to grow to power as it did under Pantania’s tutelage. Spies were

in place to insure that would not happen.

Normally, he did not interfere with the affairs of the

outside world that had shunned him for centuries, but the stakes

were too high: the very existence of the world.

The dark forces unleashed by Dubhaca., the little black

demon were already taking a foothold upon the earth. So Mesz

would watch and he would wait.

He moved his attentions and that of his scrying to the

young boy, Cannivone. As a God, though a minor one in the

scheme of things, Mesz was able to locate those that were lost at

the expense of much power. The empty husks of two kobolds lay

discarded on the floor. He saw the boy surrounded by

mountains. Blood stained the lad’s hands and Mesz cringed. The

sword was at it again.

With firmly set jaw, he triggered the clairvoyance spell

embedded in the crystal.

“Siaradwch,” he muttered. The image of a dark clad

woman came into the ball’s interior.

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“Mountains, Luaithreach my daughter,” he whispered.

Inside the ball the woman perked her ears up and smiled. Her

pace increased.

“My daughter will find the boy,” Mesz muttered. “And

she will be the eyes of Mesz. And the hand that takes the blade at

last from the world of men.”

Tendrils of thin light wafted on the backs of the swirling

snowflakes, barely penetrating the thick clouds. The landscape

had a tranquil air about it as if slumbering beneath its thick

winter blanket. The trio rode in peaceful silence on the backs of

weary mounts.

There was no haste in their movements. Lethargy seemed to

have followed the cold that seeped into their bones.

Darius thought back to the last time he had been along this

route. Fondly, he remembered the meeting of the boy Cannivone

during an ill-timed ambush. His heart ached at the memories of

the brave paladin Renarthane who had accompanied him, now

sitting at Alinard’s table.

So much had changed in the last few months. The young

priest was still having trouble with the fact that he had lost so

much in so short a time. His mission was a failure and he was

returning in humility to the temple in Fialscathac to give himself

to the mercy of the church.

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Word had come weeks ago of the death of Amniar, the high

priest. A paladin named Avegor was named the successor in the

interim while a new high priest was chosen. It was Darius’ duty

to return to face judgment.

He looked at his companions, stoically trudging through the

deep snow. The boy Cipsis in particular seemed comfortable

enough in the freezing temperatures. Manech, battle hardened

soldier of numerous campaigns was advancing in age and it told

on his face, but he bravely fought the desire to give in to the cold.

A Fennid was ever disciplined and took pride in their ability

to withstand great discomforts with little to no complaint.

Manech was the embodiment of all the caste stood for and would

not complain even if frostbite took his fingers and toes.

“Terrible time of year to be traveling,” the Rifennid said,

eliciting a nod from Darius.

“I have no choice,” the priest said. “I have been away from

the temple far too long already.”

“I’m sure they could live without you for a few months

more,” Manech replied. “At least until the weather warms.”

“What you say is true,” Darius added with a curt nod. “But

it is not about what the temple can or cannot deal with, it is about

responsibility and the vows I made in Alinard’s name.”

Manech nodded in reply. He well understood the powers of

an oath. It was his oath to his old friend the deceased King

Uilleam that led him along the path he had chosen. His life was

one of constant loyalty to his friend, yet when it mattered most,

Manech had failed him. The sorrow threatened to choke him.

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They passed over a small rise to where the Sruth Bui lay

frozen; a silver ribbon in the sunlight. Talantas was situated

where the stream intersected with the larger and deeper Aibhainn

Folaidh before the Folaidh disappeared into the thick forest. The

Sruth Bui skirted the woods on the southern edge and ran a fairly

straight course west until it jogged to the south to empty into the

ocean between Bwbachod and the western coast of Anglea.

Earlier in the day, they had passed the remnants of the cart

that Darius and Renarthane had used on their first journey to

Talantas. They quickly took a moment to check its contents and

found it, not surprisingly, to have been ransacked, lying in ruin

under a mound of fresh snow.

It was a two day travel to Fialscathac and they were halfway

through the journey. Already the cold was becoming unbearable.

Darius could sense the aging Rifennid’s discomfort even though

he muttered not a word.

“We shall travel a few more miles, “the priest said, “Then

camp for the night.”

“Aren’t you in haste?” Manech asked through a growing

frost that crackled on his beard.

“I will not have my companions freeze to death merely

because I am in haste,” Darius replied. “What we need is a

moment of warmth and comfort.”

The look of relief was difficult for the warrior to mask. He

nodded in assent.

The horses gingerly crossed the thin ice covering the stream,

hearing it crack beneath their weight. The Bui was shallow and

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narrow at this point lessening the chance for an accident. Hooves

breaking through the thin crust could easily hobble their mounts.

They made it across easily and followed the meandering ice

trail west until the sun began to slip behind the horizon. Darius

called the party to a halt and they made camp. Tents were

constructed and a fire was soon blazing. The trio huddled

together near its warmth and soon forgot about the cold that

seemed to have seeped into their bones.

After a meal of dried hare strips, they shared a small bottle

of wine. Manech rubbed his hands together over the fire trying to

restore some of its natural feeling. He seemed old and tired to

Darius, but the young cleric held his tongue. He was thankful to

have the experienced warrior along.

Soon the boy Cipsis was snoring, loudly. Manech and

Darius lifted the boy and carried him to one of the tents. Once the

youth was tucked away in a warm sleeping bag, they returned to

the fire where they sat in silence, listening to the distant howl of

wolves.

“Travel in winter,” Darius whispered with a shudder, “is

fraught with peril.”

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104

Chapter Five

An Icy Reception

Mesz grinned beneath his dark cloak. There were no more

secrets from his eyes and ears. Not with the doll in place. His

crystal ball dimmed as he cancelled the scrying spell. Let the

Pantheon stop that. He took a deep breath and his gaze fell upon

the foppish bwbach before him.

“Welcome back,” he said.

Heathrose Longdartz bowed low, the feather of his cap

brushing the dirt floor.

“I hope all went as you planned,” the rogue replied. “The doll

has been placed and Lomaldor says it is working exceptionally

well.”

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“It has,” Mesz agreed with a nod of his dark head. “Better

than planned in fact. I also have located the boy. Luaithreach is

on his trail as we speak. the sword should be in my hands within

the week. You deserve a reward for your loyalty.”

“A reward, my lord?” the bwbach was stunned. “Not

necessary. I am ever loyal to the Dragon Lord.”

“Necessary or not,” the Sirite Thios added, “you have earned

it. Report to Irala and tell her I sent you. She will know what to

do.”

Irala was the tiny human in charge of distributing Mesz’ vast

wealth amongst his loyal followers. Half blind and fully insane,

she haunted the treasury jumping at ghosts and muttering to

herself. But she had a good head for figures and guarded Mesz’

wealth ferociously.

“His grace is most kind,” Heathrose replied. “And the finest

of lords.”

“Spare me the pleasantries. You and I both know they aren’t

true.” Mesz sneered. “You earned the reward, so go claim it

before I change my mind. You are free from my employ. The

Gods are displeased with my involvement.”

“Right away, sir.” Another bow, the boyish face wearing a

puzzled expression. “Thanks again, sire. But where will I go?”

“It matters very little to me, Heathrose. this is my parting gift

to you. Use it well,” the Dragon Lord answered, cryptically. He

tossed the bwbach a small token bearing his master’s likeness.

‘Give that to her and gain your reward.” Mesz sighed.

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The bwbach had often dreamed of visiting his homeland of

Bwbachod. Heathrose intended to do just that. He barely heard

the Dragon Lord’s final words.

“And before you leave, fetch the cousin of dragons. I have

need of her.”

Mabsant looked absently out the large window as the snow

danced in spirals to the ground. The wine in his hand was mostly

forgotten as his thoughts flew through his head at breakneck

speed.

His thoughts were on the past months, the sad demise of the

king, the ascension of the angry prince, the resignation of

Manech. Every king needed a champion and Manech was one of

the fiercest warriors he knew. How would the kingdom fare

without his guidance? And, more importantly, how long was

Mabsant’s position secure?

He needed the job to keep his exorbitant lifestyle. He didn’t

understand how so many people could survive with such little to

eat, sleeping in dung filled streets or in ramshackle shelters. He

would die within a week, if forced into such circumstances, he

knew.

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There was a knock on the chamber door, breaking his

reverie. He turned his massive frame and sighed.

“What is it?” he grumbled.

“A guest to see you, sir,” the voice of his chambermaid,

Brinna came through the thick oaken door. With a sigh of

resignation, Mabsant turned.

“Let them in,” he said. He sat his massive bulk upon a soft

chair, just far enough back from the desk to afford him leg room,

and leaned back.

The chamberlain led a dark cloaked figure into the room,

slight of frame with a cat like grace. Obviously, a female.

“Greetings, councilman,” she said. Slender hands pulled

down the hood covering her face, revealing a beautiful face of

advanced age.

“Atheala,” he gasped. “To what do I owe this honor?” The

second seat in the council sighed and looked around at the

chamber’s sparse furnishings.

“We need to have a talk,” she stated. “In private.”

“Of course,” Mabsant replied. “Can I offer you something to

eat or drink, perhaps?”

Atheala Ith shook her head, vigorously. Her jaw was

clenched tight in her agitation.

“No.” She breathed the word more than spoke it. “Can you

be sure our conversation won’t be overheard?”

“Of course, Atheala, but what…” he began, but she cut him

off with a glare,

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“Make it so.” The seriousness of her tone caused the obese

Mabsant to worry, a drop of sweat trickling from his temple. Just

what I need on an empty stomach.

“It must be grave indeed to warrant such privacy,” he said.

“The fate of the very kingdom rests in my words,” she

replied with a glare. “Is that grave enough for you?”

With a sigh, Mabsant offered her a seat at the small table.

He intoned a word, insuring their privacy to all unwelcome ears,

including any forms of magical eavesdropping.

“What is this about?” Mabsant sighed, weary to the bones

with all the drama.

Atheala stared into his face, her eyes betraying a hint of fear

or uncertainty before she spoke.

“We cannot abide by the fool boy’s decisions,” she said.

The look on the obese Mabsant’s face was surprisingly stoic. He

sighed.

‘I was afraid someone was going to say something to that

effect,” he said.

She smiled, her beauty filling the room with light. Mabsant

couldn’t help but feel elated that she shared the space with him

and that she trusted him with her secrets.

“You know what you plan is treason?” he added.

“I know,” she replied, her grin widening. “So can I count

you as an ally?”

Mabsant’s sigh was much more pronounced as he looked to

the scarred tabletop.

“The penalty for treason is death.”

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“We are all dead if this boy king continues on his path,” she

added.

“What would you have me do?” he reluctantly asked.

“Find the mercenaries,” she said matter-of-factly, “and those

who aided the kingdom. We need their aid to topple this

darkness.”

The speaker’s eyes narrowed. “Easier said than done,” he

insisted.

“I trust you have resources,” the woman said, rising from

the table. “Use them.”

She turned and walked toward the door.

“I can find my own way out,” she called over her shoulder.

“May Alinard bless your morning.”

Mabsant realized then that the pain in his hand originated

from the cup crushed in his palm. He must have squeezed it

while listening to the treasonous Atheala

“What’s done is done,” he muttered. “Brinna! More wine.”

Treason was dangerous work and he couldn’t do it with an

empty cup.

The jangle of keys alerted Perinia before she saw the

bwbach’s grinning face at the bars to her cell. The diminutive

man quickly unlocked the door and slid it open.

“You are free,” he said, “unless you have grown quite

accustomed to your accommodations.”

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The girl gave him a disgruntled look, but rose and escaped

the dark cell as quickly as she could manage. The light orb she

held in a tiny fist as if it were made of pure platinum.

“You can keep that bauble,” Toric said, “If it gives you

comfort.”

Comfort, indeed. Perinia was just happy to be out of the cell,

although following a strange bwbach through dark tunnels wasn’t

exactly high on her list of desires. Either was rotting in a dank

hole. The lesser of two evils, she decided and she struggled to

keep pace with the small man’s silent steps.

They rounded a corner where two heavily armored men

stood in silent conversation beside a glowing lantern. She hid the

glowing orb behind her back as Toric ducked behind the jutting

stone corner and placed a finger to his lips. Perinia nodded and

held her breath.

The small man whispered and instantly disappeared. Panic

seized the girl upon his vanishing, but hadn’t he done the same

thing before? She could just make out the slight rustling of cloth

on the stone floor and sensed that the bwbach was still beside

her.

“Stay here,” his voice whispered. “I will disable the guards.”

As if she was going anywhere. Perinia was content to sit in

the darkness for as long as she needed to avoid another stay in

the smelly cell. Her thoughts went to Cannivone. Had they

captured him she wondered.? What sort of torture had he been

subjected to?

The thoughts depressed her, so she shook her head to clear

it. She dared a peek around the corner in time to watch one of the

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men grimace and reach behind to grab a hamstring that was

suddenly gushing blood.

Toric suddenly appeared, dagger in his hand. The blade

rapidly entered the other guard’s throat. The only sounds were a

soft gurgle and a thud as the man fell to the ground amidst a

growing pool of blood. Toric wiped the blade clean on the man’s

trousers and smiled at Perinia.

“All clear,” he said, shoving the dagger back into his small

belt. “Coming?”

Perinia swallowed the knot that grew in her throat and

looked to where the guard writhed, hands pressed against the

hole in his leg. Reluctantly, she left the shelter of the corner and

followed the bwbach through the wooden door the men had been

guarding. She wasn’t sure if trusting the obviously crazed

bwbach was her wisest course of action, but she wasn’t left with

an array of choices. So, she followed, mumbling a silent prayer

to Alinard, hoping the bwbach would lead her to safety.

Ghia settled into the dark corner and waited. How long

would Ghambi be gone this time? The doll had a mind of its own

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sometimes. It was curious to Ghia that nobody else seemed to

notice that the doll seemed alive.

Glassy eyes greeted all who looked upon the doll, but Ghia

knew how it laughed and spoke in a shrill girlish voice. The way

it managed to successfully finish all the tasks Ghia was sent to

do. Like this night. She knew the doll would procure the jeweled

bracelet from the merchant Fionn. She always succeeded. And

Ghia got all the credit. It was a great partnership.

Why the doll wanted to keep their arrangement secret was

unknown to Ghia, but she obliged, taking the glory though it

wasn’t earned. Already she was rising in the ranks of the guild-a

feat only equaled by Pantania Pommel. And she had ended up so

much worm food. So, Ghia would keep her mouth shut and do

what the doll asked her to do, gladly.

“I hate waiting,” she muttered under her breath. “I want to

go back to the guild where it is warm.” The winter air was cold

and the thin cloak she wore did nothing to keep out the chill of

the wind. She reached into a pocket of her leather vest and pulled

out a small vial of a thick, gray liquid.

Popping the top, she swallowed its contents in one quick

drink. Warmth spread through her body almost instantly. She sat

back on her haunches and waited for the doll to return.

What seemed like hours, later, Ghambi returned, tiny

porcelain hands clutching a velvet bag tied closed with a silver

string. The corners of her painted lips pulled up in a smile as

Ghia took the bag from her and placed it on hung it from her belt.

“Early yet,” she said. “Still time for some tea.” The doll’s

smile widened.

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They entered Fialscathac to a hail of snowballs and trash

being thrown by a mob of citizens. Quickly, Manech’s armor,

bedecked in royal colors, was smeared in filth.

“Go back to Talantas, you bastards!” a voice cried from the

throng.

“Not a warm welcome,” Cipsis replied. Darius glared at

him. The boy cracked a smile. His resemblance to the priest was

uncanny. Both had long golden curls and piercing eyes. Anyone

first laying eyes upon them may mistake them for siblings.

Manech glanced to the left where the door to the Coin’s

Edge tavern was slightly ajar. Peering from the crack in the

doorway was a familiar green haired sirite that showed no desire

to make a move against the mob. He quickly slammed the door, a

closed sign swinging on a thin chain.

A small handful of city watch tried to control the mob, but it

was a futile gesture. They were outnumbered and poorly armed

with rusty weapons and armor. The trio continued to be pelted by

snow and ice.

They made their way down the muddy street toward the

towering spire of the Temple of Alinard. The double tined cross

towered over the rest of the ramshackle buildings surrounding it.

Two guards stood before the silver door, shivering beneath their

chainmail, their tabards smeared with mud. Both were black

skinned southerners.

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A chunk of ice ricocheted from Manech’s helm, causing him

to stumble. He nearly lost his footing on the treacherous ice that

covered the road, catching himself at the last moment by Darius’

shoulder. The young priest grinned and held him in strong hands

while he regained his balance.

At last, they arrived at the temple. The guard’s snapped to

attention, barring the entrance with double bladed axes. Darius

stepped forward, the holy light of Alinard beaming from a halo

around his head.

“What business have you with the temple?” the first guard

asked. He was a rail thin youth with dark hair and eyes.

“I have returned from my holy mission,” Darius replied.

“Since when does the temple bar entrance to anyone?”

“Since the king perished and the town has fallen into

madness,” was the reply.

“I am Darius,” the cleric stated. “Take me to Avegor.”

The guards merely shifted their hands on the pole arms,

standing straighter.

“The enhanced security is understandable,” Manech replied,

his hands out in supplication. “Send for whomever is in charge

and we will clear this right up.”

“You go, Rodni,” the first guard relied. “I will watch them.”

Rodni nodded and entered the silver door.

“When did this murder take place?” Darius asked.

“Nearly a full moon ago,” the guard replied. “An assassin

was sent to kill him in his very chamber. A sirite. Avegor has had

us on temporary lockdown since.”

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“Alinard preserve us,” gasped Darius, making the holy sign

with his right hand. “The world has truly gone mad.”

“Drop the weapon” a voice called from the doorway,

causing the guard to jump. The voice was deep and authoritative.

A brightly armored man stepped from the doorway, his body

wrapped in a mantle of furs.

“The lost brother returns at last,” the man said. He stepped

forward hand extended. “You may not remember me. My name

is Avegor. I was given the mantle of leadership after Amniar’s

death. Until we can find a suitable replacement.”

Darius clasped his wrist in greeting. The guard lowered his

axe.

“Forgive me, brother,” he said.

Darius clasped his shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive.

Duty and loyalty are commendable traits.”

“Come,” Avegor replied. “I have much to tell you and the

air is cold. The council chamber is warm and there is food.”

“We thank you,” Manech sighed. “The way was bitingly

cold and seemed to take forever. I feel the cold in my aged

bones.”

“And how does it feel to be home?” he asked Darius.

The cleric shrugged. “I have mixed emotions. It is good to

see the temple, but the news is dire and our reception was a bit

icy.”

His companions chuckled at the pun as they followed

Avegor into the temple.

116

The Golden Child

117

Chapter Six

A Remarkable Youth

Cannivone followed the rocky path, blindly. He ran with no

direction, no destination in his clouded mind. He travelled for

days. Where would he go? Not back to the Temple of Peace.

Surely his reputation was following him by now. There would be

no turning back. Best to keep moving.

“At last the deed is done,” the sword crooned.

Cannivone ignored the incessant yapping of the blade. he

could still feel the power the blade had given him coursing

through his veins, stronger with each kill. Blood was still warm

upon his hands. His mind was a dark cavern that he blindly

travelled through. Faint memories sprang up and were gone like

ghosts. Suddenly, he was torn back to reality by a piercing pain

in his thigh.

His vision cleared and he gasped. He had stumbled into a

tangle of briars that twisted their way up the side of the cliff.

Growing amongst the thorns, he saw roses of various hues. Red,

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pink, yellow. Even a white one. At the sight he fell to his knees,

tears falling from his eyes.

“Perinia,” he gasped. The memories threatened to break

him. The smile she gave him when he presented her with the

white rose from outside the classroom window. The feel of her

body pressed against him when she hugged him. The warmth that

spread through his chest when she was near.

He remembered the prince with a blade at her cheek. The

fury that engulfed him-clouded his vision. The feel of the

prince’s head bashing against the floor again and again. The

warmth of the blood spraying his hands. Fresh blood again

covered his hands and he scrubbed at them guiltily.

He had done it all for Perinia and what had he received? A

mouthy sword and bloodstains on his soul. It had to be a sign

from Alinard, he surmised. What was the deity trying to tell him?

“That blood is paid with blood,” the sword whispered.

Cannivone shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Then he had a

revelation. Blood is just blood. Good, evil, coward, or hero. All

bleed red. Including Cannivone. He wiped his bloody hands on

his breeks and smiled while he tried to pull himself free from the

briars that tore at his flesh.

“Stay still,” a voice said from behind him. “I will get you

free.”

The boy froze, his fist gripping the hilt of the silver sword.

“Yes. Use me.” Cannivone looked at the blade in disgust

and tossed it aside.

Strong hands grabbed him beneath the underarms and raised

him slightly. A dagger cut the thorny brambles entangling him

119

and pulled him free. He was placed on his back, staring into the

face of an odd looking woman.

Her skin was the color of coal with eyes that burned brightly

against the dark tone. Her skin was leathery and covered in what

appeared to be scales. A long bladed sword hung at her hip.

“I have been watching you,” she lied. “There is a darkness

within you that is intriguing. I saw you running from the village

and followed you here.”

“Why?” Cannivone groaned.

“As I said,” the strange woman answered. “I find you

intriguing.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“Whatever the darkness is inside you,” she replied. “I can

help.”

The boy nodded and gave in to his despair. “Kill me then,”

he said.

“Kill you?” the woman cried. “By Mez’s ears. I don’t want

to kill you. I want to help you.”

Cannivone opened his eyes, puzzled. “Help me?” He could

feel the sword cringe in the presence of the woman.

The woman nodded. “I have come to be your guide.”

“My guide? How could you know where I go? If you knew

what deeds I have done…” Cannivone muttered.

“I have come to help you make them right.” The woman

smiled. Very pretty, the boy thought, but no match for Perinia.

“My name is Luaithreach,” the woman said. “Where are

you headed?”

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“ I am Cannivone. If you insist on accompanying me, I

cannot stop you, but where I go there is danger. There is but one

option.”

The woman looked upon him with dark eyes. “What, pray

tell, would that be?”

“Penance. For all my sins.”

The sword bristled, but was uncharacteristically silent.

Atop his tower, Elioth cursed at the star filled sky. MacLugh

looked up from the musty tome he held in a firm grasp and

scowled. Ever since the failure at Castle Dubh, the Crystal

Wizard had been somber and prone to fits of cursing. In a gilded

cage, his monkey chittered and cracked open nuts, eating them

noisily.

The wealth of knowledge stored in the mage’s vast library

was impressive, so MacLugh tolerated the man’s fits to have a

chance at adding to his magical repertoire. He, too was

disappointed at the outcome of the battle, but one shouldn’t cry

over the past. There was always another day to try again.

The golems of crystal were busily gathering every book at the

wizard’s disposal. Elioth became increasingly agitated as he

perused the volumes to no avail.

“Give it a rest, Elioth.” MacLugh spoke forcefully. “We

should not worry over what has already transpired. Now is the

time to make new plans. She won the battle, but we can still win

the war.”

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The Crystal Wizard glared at his guest.

“Easy for you to say,” Elioth gasped. “You weren’t expected

to be one of the keys to victory. How could I have failed so

miserably?”

MacLugh shrugged his sizable shoulders and replied. “The

Gods are fickle at best.”

“The Gods?” Elioth spat. “That is who you are blaming for

our failure?”

“Who else?”

Elioth’s mouth gaped. Could the rotund mage really be so cut

off from reality?

“We were the players in the drama,” Elioth added. “No Gods

decided our fate.”

“In that I fear you are wrong,” MacLugh replied. “The Gods

are involved in our lives in everything we do. Or attempt to do.

We cannot shit without them deciding the very color.”

“Then why,” the Crystal Wizard wanted to know, “do they

not lend a hand?”

MacLugh sighed.

“One of the many mysteries of life, Elioth,” he said. “One of

many.” He peered back down at the spell he was trying to

memorize: Shards.

Elioth grunted. Nonsense; that was all the fat mage spewed.

Why did he even allow him access to his library?

“I have never seen a God,” Elioth hissed. “I trust only in the

power of my magic.”

“And we see how far that got us,” mumbled MacLugh. Elioth

seethed and began another curse filled tirade toward the sky.

122

“I will not sit back and lick my wounds like a wounded

animal,” Elioth growled again.

“Then I suggest we come up with another plan,” MacLugh

sighed, placing the book down, a strip of tanned leather marking

his place.

“That’s the smartest thing you have said in some time,” the

Crystal Wizard said with a grin.

He saw the arrow before he heard the rush of air. Ioras ducked

beneath the feathered shaft, barely avoiding taking it in the eye.

He whispered a prayer to his father and dropped face first in the

mud.

Across the plain, the forces of Colm Sadach had begun to

surge forward leaving a trail of twisted corpses to feed the crows.

The Golden Child gripped the hilt of Analil, his winged sword in

a firm grasp and rose before the throng of faceless creatures that

approached, swinging razor tipped chains and rusted axes.

It appalled Ioras to see the sheer number of bodies covering

the grasslands. Hundreds had fallen and the Sinforce continued to

advance, pushing the King’s men further back toward the border.

That is the trouble with fighting the undead, Ioras thought.

They never really die. What has been twice slain can rise a third

or fourth time, a never ending source or morale sapping

reinforcements.

123

“Hold the line,” Ioras shouted as he twisted his body to avoid

a hastily thrown axe. Beside him, Noinion grimaced, her tattooed

face showing displeasure.

“We cannot hold against the sheer number,” she growled, her

words heavily accented, but intelligible.

“We cannot give ground,” The Golden Child yelled. “In the

name of my father, Alinard, I will not allow it.”

“Pray he aids us then,” Noinion Bui added. She raised her

bastard sword in defiance and let out a shrill scream. The sound

curdled the blood in Ioras’ veins. It was good to have the savage

woman on his side, he decided.

Two ogres broke free from the packed bodies and rushed

forward. Between them, they carried a length of burning chain.

Ioras stood to face the onslaught, confident of their chances with

Noinion at his side.

The ogres swung the chain in a great arc, raining fire down

upon the heads of the few King’s men who stood in their way.

Those who didn’t burn were pulled to the ground by the sheer

strength of the filthy creatures. One unfortunate soldier ducked

beneath the chain a split second too late and his head spiraled

from his shoulders to land a few yards away, spinning in the

muck.

Ioras stepped forward, sword cutting a flaming yellow trail in

the air. Down came the burning chain, spreading glowing

embers across his vision.

The chain met his upraised sword with a shower of sparks.

The links split apart as if made of cloth, spraying fire to each

side. The ogres grunted in surprise. Noinion’s blade pierced the

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thigh of one of the huge creatures. Head back, it howled its pain

to the sky.

The beast swung a powerful fist, but the painted woman

ducked beneath it and rolled. Meanwhile, Ioras slashed his

glowing blade across the belly of the other ogre leaving a garish

wound that sprayed a dark, foul smelling blood.

Noinion came to her feet, sandals scrambling for purchase on

the gore soaked ground. She barely avoided another wildly

swinging fist the size of her head. A quick backhanded swipe of

the sword severed the ogre’s hand at the wrist. The beast

recoiled, screaming in rage and pulled the limb to its chest as it

spewed gore.

The Golden Child, head surrounded by a warm nimbus of

light, stepped forward, blade held out before him. The ogre fell

back before the razor sharp wall of spinning steel. Ioras stole a

glance past the two lumbering foes and spied a small group of

large, muscular man-like beings with heads like bulls, their

bodies covered in dark gray fur. The tarbhac carried large

weapons that glinted in the waning sunlight and dripped with

freshly spilled blood.

“Aid me, father,” he growled as a swipe of his sword slashed

the ogre’s chest into a gaping gore filled wound.

“Fall back,” Noinion suggested from the side, but he was in a

rage of war madness. He shook his head and screamed at the sky.

The painted woman fell back, giving the golden armored man

a wide berth. She had witnessed the battle rage overcome Ioras

before and knew what was coming.

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“We are sorely outnumbered,” she added as she retreated

toward where the bulk of the army formed a defensive wall,

limbs and bodies piling before them.

“We will not lose the day,” Ioras cried out and he convulsed,

his face a grimace of agony. His limbs began to stretch and

distort, his armor sloughing off like a snake shedding skin. The

tarbhac halted their rush at the sight of the man’s transformation.

Ioras’ jaw began to stretch into a great snout, membranous

wings sprouted from his back. With a great tearing sound, his

body elongated to ten times his height, great scales of gold

tearing from his flesh and covering him like armor. Talons,

spines, and horns grew from his hands, head, and feet.

He opened a fang filled maw and roared, his transformation

complete. The tarbhac witnessed the great gold dragon and ran in

fear.

They smelled the fire before they saw the rising smoke. Neftet

gave Kimber a look. The dual headed giant carrying the

diminutive G’narish halted, sniffing the air.

“The fire is just ahead,” the goblin masked bwbach sighed.

“No wonder the sirite hate your kind.”

“What do you mean?” Gioffri asked, a puzzled look upon his

face.

“You bring destruction in your wake like a natural disaster.

By Lugh’s chariot, I swear it is true.”

Kimber scowled.

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“I am human,” she replied, “and I do not burn down forests.”

“Commendable,” G’narish said. “But to every rule there is an

exception. Bwbach are not known for their looks either, but you

can clearly see that I am an exception to that rule.” The small

man smiled.

Kimber snorted. The small man was annoying.

“Why have we stopped?” Neftet asked. “We should be

finding out what has caused the fire.”

“Does fire not scare you, then?” the bwbach asked. There

were several heads shaking seemingly at once.

“No like fire,” Nuzzgo Gnarlface interjected. The bwbach,

from his companion’s humped shoulder, smacked a tiny head

against the brute’s ear.

“Hush,” he said. “I can’t hear myself think.”

Gioffri laughed aloud drawing stares from the other two.

“Do you not find it amusing that the largest brute is beset by

fear of the most natural thing, yet he would probably be the first

to rush into a wall of swinging steel?”

“Intelligence has never been his strongest suit,” G’narish

added. “He is, however fiercely loyal and strong.”

“Undoubtedly,” Neftet mumbled. “With a skull as thick as his

arms.”

“Of course,” the bwbach said from behind his mask. “How

else would I keep from falling from my perch?”

Gioffri couldn’t hide the twinkle in his red eyes. He crossed

his arms and chuckled to himself.

“Had I known you were out having so much fun, “ he told

Neftet, “I would have found you long ago.”

127

Neftet gave him a threatening look which just caused the

albino to laugh all the harder.

“He is easily amused,” Kimber remarked. Bailey barked and

lolled her tongue out, dripping saliva onto the frozen earth.

“Come,” G’narish said. “Maybe we can warm our bones

beside the fire.”

This brought another burst of harsh laughter from Gioffri.

“We have failed the church,” Avegor told Darius. His hands

were clasped around a thick, dust covered tome etched with the

double-tined cross of Alinard.

“We have blindly followed our beliefs,” he added, “at the

whims of a church that is becoming more corrupt by the day.”

“Brother,” Darius said placing a reassuring hand upon his

shoulder. “Alinard has not turned from us.”

“Aye,” the paladin agreed, “but have we turned from

Alinard?”

“What brought on such thoughts? Have you lost faith?” the

cleric asked. Avegor sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“I was visited by a dark sirite,” the paladin sighed. “He told

me a tale that was most unbelievable.”

“So why the worry?”

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“The tale rang with a truth that I could not deny,” Avegor

continued. “If the story is not false, then the church of Alinard is

to blame for the whole mess. The sword, the killings. All of it.

He implicated the Bishop himself. Could we have been the ones

who released this evil into the world?”

“Nonsense,” Darius argued. “There are some problems with

the church, sure, but…”

Avegor interrupted him with a loud sob. He rubbed his

temples with gloved fingers.

“I cannot live with the betrayal,” the paladin added. “I

dedicated my life to the righting of wrongs. I must do what I can

to set things right or prove the tale false.”

“Your hand was not the one that made this mess, Avegor,”

Darius added, plainly.

“I am the hand of Alinard,” the paladin argued. “The church’s

actions are like my own.”

“We seek to recover the foul blade and take it to the Golden

Child,” Cipsis interrupted from the back of the room.

All eyes turned to stare at the usually silent, golden haired

boy.

“Is this true?” Avegor asked and when Darius nodded he

beamed, a smile splitting his face.

“That’s it,” the paladin said. “I will find the Golden Child and

aid in his battle. You find the boy and his damned blade. Alinard

will guide us on the pathway of our penance.”

“I don’t think that is necessary,” Darius said with a sigh.

“What could be more necessary?” Avegor asked. “Our faith

must be restored at any cost.”

129

“We don’t know where the boy is,” Darius reluctantly

admitted. “Domhan is a very large place.”

“Best get started,” the paladin added. “I leave you in charge

of the temple in my absence.” He handed him the ring of

platinum marked with the double-tined cross.

Before the cleric could reply, the paladin swished his cape

and walked out the door, leaving Darius to stare at the symbol of

High Priesthood that shone in his hand.

The attack started at dusk. Belton was quickly overrun by

rotting corpses that walked and animated skeletons brandishing

various rusted weapons. They were led by strange single-limbed

creatures that killed indiscriminately. Roused from his bed again,

Fennel stood dressed in his bedclothes over which he strapped a

thin breastplate that barely covered his bulging belly.

He was in a foul mood. First the fool Yor had drunk the last

of the wine. Then the call of alarm came echoing through the

town warning of the undead attack. It had been years since he

had donned his armor and it barely fit anymore.

Valen stood smugly in the distance, his eyes saying “I told

you so.” In shaky, liver spotted hands, the wizard held a thin

wand, adorned with garnet buttons. Fennel grumbled as the

zombies approached.

Beside the mayor stood his twin daughters Harmoni and

Meladi, dressed in matching tunics emblazoned with the harp of

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Oghma. Harmoni had flowing blonde hair and large eyes of blue.

On her back she carried a harp. A small dagger sprouted from her

closed fist.

Meladi was dark of hair like her mother with amber eyes that

flitted about, nervously. She held a short yew bow and a fiddle

hung from her belt. Both were training to be bards; the first of

their race to do so. Fennel was secretly proud, but knew that a

life of music was mere folly. There were more important

occupations like farmer, baker, and brewer. Or mayor.

He sighed as the shambling creatures drew closer. He gripped

his thin sword and swallowed, hard. Knuckles white with fear, he

awaited the onslaught.

The stench was enough to gag him and he coughed into his

hand. The attacking forces carried the smell of death like a dark

cloud. Valen pointed his wand and pressed one of the garnet

buttons. A great gout of flame rushed from its glowing tip

striking the lead zombies and engulfing them in fire. The air

filled with the smell of roasting flesh and Fennel felt his chest

convulsing. He spat the bile onto the frozen ground and coughed

again.

“What in the name of Marbhan’s dark abode?” Meladi cursed

from nearby. Fennel barely registered the voice so caught up was

he in keeping down his dinner.

Amidst the pack of undead, a dark figure appeared, towering

over the rest. Clad all in black, bald head steaming in the frigid

air, the figure pointed a thin finger and shouted out orders, the

words getting lost in the din. A long scythe rested on the

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creature’s shoulder. It appeared to Fennel that Marbhan himself

had made a personal appearance in the battle.

He shook his head to clear it. The man was too human. Taller

than most and pale, but very much brimming with humanity.

Even in the dark eyes that glowered from beneath thick brows.

“I am your death,” the towering man cried, “made flesh. Soon

we will build weapons out of your bones. Crops will grow in the

pools of your blood. Resistance is futile. Surrender to Marbhan’s

embrace.”

Fennel had no intention of doing so and he shook his fists in

defiance. Another gout of flame immolated a pack of zombies

before they could get close to the perimeter of the town.

A thin, reedy man collapsed to the floor.

“I don’t want to die,” the man shrieked.

“Quiet, you fool,” Fennel growled, “or I will kill you myself.”

“It was the foul one,” Yor Granitespire cried. “He brought this

curse upon us.”

“Nonsense.” The bwbach sneered at the ridiculousness of the

idea. “Hide behind the lines with the women you coward.”

“Few have called me that and lived,” the abhac snarled. “I

have crushed the bones of bigger men than you with my bare

hands.”

“Banba save me from cowards and fools,” the mayor

muttered.

Yor growled deep in his throat and reached for his hammer,

but there was no time to start a debate.

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Soon the host of undead was upon them. Many citizens fell

beneath slashing blades. Blood turned the snow pink and slick. A

horde of skeletal figures ambled forward, bones clacking.

Among the townspeople, a strange tattooed woman could be

seen wielding a huge sword with uncanny skill. Where she

walked, the undead seemed to shrink from her presence. Two

large jungle cats flanked her, growling and baring dagger-like

teeth.

Valen gave a shout as a crossbow sent a quarrel whizzing past

his ear, disrupting his aim. The wand’s flame etched a furrow in

the earth at his feet, the snow turning to steam in a scalding

spray. He screamed as the flesh of his hands burned. The wand

fell from his grasp into a deep drift. Valen followed when the

second quarrel took him in the eye.

“Shit,” Fennel cursed. “Our mage has fallen. Aim at taking

out the tall bastard.”

Meladi put an arrow to string and drew it back to her rosy

cheek. She let it fly with a twang and watched the feathered shaft

strike the towering figure in the shoulder. He roared in pain and

defiance and sent a group of armored zombies in her direction.

Her sister leapt forward to block their passage, sword slicing

the air. As if on cue, their voices joined together in a beautiful

refrain, inciting the townsfolk to fight like one’s possessed.

“Give ground,” Grillius shouted from somewhere across the

way. “We cannot hold.”

It sounded like a sound strategy to Fennel. He had no desire

to die. His life was enjoyable and he was rather fond of living it.

With a last sigh, he gave the order.

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“To the granary. We will make our stand there.”

The path wound its way north through towering mountains

topped with crowns of powdery white. Luaithreach marveled at

the sheer size of the peaks as she followed the solemn lad

Cannivone. He seemed to know the way as if he had travelled the

path before.

Her father had told her very little about the lad, but she could

sense he hid deep feelings within his breast. Turmoil boiled in his

cloudy eyes and often she heard him muttering to himself. He

was very young, she noted, but carried himself like a veteran of

many wars; no fear, no hesitation. She could feel no threat from

the lad, even taking to walking beside the boy as the miles fell

beneath their feet.

Seldom had she seen such bravery. It was even more

remarkable to find it in one so young. Her father had given her

insight to let her sense the two emotions burning through the lad

as if he battled with himself over right and wrong. Something

about him caused the back of her neck to tingle, but he was a

pleasant enough lad. Some girls would even think him cute, if

they were into that sort of thing.

Such things held no appeal to Luaithreach. She was born of

dragons, well beyond the minute lifespan of a mortal. Her father

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expected her to watch the boy and not let the sword out of her

sight. That is just what she intended to do.

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Chapter Seven

Death Stinks

Ghia was full. She tossed the greasy bones of the pheasant

back onto the stone plate and leaned back. Next to her sat the

doll, Ghambi, the creepy painted smile giving Sigov a chill.

“Well done, as always,” the guild master said between bites.

The small girl smiled. Her life had been devoid of praise. It

was a new concept to her. At the orphanage where she had been

found, she was constantly being told how worthless she was.

Here, with the gentle man across the table, she had found a place

to belong, It mattered little that she was getting glory for the

actions of a doll.

It was a secret she didn’t need to share. The doll didn’t care

for taking the credit. She still remembered when Lomaldor gave

it to her with a wink. From a secret benefactor, he had confided,

because every girl should have a doll. Now, the strange doll of

porcelain had become her closest friend.

“I think it is time to use your talents for greater things,” Sigov

continued, breaking her from her daydreams.

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“Yes, guild master.” The shy girl looked down at her plate

full of bones.

“I couldn’t be more pleased with the progress you are

making.” Sigov leaned back in his overstuffed chair and smiled,

his gaze piercing.

He continued. “There is a task perfectly suited for someone

with your talents,” he said. “With it you will bring the guild

much needed renown.” He leaned forward. “Interested?”

“Of course,” Ghia said with a shrug. “The guild has become

my home.”

“Then listen well, Ghia of the Fialscathac guild and I will give

you the details of an opportunity that can advance our guild back

to supreme status. Do you know of the Temple of Alinard?”

She nodded as the plan was unfurled. It seemed her days of

being a pawn were not quite at an end.

As Ghia leaned in to listen, Ghambi took it all in.

The streets were strangely crowded at such a late hour, but

Toric never slowed his pace. Perinia stumbled behind in her

soiled and tattered gown appearing much like one of the many

street urchins that had been so uncommon before Uilleam’s death

and now filled the streets and alleys like rats.

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Even covered in filth, Toric saw that the girl was a real beauty

as far as humans were concerned. He found her tiny rounded ears

a bit unattractive, as well as her dainty feet completely void of

hair, but her face was that of an Ashari. Banba herself would be

envious of the girl.

He rounded what felt like the hundredth corner and stopped at

a dilapidated stable. One of the many buildings destroyed in the

assault. The scent of smoke and manure still clung to the air in a

dense fog. Perinia’s strength was fading and her breath came in

ragged gasps.

“You can rest here,” the bwbach said. “I will return shortly

with something to eat.”

“I can’t stay her,” Perinia cried. “Not alone. Let me come

with you.”

“Out of the question, I’m afraid,” the small man stated,

shaking his round head. “Where I go is not for your eyes.”

“I will be helpless here,” the girl sobbed and reached for his

hand.

“Nothing will happen to you here,” the bwbach promised.

“This was once a safe house.”

“House?” the girl crinkled her nose. “Who would hide here

amongst the smell?”

Toric smiled and added, “Who would think to search here?”

He looked around at the burned out husk of the building.

“Especially now.”

“I don’t want to be alone.” Perinia started to cry. She couldn’t

help it. The tears just forced their way out from her eyes before

she could do anything to stop them.

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“You were alone in the cell before I came along,” Toric said.

“And hated every minute of it,” Perinia spat. “Cold, alone,

and surrounded by darkness. You can’t leave me.”

“Stop the tears, girl. I won’t be gone but a moment. I promise.

You have the orb for light and I will leave you a cloak for

warmth. As for company, I will return shortly to grace you with

my impeccable company.” The bwbach smiled again, then added,

“And fill your belly.”

He tossed a rolled up cloak of thickly woven wool, dark gray

in color with purple stitching in the design of an eye.

“Got this from one of the guards,” he said with a wink and

before the girl could reply, the bwbach was gone.

Perinia sat on the scorched earth, pulled the cloak tightly

around her, and cried.

Five figures milled about throwing buckets of snow onto the

circle of burning trees. Kimber recognized the two mercenaries

as well as the half-ogre who called himself Lughdo and the Leaf

Lord Sithic. The sirite in the filthy attire, she did not know.

“There is the origin of the fire.” G’narish pointed a tiny finger

at the scene. The ettin made a gurgling sound and Kimber

realized it was laughing.

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“I find little humor in the displacement of forest creatures,”

the woman snapped.

“Lighten up,” Gioffri said in his most condescending tone.

“Lightning causes fires all the time.”

“That is sent from Mannanan,” the ranger growled. “This is

no natural fire. I smell the taint of magic.”

Gioffri giggled again and Kimber could feel her irritation in

the man growing.

“What in Banba’s name is so damned funny?”

“I am giddy with the thought of blood.” he giggled. Kimber’s

face reddened like a ripe apple.

“You are a child,” she hissed. “If I didn’t owe you my life….”

“No need to thank me,” the albino interrupted, “I couldn’t

watch Neftet’s lady love die.”

Neftet growled in warning. Gioffri shrugged and rolled his

eyes.

“You can be in denial all you want,” he added, “but I am not

blind. Any fool can see in your eyes where your heart lies.”

“How romantic,” G’narish said with a roll of his eyes. “Can

our heartfelt confessions wait a few more moments?”

Kimber set her lips in a tight line, drew her red sword and

walked toward the fire.

“I wish Kisabuk was here,” she mumbled. The hawk that had

been following her suddenly screeched, drawing her gaze.

“Strange,” she thought, “the bird has markings very similar

to Kisabuk’s feathers he wore. I really do miss him. I see him in

everything, now.”

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The bird screeched, drawing the attention of the fire fighters.

Instant recognition dawned on the face of the half-ogre and he

rushed forward.

“Pretty lady,” he cooed, lifting Kimber in a bone crushing

embrace.

“I can’t breathe,” she sighed. “Put me down.” Bailey growled

deep in her throat.

“Sorry,” Lughdo said, sheepishly. “Lughdo happy.”

Kimber stretched, her spine popping back into place.

“I missed you, too,” she admitted bringing a lopsided grin full

of tusks to the gentle half-ogre’s face. Then he spied the ettin and

a snarl came to his face.

“Behind Lughdo,” he said stepping forward, “ I protect in

name of Alinard.”

Kimber stood in shock. What had the creature said? Alinard?

It was unheard of. Dark creatures worshipped their gods of blood

and destruction, not a god of love and creation like Alinard.

“Stop,” she said. “They guided us to you. Do them no harm.”

Lughdo looked confused, His pig eyes flitted back and forth

as his mind tried to register what he had heard.

“And look who is joinin’ us, now,” said a recognizable voice.

Kimber turned to find Tavish standing hands on his hips still

dressed in faded and threadbare tunic and breeks. Soot covered

half of his face.

“Kimber,” the voice of Hennesi echoed through the forest.

With a smile, Kimber turned to the rest of her party.

“We found friends,” she said.

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“What in the name of the gods…?” Hennesi began, but

Kimber stopped her short.

“Let’s put the fire out, Hennesi,” the ranger said, “then we can

catch up.”

“A foin idea,” added Tavish, “I wish I had the drink now just

so I could say…”

“I’ll drink to that,” the two women finished for him and they

all laughed.

Ioras was abed. Hovering over him was Naomh Iobairt, his

beautiful cleric, clad in blue and white raiment and dabbing the

perspiration from the lad’s forehead. Her blonde hair was braided

into loops behind her head.

“You exert yourself, needlessly,” the cleric said. Ioras merely

groaned. He tried to rise, but was too weak.

“What happened?” the Golden Child asked.

Naomh smiled. “You sent the bastards running.”

“They will return,” Ioras added. “I must be ready.”

Naomh pushed him down with a forceful hand.

“Not in your weakened condition,” she sighed. “Trust in the

allies of Alinard for a change. You are not alone in this fight.”

“Sometimes it feels like it,” the lad groaned. He surrendered

to the priest’s ministrations and in no time he was asleep.

Naomh exhaled the long held breath. She hated lying to the

lad, but it would do no good to crush his confidence with him in

such a weakened state. Why did he have to know that after his

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transformation, when he collapsed in a heap of exhaustion that

his army had been over run and routed. In retreat, they were

being pushed back to the borders of the kingdoms.

The priests were busy patching wounds and staunching the

flow of innocent blood. Diseased sores, afflicted with every

touch from the mhallacht, were being purified with Alinard’s

love. Too many had fallen in the battle, never to rise again.

Alinard had many brave new members of his army. Naomh

wiped away the tear that fell down her cheek.

For ten years they had fought this war, ever pushing the

Sinforce back, until today. What had changed? Where did this

sudden power come from that Colm Sadach (may the gods curse

him) wielded to such great effect? There were no answers in the

divining stones, the fires. No hints in the blood of pigs. No voices

spoke in their heads. Alinard was eerily silent.

Naomh shuddered at the thought. She would not allow the

forces of Alinard to fail. With a new found resolve, she stood

from where she kneeled, strapped on her metal cuirass,

emblazoned with Alinard’s cross, hefted the heavy mace, and left

the tent and the fever ridden Golden Child behind.

The journey north was a tedious lesson in the brutality of

winter. Luaithreach could not feel her toes, but she kept the

complaint to herself. It seemed no matter how many furs she

wrapped herself in, the cold found a piece of flesh and gnawed at

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it like a hungry demon. Her feet roared in impotent discomfort

every time they touched the snow.

She would not abandon the boy, now, though, even if it meant

freezing to death on a desolate mountain trail in the middle of a

Gods forsaken stretch of rocky landscape nothing would grow on

apart from the occasional fir tree or bramble.

She cursed her luck, her father, and Cannivone. At times she

even cursed herself for agreeing to this. A life of serving her

father and she gets rewarded with a quest that will leave her a

frozen signpost of warning to other travelers of the perils of the

winter weather. So be it. She tightened her lips together and

resolutely continued the march.

The boy, Cannivone seemed remarkably unaffected by the

weather, walking down the trail at an easy gait, his endurance

seemingly endless. An inner fire burned within him, she decided,

that kept him warm; kept his feet moving regardless of the

obstacle. Her admiration for the boy grew, daily.

So, too did her concern for the power of the sword. It

emanated a darkness like a putrid cloud that prickled her scaly

flesh and put a buzzing inside her head as if wasps had been let

loose inside.

If they did not find shelter soon, she knew, they could very

well die. The boy seemed not to notice or care, headstrong was

he in his path of righteousness. He mumbled something to

himself and seemed to be arguing about which direction to go.

Luaithreach sensed the darkness in the boy boiling to the surface

and she whispered a quick prayer to Mesz and fingered the hilt

of her sword.

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“Not now,” she heard Cannivone say. “We will discuss this

later.”

Great, she thought. The lad is going insane. Good thing I have

my secret. She kept a wary eye upon the boy as they made their

way down the narrow mountain path and around a bend in the

great peaks.

The beauty of the scenery hit her like a fist. Spread out below

them in all its glory was a vast valley covered in a blanket of

white. The frozen ribbon of the Aibhainn Folaidh could be seen

in the distance, as well as a few faint lights, flickering in the

windows of small wooden buildings behind towering walls.

So there in the distance was the famed city of Talantas, she

pondered. Cannivone turned to her, his face red from the bite of

the wind. He swept his hand across the view.

“There is our destination,” he said. “Talantas. Another four

days journey and you will be safe in the Temple of Alinard. I will

seek to finish what I started, weeks ago.”

“And fulfill my destiny,” the voice purred.

“Is not your religion a compassionate and forgiving one?”

Luaithreach sneered.

“Yes,” the boy said, “but I have done some unforgivable

things.”

He left the rest unspoken and began the journey northwest

toward the faintly glowing beacons.

“Two more days of this cold,” Luaithreach thought with a

shrug, “will hardly kill me.”

145

As secure as the door to the granary seemed, the constant

pounding from the many arms of the undead were taking their

toll. Already cracks had appeared and iron nails were being

pushed back to fall at the feet of the three burly men who leaned

against it, trying with all their strength to keep it closed. One of

the men cried out in despair. Behind them, the tattooed woman

stood, greatsword in hand.

Fennel looked over at the man with irritation.

“Seriously?” he snarled. “You hide amongst children and you

are the one who is crying.”

“There are too many,” the man wailed.

Get over it,” the bwbach snarled. “We need as many hands as

we can get when they break through this door. Man up.”

“I will fight,” the boy said.

Fennel placed a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders.

“Brave little man,” he said. “I know you will, but if it comes

down to that then it will be too late.”

“I will assist,” the bald woman said, her gaze resolute.

“Who are you stranger?” fennel asked. “Did you bring these

foul creatures in your wake?”

“Hardly,” she replied. “I am Morrigan of the Ratu. My only

purpose is to rid the world of such vermin.”

“You obviously surround yourself with strange beasts,”

grunted Meladi, indicating the two cats.

“Companions,” the Ratu said with a smile, “Met on the road

and free to go when they choose. They belong to no one.”

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“Well, Morrigan,” the bwbach bard nodded, “your help is

appreciated, then.”

From outside the pounding increased in intensity. The

booming voice of the thin, tall man in black came to them

through the walls.

“Tear it down and we will all feast on the blood and bones of

the townsfolk.”

“Who is that man?” Meladi asked. Fennel could only shrug.

“He claims to be our death,” Harmoni added. “What does that

mean, exactly?”

“A name meant to frighten, I’m sure,” Morrigan said.

“Does his army not frighten enough?” Grillius asked from

where he helped hold the door.

“I fear not,” Meladi boasted. “It is a foolish boast that

frightens only children.”

“Look around,” Harmoni said. “Children are what we have

most of.”

“We may have to sneak the children out and take them to

safety,” Fennel said to his daughters. “Are you up to it?”

They both nodded.

“We will keep the undead distracted while you lead the

children away,” the Ratu sighed. “Do it quickly.”

The door began to splinter bringing loud curses from the men

at the door. The crying man recoiled as a grime encrusted nail

scratched the flesh of his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. He

screamed and clutched at the wound which instantly began to

fester.

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Morrigan leapt at the door, sword swinging. Her cats hissed,

ears flattened to their skulls.

Yor Granitespire went into action, his hammer a blur. In quick

succession he shattered many skeletal limbs and Fennel watched

in subdued awe as the skull of zombie shattered like a frostapple

Morrigan leapt forward, sword pulsing with power. The runes

glowed silver in the light.

“Foul creatures,” the Ratu hissed.

“This is my town,” Fennel cried. “You cannot have it.” He

swung his small blade at an arm that tore its way through,

severing it. It fell at their feet, writhing. Harmoni stomped it with

her foot, feeling it squish between her toes as it exploded into

green ichor. She scrunched up her nose.

“Take the children and go,” Fennel yelled. Yor and Morrigan

both nodded.

“One thing is sure,” Meladi said, trying not to choke, “death

stinks.”

148

Chapter Eight

Evil Is Ugly

Heathrose tossed the bracers into the air for the seventh time,

watching the torchlight sparkle in the gems that adorned their

iron surfaces. He couldn’t hide the grin that spread his cheeks

wide. Long had he wanted the means to travel through shadows

and, now, that power was his.

Trapped in the gems was a rare and strong magic that could

bend darkness to his will. They were also reputed to be imbued

with fire magic, handy in a bwbach’s defense. He would indeed

use the bracers wisely

Many adventures he had left his mark upon in service to the

Dragon Lord. He had been rewarded, handsomely. Thoughts

went to the small villa he had procured I from a weary vintner in

eastern Bwbachod and he grinned. Retirement beckoned. A turn

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of the stone upon his ring left only dust settling where he once

stood.

Luaithreach was unleashed on the mortal world. His time with

them was finished.

“Treasonous swine,” the king swore, throwing his mug

against the wall where it exploded in a splash of ale. “I send them

for her head and they aid her? Two more heads will soon fill the

executioner’s basket.”

Liana flinched visibly from where she knelt on the stone

floor. The newly healed scars on her back visible to all through

the huge rent in her armor. The wound pained her terribly still

though she did her best not to show it. The flesh healed nicely,

but the wound went deep. She would hurt for the rest of her life.

Gearalt couldn’t help but stare at the way the pale scars stood out

starkly against her charcoal colored skin.

Death might suit her better than the disfigurement, he thought,

eyes flashing yellow, briefly.

“Someone had better tell me some good news,” Gearalt cried,

“or there will be some blood spilled by nightfall.”

Mabsant stepped forward, reluctantly and cleared his throat.

Gearalt peered down his nose at the advisor.

“Yes, fat man,” he jeered. Mabsant could just catch the faint

yellow glow from behind the lad’s eyes.

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“Apologies, my lord,” Mabsant stammered, “but our spies tell

us that the boy has been seen in Belton.”

“Seen?” the king turned pale. “I want to hear of his capture.

Not of a sighting by some sheep shagging farmhand.”

“Yes, majesty,” Mabsant grumbled, wringing his hands in

nervousness. “At least we know he is still in the vicinity.”

“It has only been a few weeks, Mabsant,” the king snarled.

“How far did you think the boy was going to get?”

The obese advisor shrugged his massive frame, rolls of fat

undulating like jelly beneath his vast robes.

“It is my duty to inform,” he said. “I cannot help the contents

of the news.”

“Out of my sight,” Gearalt yelled at the man, “and don’t

return until you have the boy in chains.”

Mabsant nodded and returned to his place in line. He hoped

his spy would return soon from the journey he and Atheala had

sent him on. A truce with the Rowan bard for the good of the

kingdom. He knew that if Gearalt heard any word of their secret

he would lose his head like a holiday goose. He shuddered at the

thought.

The thought of geese made his stomach grumble and he left

the throne room for the kitchens. He knew the way. He could

follow his nose to any food source. It was said he could track

better than a hound.

He could just hear the king’s voice rambling on in a tirade

about how worthless his father’s court was and that changes

might need to be made, then, mercifully, he could hear no more.

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He rounded a corner to find the lithe form of Atheala waiting

outside the pantry.

“I knew I would find you here,” she said.

Mabsant looked around nervously. “We cannot be seen

speaking,” he said.

The second seat of the council pierced him with a sharp

glare. “I have news,” she said. “It cannot wait.”

“Onvalay has sent news?” the obese man asked and was

answered with a small nod.

“We will speak of this later,” the woman replied, offering up

her warmest smile. Mabsant felt a stirring in his loins. Damn, but

the woman was beautiful even at her advancing age. She must

have been a real stunner in her youth, he thought.

“Where?” he nearly croaked.

“Your place, of course.” The woman smiled again and added,

“Have wine.”

Mabsant knew they were playing with fire, their lives forfeit

if Gearalt uncovered their plot, but he reluctantly agreed and

Atheala disappeared around one of the castle’s many corridors.

“Gods give me strength,” he muttered. “I may need double

rations.” He entered the kitchens, stomach rumbling, though out

of hunger or nervousness he could not say.

A quick spell from Sithic had drenched the flaming trees and

extinguished the fire. Brawth dragged the body of their

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companion, Dien into the clearing and started digging a deep

hole. The ground was frozen and made the task near impossible.

Bolan cursed and sweated with exertion. His companion merely

grinned, stoically.

“Let’s just pile stones upon him,” Bolan grumbled. “This is

going to take all day.”

“Do we not have all day?” Brawth replied, “Or do you have

pressing matters elsewhere?”

The Leaf Lord looked around at the damage and scowled.

“Damn you men and your fire,” he growled.

Bolan scowled and Brawth gave the heavily muscled sirite a

dark look.

“It was magic,” the slayer said. “Not natural fire. I never liked

the smell of the stuff. Puts a tingle to my teeth” he sighed, “but

Dien was a good enough sort and deserved a better death.”

Sithic towered over the barbaric Brawth and pointed a finger

at the man.

“Humans,” he sneered. “You think the world is yours to do

with what you will. You kill the forests- each other, rape the land

and rivers of their bounty. Distort the magic to your own means.

Do not speak to me of what a proper death should be. I defend

my forests as you would your home.”

“Peace,” Brawth said, “I meant no offence. Just thinking out

loud. A trait that has caused me trouble in the past as well.”

Sithic seemed to relax. He turned to the ranger where she sat

with the others, sharing a small rabbit. Bailey crunched bones at

her feet.

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“The fire is no longer a danger,” Sithic said. “I leave the

forest in your capable hands.” She nodded, her mouth full of

greasy meat.

The Leaf Lord’s image wavered, briefly and he was gone.

There were only faint traces of footprints to mark where he had

stood.

“Hail,” a voice called from the perimeter of the camp. All

hands went to blades and Lughdo gave a small growl. Entering

the camp was an abhac, his beard of russet brown dragging

through the snow between his feet. He wore a shirt of chainmail

and a huge smile. A large hammer hung from his waist.

“I wish no harm upon you,” he stated. “I seek the bard

Q’ilaqiqi.”

The Rowan bard stood and stepped forward.

“I am Q’ilaqiqi,” she said. The abhac bowed low and swept

his thick arm across the snow.

“I come from the An Corran with a proposition,” he said.

“Step forward, slowly,” Kimber said, her red sword aimed at

the abhac’s burly chest, “or I let the ettin eat you.”

Nuzzgo’s faces lit up with the prospect. “Yum,” the beast

said. G’narish silenced him with a stick against one temple.

“My name is Onvalay,” the abhac stated as he strode forward,

hands raised. “I have been sent by Mabsant of The Crescent,

advisor to the king and friend to the heroes of the realm.”

“I remember the man,” Kimber replied with a nod, “though

not fondly. As I recall he was a cowardly man who lifted not a

finger to protect his king.”

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“There may be truth in what you say,” Onvalay said. “I come

merely as messenger. Gold has paid for my services, not loyalty.

I tracked the bard from Talantas. I never thought to find her with

so many friends.”

“How did you track me?” Q’ilaqiqi asked, stunned. She was a

Rowan. They were masters of the forest and could be nearly

invisible if such were their intent.

“With this,” Onvalay said, holding up a comb. It was covered

in gems and resembled a silver wasp. Diamonds glittered where

the eyes should be.

“Shit,” the sirite bard cursed. “I must have left that behind in

my haste.”

“What magic did you use to track us?” Kimber queried.

The abhac shrugged.

“I merely asked Bach Bychan to guide me to the owner of this

fine comb,” he said.

“You are a priest, then?” Hennesi asked from across the

clearing.

This elicited a nod from the small, rotund being. He tossed the

comb at Q’ilaqiqi’s feet. “Among other things. I return this now

that the mission has found success.”

Kimber returned her red blade to its scabbard.

“Come join us, Onvalay,” she said. “And tell us of this

proposition.”

The abhac priest nodded once and walked over to the fire. He

sat next to Lughdo who stared at him with a fierce look on his

bulbous face.

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“Normally it is in the nature of my kind to kill such as you,”

Onvalay told the half-ogre, “as well as your goblin friend and the

two headed giant…”

Lughdo snarled. “Try.”

“…But,” the abhac priest continued, “this world has proven to

be full of surprises. What we see with our eyes is not always the

truth of things.”

“What insight,” muttered Gioffri.

“The wisdom of the gods?” asked Tavish.

“Nope.” Onvalay grinned. “Just my own observation. You

guys wouldn’t happen to have some ale, would you?”

Tavish’s face went pale at the mention of libation. G’narish

snorted, his laugh becoming infectious. Gioffri joined and soon

the entire party was filling the air with their laughter.

Except Tavish, who gave each of them a look of derision. The

mercenaries, Brawth and Bolan continued to dig at the hard

ground.

Ghia was cold. Wrapping herself in thick furs did little to

ward off the weather. A hand toyed with the brittle parchment

inside her sleeve. The doll seemed to grin.

“Why must I do it?” she asked the doll for what seemed like

the hundredth time. “I am just a little girl.” She still remembered

the venerable high priest and his betrayal of Sigov.

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She didn’t expect an answer, not really. The doll did amazing

things, but didn’t say much. Besides, this mission was given to

her by Sigov. How could the doll know his intentions?

She took a deep breath and steeled her resolve. On quiet feet,

she made her way down the solid dirt road toward the towering

double cross of the Temple of Alinard, the strange blue metal

glittering in the sunlight.

Normally, the best work of thieves was done at night, but

Sigov insisted that this mission was of utmost importance.

Though the temple’s spire was clearly visible, towering over the

other buildings in Fialscathac, the girl knew there was still a

lengthy walk ahead of her.

She grumbled behind her scarf and felt the urge to cry. At ten

years old, she had been through much in her short life. If she

could survive the wrath of the red haired bitch and her killing

spree, she could survive a little cold, she thought.

Some nights, the nightmares woke her still; memories of the

strange woman with the glowing sword. A voice that manifested

itself from thin air telling her to kill. So much blood and death.

She had been lucky to find the hidden room and lead the other

survivors to safety. They had hidden there for days feeding

themselves on the rats that crawled through the walls.

A shudder ran up her spine as she recalled the ordeal.

Thanking the Gods again she straightened her back and

continued her journey. She barely noticed the filthy bodies that

moved nearby, so intent was she on her path.

A young girl alone on the streets of Fialscathac wasn’t safe.

Too many people there were who preyed upon the young and

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weak. Nervously, she ran a hand to her thigh, feeling the dagger

strapped there beneath her fur cloak. It emanated a warmth that

was reassuring. She sighed in relief at its presence.

Suddenly, her way was barred by two hulking figures that

stank of piss and vomit.

“What have we here?” the first asked with a grin splitting his

filthy beard.

“Easy prey,” his companion replied. Ghia saw the glint of

steel in the sunlight. She swallowed the ball that had grown in

her throat.

“Please,” she said. “I’m late.”

“Then we won’t take up too much of your time,” the first man

said. “We will take the cloak and whatever coin you have.”

“And that doll for my daughter,” the second man added.

“I have nothing, sirs,” Ghia replied, nearly in tears. “My dad

will beat me if I am late.”

“We can save him the trouble and do it now, eh Garlen?” The

second man chuckled.

“Aye, Brier.”

“Be a good girl and undress quickly,” the man called Brier

said. “Make this easy on yourself.”

“I will not,” the girl said, hunching over, her hand fumbling

beneath her cloak for the warm hilt of the dagger.

“Would be a pity to have to cut you,” Garlen said. “But don’t

think I won’t. We could sell that cloak for a few coppers.”

“Please…” Ghia pleaded again. The buzz in her head told her

that Ghambi was trying to communicate. She loosened the

dagger and felt it drop into a sweaty palm.

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“Remove your clothes or we will remove them for you,” Brier

snarled, stepping closer.

Ghia dropped her doll onto the hard ground hearing the

resounding thud as it hit. She began to untie the cloak with her

free hand.

Brier stepped forward and cupped her chin in his hand.

“Pretty,” he said. “Good thing I like my girls a bit older.”

Tears were beginning to fall from Ghia’s eyes, freezing upon

her cheeks in the freezing air. She could see the mist of the man’s

breath and smelled the rancid stench of uisce. It sickened her.

She fumbled with the thong that tied her cloak about her

shoulders.

It fell from her shoulders in a puddle of fur and Brier bent to

retrieve it. Ghia struck like an asp, the dagger burying itself to

the hilt in the top of the man’s head. Blood spattered warm and

steaming in the air, covering her hand.

“What in…” Garlen began, incredulous at the violence before

him. He stepped forward, a pitted, rusty blade protruding from

his fist.

Brier dropped like a sack of flour, dead instantly, the dagger

pulling from Ghia’s hand. She backed from the man in fear, eyes

wide and clouded with wet tears.

“Please, don’t,” she cried.

“Brier don’t like his girls young,” the bandit growled, “but I

ain’t got no preference.”

The girl backed against the wall of the nearest shop, the alley

hiding her from prying eyes. The man called Garlen approached

159

her like a feral wolf, slowly. He moved the blade from hand to

hand, nervously.

“I will take the cloak,” he said, “and whatever else I can get

from your corpse.”

Suddenly the man stiffened, his eyes going wide. The blade

fell from lifeless fingers and he dropped to his knees. A look of

wonderment overtook his face and he tried to speak, but blood

frothed between his lips making conversation difficult. With a

last croaking sound, he collapsed on his face in the dirt, blood

from his torn back painting the earth.

Ghambi’s painted smile tugged up at the corners as she

lowered a finger, still smoking from the spell that blasted the

man apart. Ghia was shaking almost uncontrollably as she knelt

to recover the fur cloak. She avoided looking at the gory corpses

lying in the alley. With quick fingers she re-tied the cloak, picked

up her doll, and hurried toward the temple’s beckoning tower.

She rushed so fast, she nearly lost her footing on the patches

of ice that grew overnight. Luckily, the training Sigov had been

putting her through had increased her agility, her balance only

one trait that had improved.

Soon, they came to the silver doors of the temple. Outside

were two guards, both dark of skin, one the color of cinnamon,

the other a few shades darker. They were both tall and well

-muscled, dressed in blue and white surcoats over bright

chainmail. Double bladed axes were held at their shoulders. New

converts to the Alinard faith from the wild lands of Stanlyn, Ghia

thought.

Ghia approached them, sheepishly.

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“I bring a message to the masters of the temple,” she said with

a bow.

The two guards exchanged a glance.

“There are no masters here,” one guard said. “Not yet,

anyway.”

“Yeah,” the other said. “The old one was murdered.”

“Who is in charge, then?” the girl said, trying not to stammer.

“Avegor,” the first replied. “unless that young whelp has been

given the title.”

“You look vaguely familiar,” Rodni said, his eyes narrowing.

“You look just like the girl who was here when Amniar was

killed.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I was being held here, but…”

Rodni grabbed her arm in a grip, tight with corded muscles.

“Darius will have questions for you,” he said, pulling her into

a small cubicle.

Ghia gripped her doll and stumbled along in the huge man’s

grip.

“Tongael,” Rodni called. “Get the girl some soup. She is

going to be here a while.”

Ruthangad sat his seven foot frame before the fire in the

Broken Wheel’s common room. Around him stood his five

fachan bodyguards, solid, man sized creatures with a spiked row

of black hair. A single eye peered from beneath a shaggy brow

on each. Each creature also had a single arm protruding from a

161

burly chest and one heavily muscled leg. Sharp picks hung from

their thick leather belts.

Many an unlucky victim had underestimated the mobility of

the one legged creatures and with their bones the fachan picked

sharp yellow teeth. The creatures moved with a fluid grace and

speed contrary to their appearance.

The killer, who called himself “the darkness of death”,

watched as his guards tore the corpse of a townsperson limb from

limb leaving strips of flesh and pools of blood on the floor. With

great strength they ripped the body in two as if it were nothing

more than a sack.

The dark clad man smiled, his teeth a shade paler than his

clammy skin, and took a long drink of the strong ale. With a

lifetime of mental training he blocked out the rending noises and

closed his eyes, enjoying the burnt peat taste upon his tongue.

Good ale, he thought. It was almost a pity to have killed the brew

master, but his master Colm Sadach would be pleased.

The attack took the city by complete surprise. Finally, a

victory against the King’s forces and the cursed church of the

thrice damned god, Alinard. For too long had the Golden Child

held them at bay, but now, with a small force of fachan and

undead, they had circled around the Sliabh Cruinn, leaving death

and destruction in their wake, while the so called son of Alinard

was busy fighting for his life to the north. Next, Ruthangad

planned to invade Fialscathac and tear the temple to the ground,

Another smile split his jaw at the thought. He couldn’t

remember exactly what had happened in his childhood to leave

him so cold and empty. It was as if he didn’t have a heart inside

162

his chest. Nor did he care. Colm kept him in luxury and he

preferred his life of freedom to anything proposed by the self-

serving deities of Domhan. He answered to nobody but himself.

Who was to say he wasn’t a God himself? Did he not take life

indiscriminately and as easily as a God? Did he not bring the

dead back to life with a wave of his iron wand? Did they not

follow and serve him blindly? If that wasn’t God like, then he

shivered to think what might be.

He took another drink of the ale and swished it around his

mouth, cleansing his palette of the taste of death. He was a killer;

he was good at it, but the smell and taste of blood still left

something to be desired. The fachan could have it.

He leaned back, awaiting further orders from the frost giant

and tried to sleep amidst the tearing noises.

The army fell back to the Coill Croinnte licking their wounds

in utter dejection. The heavy boughs offered a brief respite from

the foul weather, thick drops of rancid rain falling from the sky.

The Golden Child sat atop his white charger, head hanging

low. He never had known defeat in all his twenty six years of

life. Alinard had always given him the means to be victorious

until now.

163

He looked across the great encampment that spread itself

around the village of Clatt, a grouping of ramshackle huts built of

mud and wood-a primitive place inhabited by goblins. The

orange skinned creatures looked out from behind their leaf

curtains in fear and awe at the army that surrounded them.

Prayers to Gimlet, their one horned god could be heard,

muttered in their high pitched warbling. None were brave enough

to venture forth from the sanctity of their homes.

It mattered not at all to Ioras. He had other things on his mind.

He would not attack these creatures unless they joined the dark

army at his heels, already teeming with their kind. Why had the

power of Alinard waned? He looked down at his glowing yellow

sword and sighed. Was its power not enough anymore? Never

had it failed. Even when he had polymorphed into the great gold

dragon, this time the enemy had not run. On the contrary, as he

lay convalescing, his army had been routed.

They retreated in haste behind a wall of screeching giants.

Many a companion lay smashed or broken on the strand of earth

between the Coill Croinnte and the Kindom of Galis. The

barbarians who inhabited the area would have bones enough for

years to make their tools and service ware.

Ioras still hoped to recruit the aid of the barbarians-the Clann

Iarann, who made the area their home: a fierce tribe of warriors

wielding weapons of cold iron extracted from the Sliabh Speir on

the southern edge of Ghealsen. Their aid, he knew, could alter

the climax of the war once and for all. So far, his request for a

meeting with their chieftain had gone unanswered.

164

The Golden Child dismounted and knelt at the edge of the

Aibhainn Cromh, a narrow, slow moving river that trickled down

from the Sliabh Speir and emptied into the Aigean Stoirmeach a

few leagues to the south.

He cupped his hands and drank a mouthful of the clear, cold,

crisp water. Silently, he offered another prayer to his father, the

God named Alinard and wondered why he had been forsaken.

The only hope that remained was to journey the five leagues

south along the coast to where the Library of Hope stood in all its

majesty overlooking the storm tossed waters of the Aigean

Stoirmeach. There, they would have the advantage as the enemy

would have to squeeze through the narrow opening between the

forest and the sea. Ioras swore to cut them all down. Personally.

His face set in grim determination, he stood and turned to give

the orders, a hand forming a firm grip on the hilt of his sword.

They entered the valley just as darkness was engulfing the

sky. Luaithreach looked around her nose wrinkled in distaste. A

low growl escaped her throat.

“What you do is folly,” the voice whispered in his head.

“Kill the bitch before she leads you astray.”

“I did not ask for the opinion of a sword,” Cannivone

growled. “Now leave me in peace.”

165

The boy could tell the sword was sulking and smiled. There

was no way in Alinard’s holy name he was going to let a sword

manipulate him. Already, he had nearly given in to its incessant

longing for blood.

The sword, while pretty, gave him an uneasy feeling. He

knew that when the Temple of Alinard took him in chains at last

he would be relieved. He could wash away his sins in Alinard’s

glorious light and await whatever fate they chose for him-free at

last.

Freedom from the violence that had plagued him over his

short life. Freedom from the loneliness, the guilt. Escape at last

from the weight upon his heart at the loss of Perinia. He gritted

his teeth and put one foot stoically in front of the other.

Luaithreach calmly kept her distance. The boy had a tendency

to talk to himself and it unnerved her. There was still a tingling in

the back of her skull alerting her of evil intent, but it did not seem

to emanate from the boy. The feeling did not bother her. She took

no sides. her desires were those of her father. She would keep

him close until she understood more, she decided.

So she followed at a close distance, occasionally dropping a

few pieces of dried meat into her mouth.. It was warmer down in

the valley, thousands of feet in elevation lower than the mountain

path and she was pleased with the warmth. They passed scores of

travelers, wrapped in blankets against the cold.

The strange woman with the black skin always garnered

unwanted attention, but none were foolish or brave enough to

approach or offer the party any resistance. Nervous hands

166

gripped the hidden hilts of daggers beneath tattered clothing, but

it was more out of reassurance than any willingness to act rashly.

Luaithreach held her breath, nervously. Talantas was the

largest town she had ever seen. Even at this distance it spread

across the horizon in shadowy lumps. It was said you could fit

ten Anoth’s into Talantas with room to spare. She had been to the

city on the edge of the jungles of Tir-na-Faiche only once with

her father and she had thought it was large, but the sheer size of

Talantas was awe-inspiring.

“When we arrive at the city,” Cannivone said. I will travel to

the castle alone.”

“I would be lax in my duties if I allowed that. You mean to

sacrifice yourself,” the woman stated. Cannivone shook his head.

“I mean to try and make the king see reason at the end of my

sword.”

“Is he a just and fair king?” Luaithreach spat the words.

Cannivone glared at the woman. “His father was, but I don’t

think they are the words to describe Gearalt. From what I

experienced of him, he is a cruel man.”

“He is still a boy,” the sword chimed. “hardly worthy of

being called a man.”

“I hope you are not doing all this out of revenge,” the woman

replied, her eyes narrowing.

“I go to do what I must” he snapped.

“You must finish what I started, boy” the voice echoed inside

his head. “We do not need the aid of this wench.”

“I have a friend there,” the boy answered through gritted

teeth. “I must make sure she is well.”

167

“Lead on, then Cannivone,” Luaithreach said. “I follow where

you go.”

The guild master sat with his three closest advisors sharing a

roast pheasant and a bottle of Cel Cedadian brandy. To his left

sat the strange, pointy nosed bwbach with the furry coat who had

rescued Sigov and the orphans from the clutches of the temple.

Lomaldor and Iomar sat on opposite ends, the human tearing into

the fowl with a ravenous appetite.

Sigov grimaced at the ferocity. He sipped the brandy where

Iomar guzzled it. Even Lomaldor, the calm and steady sirite

wizard-thief was letting annoyance show on his normally serene

face.

“The guild seems to be prospering,” Ratto said. He tore off a

long strip of greasy flesh and placed it in his mouth.

“Thanks in part to you,” Sigov answered. “I would still be

rotting in the temple’s dungeons if you hadn’t appeared.”

“Gad’s luck,” the bwbach said with a shrug. “Nothing more.”

“Well it was welcome, nonetheless.” Sigov saluted his

diminutive companion with an upraised decanter.

“Why have you summoned us?” Lomaldor asked, fingers

steepled at his bony chin.

168

“Direct,” the guild master said, “as usual. One of your better

traits, I think.” He sighed and added, “I have sent the girl Ghia to

the temple with a message proclaiming your innocence in the

murder of Amniar and explaining that his death was by his own

hand.”

Lomaldor’s large oval eyes widened. “Is that wise?”

“Someone in the church has to be able to be trusted.”

Iomar swallowed a mouthful of stringy pheasant and spoke.

“I trust no organized religion or anyone who takes part in

such folly.”

“There have to be some who behave in accordance with the

words they speak,” Ratto intervened.

“In some religions,” Iomar continued, “maybe. In these

Alinardians it is doubtful. They are a conniving and corrupt

group.”

Ratto nodded his tiny head. “The priestesses of Banba follow

the doctrines of her teachings to the letter, which,” he added with

a smile, “is often to the benefit of a young, robust buck such as

myself.”

Sigov couldn’t hide the faint traces of a smile. “It is well

known that the followers of the Earthmother do not share the

same inhibitions towards intimacy as these followers of the new

god.”

“Even Eochaid doesn’t force his followers to betray their true

nature and instinct,” Iomar said, “but I still wouldn’t trust one

with my deepest secrets.”

“Who would you trust?” Lomaldor asked.

169

“Nobody,” the human said taking another bite of his pheasant.

“That is why I am still alive.”

“It is a strange custom,” Ratto added , “to force your

followers to ritually marry the deity, forsaking all lovers and all

wealth.”

Iomar nearly choked on his mouthful of bird as he chortled.

“Forsake?” he added. “Someone has to be paying for the upkeep

of the temple.”

“Gold flows freely in the temples,” Sigov said with a smile,

“that is why I sent my spy. They would never suspect the young

girl.”

“The temple should be toppled at their feet for what they have

done,” Lomaldor snarled. “We of the Ash sirite would never treat

life so recklessly.”

Ratto chortled. “Funny words from a thief.”

The sirite glared at the tiny creature. “I wasn’t always so.”

“There is a story in there somewhere, I can’t wait to hear it,”

Ratto said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“In a life as long as mine,” Lomaldor added. “There is much

hidden and many dark secrets. None of them contain even a hint

that the priests of Twrch Tua have ever harbored malice toward

any living thing.”

“Were you one of these priest, then?” Iomar asked. Lomaldor

shook his head, sadly.

“No,” he replied. “I was never taken in by the concept of

devoting my life to the Lord of the Sirite. Elymas was my

mistress and she offered me power of a different kind.”

170

“Sorcery,” Sigov retorted, the word spoke as a statement and

not a question. Lomaldor nodded again.

“Indeed,” he continued. “It was during this time I met

Faeduin.”

“Faeduin?” Ratto asked, his interest in the story clear upon his

face.

“Priestess of Twrch Tua and my betrothed.” Lomaldor’s gaze

seemed distance and his voice held a sense of sadness that

permeated throughout the entire room.

“Bitter memories?” Sigov asked.

“The Alinardians tried to force their religion upon us, burning

our homes and putting us “pagans” to the sword. Faeduin died so

that I could escape.”

“Bastards,” muttered Ratto.

“Indeed,” Lomaldor replied. “I have mistrusted them since.”

“Now we follow a more visible deity,” Iomar said with a grin.

“Yes,” Lomaldor agreed, “One thing can be said about Mesz.

He is involved.”

“And he rewards his followers well,” Iomar said, pushing the

remnants of his meal away from him across the scarred table.

“Gold, women, power,” Lomaldor stated. “What more could

one ask for?”

“You trust him?” Sigov asked.

“It isn’t about trust,” Iomar said. “I already told you I don’t

trust anyone. It’s about respect and loyalty.”

“You follow him out of respect?”

“Aye,” the human said and his face widened into a grin. “And

gold.”

171

“That doesn’t hurt,” Lomaldor agreed.

“This sounds like a religion I could be very interested in,”

Ratto said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. He

belched, loudly.

The others glared at him and the bwbach merely smiled.

“You have the manners of a goat,” Lomaldor said.

“Yep,” Ratto said. “And the appetite of a bear.”

Sigov sighed. He hoped Ghia would report back soon and

save him from another meal with these fools.

“Is this what the Ways of Alinard have become?” Darius was

furious. “Locking up little girls?”

Rodni looked to the floor, severely admonished.

“It is the same girl who was staying here when Amniar was

killed,” Tongael offered, but he was met with a wilting glance

form the priest.

“You better not have harmed a hair on her head,” Darius

growled, “or the hand of Alinard will not be gentle upon you.

This I swear.”

“She is unharmed,” Rodni protested. “We thought you might

want to garner some information from her.”

“You thought?” the cleric snarled. “Are you sure you thought

at all?”

172

Rodni bristled, barely containing his rage. How dare this

young priest speak to him in such a manner. If he were of lesser

breeding, he would teach the priest a thing or two about respect.

Darius took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Do you realize that this is just the thing that the church’s

detractors are looking for? Ammunition to discredit our

teachings. I think the mistreatment of a girl would give them

ample ammunition, don’t you?”

“We was only trying to help.” Tongael looked like a beaten

dog, gaze downcast and shoulders slumped.

“Our teachings are of mercy and kindness,” Darius reminded

them. “Especially to children. I highly doubt she had the

wherewithal to carry out treason against the church.”

“We want the killer brought to justice,” Rodni exclaimed.

“Your passion is commendable,” Darius replied. “We all want

that. Avegor has seen the evidence and thinks that Amniar may

have taken his own life.”

Rodni shook his head in disbelief. “To do so would take him

from the possibility of sitting at Alinard’s side. he would never

do such a thing.”

“Maybe not,” Darius replied. “But I hardly think the girl is the

leader of a ring of assassins.”

“Not the leader,” Tongael offered. “But maybe a pawn?”

Darius rubbed his chin in thought.

“Take me to this girl,” he said. “We will find out what she

knows, but I am warning you. Treat her with kindness of you will

rot in the dungeons. This I swear by all that is righteous. Damn

me to the Nine Hells if I’m lying.”

173

With a nod, the guards led the priest toward the locked door.

174

The Golden Child

175

Gerald L. Black

Chapter Nine

The Power Of Song

It was much warmer in the small room, Perinia noticed. The

small brazier kept the chill away very effectively and the soft bed

was well furnished with thick blankets and pillows stuffed with

feathers. The strange bwbach had led her blindfolded through a

maze of twists and turns and she was welcomed back into light

with the sight of a small corani with short beard who introduced

himself as Carraig before leading her to these comfortable

accommodations.

“You will be safe here,” the corani said before closing the

door and disappearing.

Perinia took a deep sigh of relief as she pulled the coverlet

tight around her chest.

176

The Golden Child

She was relieved to be free from the dungeon, but what did

her future hold? What about her family? And where was she to

go from here? She couldn’t stop the tear that fell from her eye as

she thought of her mother and father still in the castle. What story

had they been told? Did they even now mourn their daughter?

And what had become of Cannivone? She wondered. The boy

seemed to be struggling with his emotions for his actions on the

fateful night the king was killed. It was as if he felt guilt. How

could he? She had never seen anyone more courageous the way

he rushed to her defense thwarting the prince’s attempts to

permanently scar her.

She missed their walks through the gardens; their talks. She

missed the way he smiled shyly when she took his hand. The way

her heart swelled when he was near. Tears began to pour from

her and she heard her sobs echoing through the room.

This time, she didn’t care who heard.

Ioras, his hand gripping the hilt of Analil so tightly, his

knuckles were white, stared up at the Library of Hope, weary and

defeated. His army spread out before the towering temple like a

plague of locusts, crushing the grass beneath heavily armored

feet.

Only a coward ran, he knew, but more lives were at stake than

his own. They had trusted him to lead them to victory against

Antius’ darkness. He could not, with clear conscience, lead them

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to their deaths. Reluctantly, the army fell back to make their

stand before the tower devoted to Nisien and to heal their

wounded and burn the dead.

The Golden Child’s heart swelled with sadness and he was

nearly overcome by the crushing weight of it. His golden helmet

with long feathered crest of flowing red horse hair, was lodged

beneath a bent elbow at his waist. His flowing golden curls were

disheveled and sticky with sweat and blood. Blood of

companions as well as enemies.

Tears flowed freely down his checks as he silently prayed to

his father for aid.

“Do not abandon your flock,” he pleaded, but there was no

answer. “Give me the strength to lead them to victory.”

As if in answer, the blade of his sword began to glow with a

yellowish light, giving his flesh a sickly pallor.

The clearing of a throat from behind him caused him to whirl,

his tattered cape fluttering in the breeze.

“Your pardon, Lord.” The speaker was a thickly muscled man

with dark hair and dark eyes. A freshly applied and blood soaked

bandage was wrapped tightly about his temple. Though his

surcoat was spattered with blood and filth, the yellow fist of the

Healing Hand was still visible embroidered upon his chest. A

flail with two spiked heads dangled at his thigh. There were still

pieces of hair and brain covering it.

“Elodias,” the Golden Child said. “I heard of your bravery

against the goblin horde. Alinard will welcome you at his side

one day.”

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“Only to do the work of Diancecht,” corrected the soldier. “I

fight under the banner of your God because it is beneficial to

both our deities.”

Ioras nodded. He was thankful for the alliance between his

father, Alinard and the older Gods. It would take a united effort

to thwart the Sinforce and repel the evil they spread in their

wake.

How can you defeat an army that rises to fight again when

struck down? He had no answers and there none were

forthcoming. Ioras grunted.

“I am thankful for the assistance from all who wish to be

free,” he said. “Regardless of which God they pray to.”

Elodias grunted in approval.

“A just and righteous statement,” Elodias replied. “And I feel

in your heart that it is true. The light of your God shines upon

you and in that power we will be victorious.”

“With allies such as you,” Ioras said, clapping the man on the

shoulder, “I believe that to be true.”

Another soldier approached, his surcoat smeared with dark

blood. The cloth was once a pure white and bore the red tower of

the Crimson Keep.

“Forgive the intrusion,” the man said. “A message has arrived

from Talantas.”

“The temple?” Ioras asked. The messenger shook his dark

mane and handed over a tightly wound piece of vellum sporting

the king’s seal in a large clump of wax.

“From the King?” The Golden Child was baffled. The war

had been sanctioned not only by King Uilleam, but by the

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Temple of Alinard. Protecting the citizens of Domhan was of

utmost importance. Ioras tore the seal with his slender fingers.

Greetings Golden Child,

I now find myself on the throne after the untimely demise of

my father. The pressures of running a kingdom are vast and

stressful. As are the draining of the royal coffers. Already I have

had to increase the amount of tribute and taxes the citizens must

pay. We cannot afford to continue this façade of a war that we

can never win. Return the army at once to Talantas. The

Kingdom will no longer finance your folly. If the Church of

Alinard wishes to drain their coffers, that is their right, but the

soldiers of the King are no longer at your disposal. Any attempt

to ignore this request will be viewed as treason. You have one

week to comply.

King Gearalt

Ioras was stunned. The King was dead? The war called off?

This child was going to reduce ten years of death and struggle to

a meaningless squabble.

“This cannot be,” the Golden Child exclaimed.

“What does it say?” asked Elodias.

“We are to abandon the war by order of the King,” came the

exasperated reply.

“Uilleam has changed his mind?”

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Ioras’ golden curls shook with fervor. “Not Uilleam. It seems

he has perished. Gearalt now sits on the throne.”

“Gods have mercy,” the priest murmured, making a warding

sign across his forehead.

“If we retreat,” Ioras continued, “Colm Sadach will cut a

swath of destruction through Domhan like we have never seen.”

“Agreed,” Elodias chimed in, “but what are we to do?”

“The Kingdom belongs to the King,” Ioras sighed. “It is his to

build or destroy. We are honor bound to follow our orders.”

“Seriously?” The priest of Diancecht glared, mouth agape.

The Golden Child, sighed. “Gather the troops and call the

retreat,” he said. “And may Alinard guard the poor souls of

Prionsia.”

G’narish was a wonderful companion led the party to the very

edge of the forest where he wished them luck before guiding the

shambling ettin back into the woods. Onvalay watched them

leave with satisfaction.

“I will feel better without the ettin in our presence,” he said.

“He did us no harm,” Kimber said. Tavish agreed.

“That may be,” the cleric replied, “but they are an

unpredictable lot at best.”

“I judge creatures by their actions,” the ranger said with a

scowl, “not by their reputation.” She couldn’t help but glance at

Neftet and Lughdo as she spoke.

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The cleric of Bach Bychan grinned through his full beard, his

yellowed teeth standing out in vast relief against the dark color of

his facial hair.

“I wish no ills upon them,” the dwarf said, “I merely feel

more secure. Is it not right to be cautious?”

“Aye,” Tavish added. “I feel a wee bit less worried as well.”

Hennesi scowled. “I was never worried,” she said. “I would

have taken all three heads with one swipe of my sword.”

“I’m sure you would,” Bolan chimed in from somewhere

behind.

“What is that supposed to mean?” The tall woman growled

and turned on the mercenary, menacingly.

“Peace,” cried Brawth. “Must we fight amongst each other

when we have a kingdom to save from itself?”

Q’ilaqiqi chuckled to herself at the inanity of humans. They

lived such short lives, they could not see the importance of

things. All life was precious, but some were forfeit if the world

would be better without them. Prince Gearalt was in that category

as far as she was concerned.

She worried that the youthful ruler would revert the kingdom

back to a time when anarchy and despair reigned; before the

alliances between countries when the abhac and the sirite fought

their wars, the bwbach were terrorized by marauding hordes of

ogres and the Sirite Thios, the dark cousins of her folk, spewed

from the underworld on raids of terror, pillaging and enslaving

her people.

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“The King must die,” she muttered. Tavish looked askance at

her and shivered. There was a coldness in this sirite he could not

fathom.

“One king is already dead,” Hennesi replied. “How many

more lives must we forfeit?”

“We can sacrifice one for the sake of thousands,” the sirite

bard replied. “That would be the more righteous path. Don’t you

agree, Onvalay?”

The abhac cleric furrowed his brow, the tangled mass of hair

forming a lump above his eyes.

“There is no proof the new King will not do the right thing,”

he added.

Q’ilaqiqi laughed. “He wouldn’t know the right thing if it

kicked him in the stones.”

“Aye,” Tavish replied, “but it’d probably get his attention.”

“So how can we,” Onvalay added, “theoretically kick the king

in his stones?”

“We should camp here and decide our course of action,”

Kimber said.

Lughdo grinned, his lower jaw drooping, revealing the short

tusks.

“Anyone have blueberries?” he asked. Brawth and Bolan

shared a silent look.

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Gerald L. Black

Elioth, the Crystal Wizard perused the tome for the fourth

time, seeking an answer to his utter failure at the castle. It was

irksome to see his magic rendered ineffectual; to watch the King

die, because of his impotent spells. Somewhere in the ancient

text he expected to find a spell so powerful, nothing could stand

up to it. So far, he found nothing.

“To the Nine Hells with this book,” he grumbled, slamming

the thick cover closed. The monkey responded by tossing a pile

of its feces in his direction missing by a hair’s breadth.

MacLugh, from his resting place on a small cot against the far

wall of the Elioth’s laboratory, chuckled to himself, His eyes

were staring at the uneven slabs of the ceiling, counting the

imperfections and had been for hours. His large, bald head rested

on his interwoven fingers.

“Damn that book, anyway,” he added, “hiding its secrets from

you.”

Elioth gave the portly wizard a look that could split the very

stone and MacLugh laughed all the harder.

With a sigh, the Crystal Wizard opened to the first page again

and started reading, his eyes following the geometric markings at

a rapid pace. They seemed to blur together as he read and he

stopped to rub at his eyes with thumb and forefinger from his

right hand.

“I know there is an answer in here somewhere,” he muttered.

“This is the most ancient of texts. There has to be something in

here.”

“Maybe you need to rest,” MacLugh said. “Fresher eyes may

see what your tired eyes cannot.”

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“Not just tired,” the Crystal Wizard sighed. “I have been

doing this for too long.”

“Nonsense,” MacLugh chortled. “Look at all that you have

accomplished. And still do. Your magic is second to none. Even I

could learn a few tricks from one such as you.”

“If you are thinking to flatter me so you can peer into my

secrets,” Elioth stated. “You will find yourself disappointed.”

“Suit yourself,” Elioth replied. “Two pairs of eyes wouldn’t

hurt.”

“Fine.” The aged mage finally gave in. “See what you can

find.”

MacLugh jumped up, excitedly, the chance to peruse an

ancient spell book from lost Aradian bringing a flutter to his

chest.

Rubbing his hands together, he waddled over to where Elioth

sat, the dusty tome open before him.

“If the answer lies within this book, I’ll find it. I swear by

Elymas.”

“Are you going to sleep all day?”

The voice of the boisterous bwbach startled Perinia awake.

She opened her eyes to see Toric’s grinning, boyish face not

three inches from her own.

“Breakfast is already getting cold,” the bwbach muttered.

“Get up and get some before it is gone.”

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Gerald L. Black

The girl yawned and stretched, still amazed at her

surroundings. Wherever she had been taken was nicely furnished.

Better than the room she shared with her parents at the castle.

Thoughts of her parents nearly brought a tear to her eye, but she

choked it back.

A small silver mirror had been placed upon the round table

beside an ivory brush inlaid with a dolphin in turquoise. Perinia

gasped at the beautiful items. She had never seen items of such

craftsmanship.

“Where am I?” she pondered aloud.

“Somewhere safe,” the small, childlike man replied with

another grin. “Get dressed and join us for breakfast.”

He dropped from the bed and scampered out the door, closing

it behind him. Perinia stretched and yawned again, feeling the

muscles tense from her time spent in the cell, sleeping on hard

stone. She swung her bare feet from the bed and to the floor.

The scarred wood was cold to the touch and she recoiled,

before spying the slippers. She slipped them on and stood on

shaky legs. Lack of nourishment had taken its toll on her body.

She stumbled to the table and picked up the fine brush.

Using the mirror, she ran the brush through the tangles in her

hair. Staring back at her was a pale, skeletal face with sunken

cheeks and covered in filth.

“I must stink,” she grumbled to herself. She wore a clean

nightshirt, but didn’t remember putting it on. Instantly, her

cheeks reddened at the thought of strange eyes gazing upon her

nude form.

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Nearby was a porcelain basin with clean water and a towel.

She cleaned her face and arms as best as she could and looked

around the room at the other furnishings. An armoire stood in a

far corner, doors slightly ajar.

She smiled and limped over to it, wondering how she had

injured her ankle. During her escape from the castle dungeons

with Toric, she couldn’t remember having any pain, but the body

was known to mask such things when pressed into a dire

situation.

She flung the doors open and gasped. Inside were some of the

finest clothes she had ever seen. Tunics, gowns, breeks, vests,

even a pair of soft leather boots. Next to the clothes a long

dagger hung, secured to a leather belt.

“Where are my clothes?” she asked.

“Those filthy rags?” a woman’s voice said from behind,

starling her. “We burned them.”

Perinia turned to see a female bwbach attired from head to toe

in deerskin, who smiled warmly, before adding, “Choose

anything to wear. It is all for you.”

“I don’t know….”

“My father has given them as a gift for you at the request of

Toric. Get dressed. We will save some food for you.”

“Who are you?” Perinia asked.

“Shallot, daughter of Skrubb,” the small woman said with a

slight bow. “Welcome to our home.”

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.

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Chapter Ten

No Oath Forgotten

The course was decided. As the gates of Talantas loomed

before them, Cannivone told the woman that he would go alone

to the castle and try to appeal to Gearalt’s good side. If he

possessed one.

“Soak your hands in his blood and claim your place as

King. I will help you rule the kingdom. It will drown in blood.”

The voice was persistent

He groaned, gaining a worried look from Luaithreach. She

walked up beside him, the concern painted upon her face,

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Just a cursed headache,” the boy replied. “Nothing that will

kill me.”

“You just keep telling yourself that,” the blade stated. “I

know full well the pain that can be inflicted. Maybe I should

show you. Then, maybe you will wish for death.”

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Gerald L. Black

Cannivone shook his head. “I’m fine,” he told the Ratu.

“Really.”

Luaithreach was not convinced, but she let the matter go.

There was something in the boy, but she couldn’t quite put her

finger on it. A foulness she could sense, corrupting the boy. The

fact that he had held out against it so long was a testament to the

boy’s pure heart.

She would observe and learn and, if she could, rid the boy of

the darkness.

“Tell that bitch to stop staring,” Bloodletter groaned. “She

makes me nervous. I do not like her piercing gaze.”

“Good,” Cannivone thought in reply. “Then, maybe you

will shut up.”

“I’m warning you. Tell her to stop.”

“Is there something in my teeth?” Cannivone asked.

Luaithreach’s eyes narrowed.

“No, why?”

“You are looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.”

The Daughter of Dragons shook her head. “Not a freak. Just

unusual.”

“You aren’t exactly normal either.” Cannivone ran a hand

through his shoulder length hair.

“Normal is in the eye of the beholder,” the woman sighed.

“Where I am from I am the norm.”

“And where I am from,” Cannivone conceded, “the line

between normal and….unusual are often blurred.”

“Civilization,” Luaithreach said, flatly as if the one word

explained everything.

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“I’ve never known much of it,” the boy replied. “I was

raised in the wilds by my uncle.”

“I have known barbarian tribes with better manners and

more honor than the so called civilized men,” Luaithreach said.

“And she will die with that thought in her head,” the sword

hissed. Cannivone’s hand began to move toward the dragon claw

hilt as if controlled by another. He trembled from the exertion to

control it. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Are you sure you are well?” the woman asked, her voice

full of concern.

“A fever,” Cannivone lied. “I will recover.” he turned and

walked away.

“Soon, ”Luiathreach whispered. “I will unveil the mysteries

of the boy named Cannivone and the reason my father insisted I

find him.”

The wind in her face was harsh and bitter cold. Perinia could

feel it like tiny pins being tossed upon her cheeks. She feared that

snot was pouring from her nose, but she could feel nothing and

was too afraid to let go of the bwbach to check.

“I must look a mess,” she pondered. Her eyes were closed

to the scenery as it flew by in a blur.

Before her, Toric Tusslegut steered his flying carpet with

skill and precision. An easier mode of transportation didn’t exist

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Gerald L. Black

he was sure and he was pleased that he had acquired one in all

his travels.

“Keep holding on tight,” the bwbach yelled over the roar of

the wind. “We’ll have you far from the bastard king in no time.”

She nodded, weakly, every ounce of energy being sucked

from her body by the cold.

“I don’t usually travel this time of year,” Toric continued. “I

wait until it’s a little warmer.”

Did he have to try and make conversation? She felt the

pressure in her bladder and was using all her will not to empty it

in fear. She trembled and prayed silently to Alinard to give her

the strength to withstand the frightful journey.

Perinia was thankful she couldn’t see the ground below,

knowing it would be passing by at an alarming speed.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice barely

audible above the cry of the wind. She wasn’t sure about the turn

of events that had been handed to her, but she trusted the strange

bwbach.

“To a friend,” he said, cryptically.

“A friend,” Perinia gasped, her thoughts immediately going

to Cannivone. She never had a friend as true as the boy and now

he was gone and she was far from home on a carpet flying at

dangerous speeds through frigid air. The Gods have a strange

sense of humor.

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“Where in the Hells are my prisoners?” Gearalt screamed.

He grabbed the wounded guard by the throat and squeezed. The

man choked, his eyes growing wide. Garbled sounds masked his

reply.

“I left them in your care and you let them escape,” the King

roared. “I should cut out your eyes and feed them to the dogs.”

“Your majesty,” Mabsant said from behind. “The man was

wounded and his companion slain. I don’t think he meant to let it

happen.”

The King turned on his councilor with a snarl. “You think?”

The boy showed his perfectly formed teeth and spat, his

eyes flashing yellow in the wan light. “That is what I think of

your opinion.”

Mabsant paled. “I only mean that I do not believe it was

treason. They obviously had help to escape, though. Someone

attacked your guards.”

“I want the guard thrown into the interrogation chamber

and,” he turned toward the obese advisor, “I would be silent if

you don’t want to take his place.”

“Yes, majesty.”

The King released the throat of the injured guard and the

man fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Blood still seeped into

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the bandage from the deep hole in the man’s leg, just behind the

knee.

“Does that hurt?” Gearalt asked the guard. The man nodded,

slowly, his breath finally coming in ragged gasps.

“It is the mere beginning of your pain,” the King promised.

“Unless I get the answers I need. My only bait for the boy is gone

and my vengeance still goes unfulfilled.”

Mabsant shook his head. How mad the young King had

gone. Maybe it was the blow to his head. Was there a cure? He

made a mental note to ask the priests of Diancecht for a solution

as he watched the injured guard being dragged away down the

torch lit hall.

“Assemble the council,” Gearalt growled at him. “We have

a new agenda.”

“What might that be, lord?” Mabsant asked.

The King sneered at him. “If I wanted to tell you I wouldn’t

need you to assemble the fucking council, would I?”

“All due respect, your majesty,” Mabsant stammered, “but I

do speak for the An Corran.”

“Then maybe,” Gearalt snarled, “It’s time to appoint

someone new. Someone who can listen.”

Mabsant averted his gaze to the floor. This is a disaster.

Who could have thought the Prince would grow to be such an

evil man?

“Assemble them within the hour,” Gearalt stated, “or you

will be the new tenant in the girl’s cell. You will not eat quite as

often as you are in there. I assure you.”

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“It will be done,” Mabsant said with a sigh. He watched the

King exit the hall, the threat still lingering in the air. He prayed to

Alinard that his plot with Atheala would succeed.

“For the betterment of the realm,” he told himself. “Gods

help us all.”

“I am sorry you have been detained,” Darius said to the

small girl clutching the porcelain doll. “The guards mean well.

They have my best interests at heart as well as those of Alinard.

These are dark times and all are a little on edge,”

Ghia shrugged, shyly and clutched the doll closer to her

chest.

“Have you eaten?” the cleric asked, holdin out an apple.

The young girl nodded and looked toward the ground.

Darius knelt before her, his eyes searching her face.

“I know you have been wronged here,” he said. “No harm

will come to you. The ones who were in charge are gone. I am in

charge of the temple now.”

“Dead,” Ghia said.

“Pardon?” Darius raised an eyebrow.

“The High Priest is dead,” the girl said in a soft tone. “Those

who rescued me stand accused.”

Darius crossed his arms in front of his chest. “What do you

know of this?”

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“Enough to say that those you accuse are innocent.” The girl

stared into his eyes with a fierceness that made her seem years

older.

“Did you witness Amniar’s demise?”

“I did not have to,” the girl said with a small shake of her

head. “There are dark forces at work, unleashed by the church

itself. Until they take responsibility for their deeds, guilt will

claim more lives.”

“How old are you?” Darius could not believe the words

spoken by this young girl.

“I am ten, sir,” she said.

“You are well spoken for a ten year old.”

“They are not my words, priest,” she said. “They are the

words of one far wiser than me.”

Darius gasped, but quickly regained his composure. He

placed a hand upon his narrow chin and thought for a moment.

“If what you say is true,” he said, “there is much that will be

changed. You are free to go.”

“Hear my message first,” the girl implored.

“Your message?” Darius turned back toward the girl,

interest lighting up his eyes. “Message from whom?”

“My rescuer,” she said with a smile. “The message is simply

this: We witnessed the cleric’s own hand take his life and will

offer any aid we can in getting justice.”

“The church of Alinard is not in the business of revenge,”

Darius sighed.

“My friends are,” the girl giggled. “Your hands would be

clean.”

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Darius shook his head. “My conscience would not. Tell your

friend I will take his words and think upon them, but the matters

of the church will be the church’s to remedy. You are free to go.

May Alinard show you his light.”

“Why do we wait?” Gioffri asked. “I could go to Talantas

and kill this king before anyone was the wiser.”

“Not smart, Ghost,” Neftet said shaking his head. “As foul

as this ruler is, without his ass on the throne there would be

chaos. Anarchy.”

The albino lifted a brow. “Is that not the tenets of the Gods

we worship? To sow discord and pave the way for the darkness?”

Neftet shrugged. “I have changed my views of the world

recently.”

Gioffri chuckled. “I bet you have. Would it have anything to

do with trying to impress that forest girl? Don’t get me wrong,

she is pretty, but the world is full of pretty girls, Nef.”

“You don’t understand,” Neftet growled. “You never will. I

owe the woman more than just my worthless life. I owe her…”

He searched his mind for the right word.

“Loyalty?” Gioffri added for him. Neftet nodded. The albino

sighed. “So be it. I too have followed my heart on this path of

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loyalty. We will try your plan, but I swear by Efnisien’s fiery

breath that if it doesn’t work I will start sharpening my blades.”

“Fair enough, my friend,” Neftet replied with a grim smile.

They sat silent around the fire for the next few moments, the

sounds of their companions in the background-the chopping of

wood, the sharpening of blades, laughter from the huge half ogre.

The slight melodious tones of a lute being tuned wafted along the

breeze.

“Oh goody,” Gioffri said, rolling his eyes. “We get to be

treated to another song.”

The soft voice of Tavish came to them then, singing over the

harsh chords form his lute.

“Our religious leaders claim to know it all

But which vice will be their crutch when they fall?

And who will pray for their sins?

Whose voice will be heard-no encouraging words.”

“Manufacturing the death of all we know.

Who manipulates the greed and helps it grow?

And who will pray for your sins? For your wrongs

atone?

In sin you are not alone.”

“You cannot find forgiveness

When putting trust in mercy

Overcome your weakness

Before you are sorry”

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“Peeling away all the truths that blind your eyes

Unveiling your purpose in life before it dies

And who will pray for your sins?

Whose voice will be heard? No encouraging words.

Who will pray for your sins? For your wrongs atone?

In sin you are not alone.

In the end you are alone.”

“Quite the cynical view,” Gioffri offered.

Neftet nodded, adding, “It seems our bard friend has

become quite disenchanted with the whole religion thing.”

“I’m sure the conduct of the church has had a little to do

with it,” the pale assassin replied. “Is it not them that has ordered

the massacre of thousands of non-believers and asked for gold to

save the souls of their flock while the temples grow bigger and

grander?”

“Aye,” Neftet nodded.

“Can’t see as I can argue with him, then,” The Ghost said. A

small round of applause echoed from the others crowded around

the bard. The assassins turned to see the man bowing. The sirite

bard merely stood, her face set in stone.

“Not sure the sirite approves,” Neftet said.

“An artist’s ego,” Gioffri said. “Now she needs to come up

with something to top that.”

“I think she can,” Neftet said.

Gioffri smiled. “Care to make a wager?”

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“With what?” the scarred assassin asked. “I have no more

coin.”

“If I win, you shave that gods-awful beard.” The Ghost said

with a grin.

“And what if I win?”

“You won’t.” Gioffri grinned, confidently. “You never

win.” The two men burst into laughter.

“What if I told you that I am leaving this group to put an end

to my debts?”

“I would call you a fool,” Gioffri said. “And a fool is safer

with company.”

“But his companions are not.”

“So,” Gioffri said with a smile, “when do we leave?”

“I think I found something,” cried MacLugh. He marked a

rune in the thick tome with a pudgy finger.

Elioth rushed over with a swish of his red robes and looked

over the portly man’s shoulder.

“What is it?” the Crystal wizard asked.

“I cannot read it,” MacLugh responded, clearly frustrated. “I

should have paid more attention on the day they taught magical

writing.”

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Elioth rolled his eyes. How had this whelp ever advance to

the power he exhibited with such a short attention span. Magic

took discipline and years of study, a nonstop regiment of reading,

memorizing, and experimentation. It galled him that this lazy

man had acquired any spells at all.

“Elymas isn’t fair,” he reminded himself. “Let me take a

closer look.”

He took a small orb from one of the many hidden pockets in

his sleeve and placed it to his eye. The writing on the page

expanded to three times its previous size. The rune in question

revealed itself in all its glory, a faded mark of ink masked by the

surrounding writings.

“You may be on to something,” Elioth stated. “I see it now.

The mark for cage.”

“Cage?” Maclugh scowled. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Elioth said, peering around the eye glass, “we

have the makings of a new spell. This could be the key.”

“There were plenty of talk about keys at the final battle,”

MacLugh huffed.

“True,” the Crystal Wizard conceded, “but we did not have

full understanding.”

“Are you saying that we didn’t make enough of an effort in

saving the city?”

“I don’t know what I am saying,” snapped Elioth. “And

don’t put words in my mouth. It is a theory. Nothing more.”

“And we should base the future of the kingdom on a

theory?’

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“That,” Elioth said, softly, “or we can trust in the new King

to set things right.”

“Good point,” MacLugh replied. “Now, how do we use this

knowledge and test your theory.”

“We go to the Library of Hope.” Elioth wore a huge smile.

The army snaked its way to the southwest leaving a scar on

the landscape. Discarded weapons and tatters of clothing, an

occasional shoe or ribbon was left behind to mark their passage.

Thousands of heavy hooves and boots left the earth upturned.

Ahead loomed the Sliabh Cruinn breaking the horizon with

its jagged peaks. The army made good time hindered no more by

the wheels of war.

Small contingents of forces, the subjects of various allied

kingdoms peeled off the main force and began the long journey

home. Every day the force grew smaller. Ioras’ army was now a

fraction of its prior glory.

Brennec Ban, mannach tracker, his pure white armor

spattered with mud, rode next to the Golden Child, silent and

sullen. A slight point to his ears was the only hint of his sirite

blood, otherwise he looked quite human; tall and rugged, face

covered by an auburn beard. At his side he wore a short sword.

To the other side rode the wizard Draiocht Intinn, head

encased deep within the hood of his sky blue robes. He rode with

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a rowan staff across his lap, his tattooed knuckles barely visible

beneath the long sleeves as his fingers tapped out a rhythm.

Ioras was angry, but kept it to himself. How could the King

demand the return of his forces now? They had held the Sinforce

back for ten years and now he wanted them to run? Did he know

that the act was just an invitation to Colm Sadach to claim

sovereignty over the abandoned ground?

Prionsia would be lost within weeks. Anglea’s staunchest

ally would feel abandoned to their fate. How could the King

allow that to happen? How much longer would the other

kingdoms hold out? The Kingsmen were the only barrier holding

the hordes back. If they lost the backing of the paladins, the king,

and the church, it would spell disaster. Ioras knew his only

course was to speak with Gearalt’ make him see reason.

Ioras didn’t enjoy war, not really. He had surrendered to it

with all his soul, guided by the unwillingness to lose the citizens

to slavery, depravity, or darkness. If he would not champion their

cause, then who?

Not the followers of Banba. They had crops to grow and

harvest, families to help raise. Not those of Oghma. They were

interested only in the arts, easing people from their worries by

allowing them to escape for a few moments from the drudgery of

their daily existence.

Gods forbid they rely on the protection of Nisien. Their

deity preached peace and non-violence. A wonderful edict, but

not real useful in a war. No, the forces of Eochaid, Alinard, and

Lugh would be the only ones left to protect the people of

Domhan and they were too few.

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“Damn the King,” Ioras cursed. “What is he thinking?”

Already he regretted saying it out loud.

“Careful, Golden One,” Draiocht said. “The realm has ears

everywhere. Even on the wind.”

“Then maybe he will hear me when I tell the wind how

stupid his decision is.” The Golden Child fumed.

“There may be more to the decision than a spoiled child

playing with power,” Brennec added, “but I doubt it.”

“It seems so sudden,” Ioras said. “We have always been

fighting the war with the authority of the high king Uilleam

himself. I have a signed document giving me dominion over all

his forces. Now it is to be revoked?”

The mage shrugged his shoulders. “Not for us to decide,” he

said.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Ioras asked, frowning.

“That depends on what transpires from such a decision,” the

mage said.

“You know what will happen,” Brennec added. “Do you

think Colm will stop now that we are no longer stopping him?”

They turned to see the dark mass that was the opposing

army fading slowly into the distance.

Again, the mage shrugged. “Ask your father for answers.”

“He will not answer,” Ioras sighed. “I have tried to divine

the rights and wrongs of it and cannot reach him. Something is

very wrong. I can feel it.”

“Then I must do what needs done,” Brennec stated. He

peeled from his friends and galloped his mount away to the west.

“Where is he off to?” Draiocht asked.

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“I think it’s better that I do not know,” The Golden Child

said. “I fear I may want to join him.”

“Why would you fear that?” Draiocht glared at him.

“Oaths taken in my father’s name are not to be taken

lightly.”

“Many oaths have been broken. Alinard’s own brother

betrayed him in the battle against Gariad, the wyrm of the earth.”

“Which is why we must be more careful with the oaths we

take,” Ioras sighed. “Have we not brought enough suffering to

Domhan?”

Draiocht had nothing to say.

“Have you thought over my offer of a truce between our

nations?” the messenger asked the King. Gearalt nodded,

vigorously.

“I accept on one condition,” the King said.

“What, pray tell, is that?”

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“I want you to find those who have wronged me,” Gearalt

sneered, “and bring them to me. A task obviously beyond the

incompetent staff that I have.”

“I know how to find the ones you seek.”

“How do you know who have wronged me?” Gearalt

frowned. The bastard better not be reading my mind.

“I see much that is otherwise hidden,” the creature hissed

through its wide slit of a mouth. A black tongue slithered across

its cheeks like a snake searching for prey.

“What a revolting creature you are,” the King said, crossing

his arms across his chest.

The demonoid chuckled. “You find my appearance not to

your liking?”

“You look like a lump of shit with eyes,” Gearalt stated.

“Where I am from,” the demon said, “there are creatures far

more revolting than me.”

“Remind me never to go there,” the king added.

“On the contrary, King. You have just the right kind of heart

to be most welcome there.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Gearalt fumed. How dare

this thing insult him to his face. “I have had men imprisoned for

lesser offences.”

“You know your cell would not hold me,” the creature

hissed. “Are you going to honor our deal or am I going to send

the army to raze your pathetic city to the ground?”

“Will you bring me the boy, Cannivone and that she bitch

Q’ilaqiqi?”

“On a silver plate,” the demon replied.

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“Then I accept. But remember, too your promise. The city

stands.”

The demonoid, Curvix, smiled. “No oath is forgotten,” was

his reply.

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Chapter Eleven

The Quest Of a Fool

“Greetings.”

Darius jumped as the female’s voice came from behind him.

He whirled to face the intruder and came face to face with a

robed figure, slender as a reed, jeweled rings glittering upon

black fingers. A hood covered the visitor’s face.

“How did you get in here?” the cleric cried, stumbling back

toward the desk, piled high with parchment. Upon it lay his

flanged mace.

“Relax, priest.” The dark figure removed her hood revealing

an angular, fine boned face, black as coal. White hair fell in a

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snowy torrent to her shoulders and over tapered ears. Violet eyes

bored into Darius’ own.

“I know you not.” the cleric said. “What is the meaning of

this.”

“My mentor brought the dragons to Talantas, ,” the sirite

replied with a nod. “I am Jezemiel.”

“How did you get in here?” Darius repeated.

The sirite chuckled. “The ways are not closed for one such

as I.”

Darius frowned. If the sirite could gain access to the temple,

how easy would it be for an assassin to sneak in and kill him? He

showed no fear for he was strong in the power of Alinard.

Luaithreach could feel it flowing from him like a mist.

“What do you want?” Darius crossed his arms and stood,

stoically.

Impressive, thought the sirite. The man shows no fear.

“I wish only to speak with the High Priest.”

“I have been given the title in interim,” Darius added.

“A good omen, then,” she replied with a flash of her pearly

whites. “My mission is clear. I must make sure the church

remedies its mistake and destroys the sword it has created.”

“I assume you mean the sword that Cannivone now carries,”

Darius replied. “Already the search has begun.”

“My master sends his greetings and aid in the form of his

servant.” She bowed. “However I can assist, I am ordered to.”

“The church of Alinard needs no aid from the Dragon

Lord,” Darius said with a scowl.

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Jezamiel frowned. “Do not bite the hand that offers to aid

you. Personally, I couldn’t care less if your little religion

collapsed. It would serve you right for the greed and corruption

that has festered within.”

“What do you mean?” Darius growled defensively.

The sirite’s chuckle was loud in the quiet chamber. “Ask the

Bishop Faroul. I’m sure your faith will be put to the test.”

Darius sighed. “My faith is tested every day. It is what gives

us the strength to fight against the dark ones.”

“I am well aware of the war between Alinard and his brother

Antius. It is not my concern. I take only the path my master leads

me on.”

“If what you say is true,” Darius said. “What am I to do? I

am hardly in any position to question the Bishop.”

“It must be done if your church is to survive,” the dark

skinned woman answered.

“I will think upon what you say,” Darius replied, sitting in a

chair with complete dejection.

“There are answers to your current questions,” the servant of

the DragonLord insisted. “You simply need to search for them.”

Darius instantly thought about what Avegor had said of his

own findings and felt a knot twist around his heart.

“I will get to the bottom of it,” he said.

“For some odd reason,” Jezamiel said, “my master trusts

you. I in turn will trust him. We will be watching you for any

further indiscretions. You have been warned.”

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The woman disappeared as quickly as she appeared leaving

Darius alone in the candlelight with thoughts coursing through

his head.

How much worse could things get? Mabsant rubbed his

temples, his cup of wine nearly forgotten. Gods give us strength

to survive this fool’s reign.

The corpulent advisor raised his head and looked into the

mirror. Dark circles of hanging skin drooped from his cheeks. No

word had arrived yet from Onvalay, the cleric he dispatched to

find and warn the bard.

Patience, he told himself. It takes time to build a plot. Even

a treasonous one. Was it really treason if it’s for the good of the

realm? There seemed to be a never ending array of questions and

no answers forthcoming.

Trembling hands raised his glass to his lips gone numb from

chewing upon them. They had bled and stung when the liquid

passed them, but aside from a slight wince, Mabsant was

unaffected.

He placed the fluted glass back on the table and turned to his

bowl of pratai soup. Already cold, he pushed it aside with a huff.

Though hungry, he had no desire to eat. Probably a first in his

life, he pondered, self-consciously rubbing his ample belly

through the velvet robes of amber hue.

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“Everything tastes like metal,” he spat. “I may as well eat a

dagger.”

Worry etched his face with deep creases and the hair at his

temples was beginning grow silver. A rumble from his belly

brought his attention back to the clay bowl.

He stared at the large clumps of white starchy vegetables,

the thick broth made from fresh cream. He sniffed the aroma of

the thyme, salt, and carrots. Mouth watering anew, he put the

bowl to his lips and guzzled the broth, heartily, not caring as it

dribbled down his chin.

“This could very well be my last meal,” he said to the

shadows. “I guess I should try to enjoy it.”

Tavish was awakened by a soft noise near his head. He

could feel Hennesi’s warmth as she lay huddled next to him

beneath the yeti fur. The sun was just rising in the eastern sky,

painting the ground in wavering shadows.

The swordswoman mumbled something in her sleep and

rolled away, pulling the covers with her. The brisk morning air

caught Tavish’s skin with a slap.

“Dammit, woman,” he mumbled. “Are ye tryin’ to be

freezing me, then?”

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The sound repeated. A soft rustle in the brush, as if

something moved within. The bard reached for his tunic,

scowling as he saw how badly in need of repair it was.

“Tsk,” he said. “Once me foinest clothes. Now a heap of

rags.”

He pulled the garment over his head and crawled upon his

hands and knees toward the small bush. Slowly, he reached for

the sword that lay just beyond the bedding. He could see the

huddled mounds of his companions like small mountains in the

snow. He could also see that sometime in the night, the fire had

gone out, logs still glowing a faint orange with the remnants of

warmth.

Lughdo snored, annoyingly.

“How did I sleep through that?” he wondered. “The beast

could tear down the very mountains, he could.”

Remembering the task at hand, he snatched the hilt of his

weapon and crawled through the snow, remembering too late that

he forgot to put on his breeks.

“Oghma’s arse!” he called as the biting snow came in

contact with his genitals. Hennesi roused from where she lay, her

long brown hair a disheveled mess. She glared at him, clearly

annoyed.

“Sorry, love,” the bard said, a hand rubbing warmth back

into his freezing member. “Thought I heard a noise.”

“Was time I was up, anyway,” she sighed. “Though you

didn’t let me sleep much.”

Tavish broke out in a boyish grin. “Are ye complainin’,

lass?”

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“No,” Hennesi replied with a smile. “Just the remedy I

needed for insomnia.”

“Could ye be a dear and toss me britches?” Another sound

rustled through the brush behind him. He caught the trousers as

they were hurled at him. Quickly, he pulled them on.

“’Tis a bit cold to be sleepin’ without a stitch on,” he said.

He knelt and pulled on his boots. “Lay still, love. I will

investigate.”

Hennesi sat up and stretched, not caring that the furs fell

down about her waist, revealing her voluptuous breasts. Tavish

admired them briefly before continuing toward the sound. One

thing to be said, Hennesi was not shy.

“What is going on?” Kimber called from across the camp.

Already, Neftet and Gioffri were stirring. Lughdo sat with a

frown, his tusks pushed nearly to his nose. Bailey merely

stretched and yawned, tongue lolling.

“There was a noise,” Hennesi yawned. Tavish crept upon

the bush as silent as a shadow. Again, he heard the rustling.

Sword raised, he parted the thin branches of the brush. He

lowered the sword when he saw what was inside. A large hawk

with three black feathers had been caught in a snare. The bird

beat its wings, thrashing about trying to free itself from the wire.

The hawk fixed Tavish with a dark eye and let out a piercing

cry.

“I’ll have ye free in a moment,” the bard said. The hawk

screeched as if in reply.

“That is the bird that has been following me,” Kimber said

from over his shoulder.

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“Ye sure have a way with animals,” the bard said, pulling

his hand from the bird’s snapping beak just before it bit him.

“Pitis! The thing tried to take me hand off.”

“We can’t have that,” Hennesi said, approaching them from

behind, naked despite the cold. “Your hands are something you

are quite adept with.” She smiled and the bard grinned back.

“Let me try,” Kimber said, rolling her eyes. “You two

remind me of teenagers.”

“Must be me youthful appearance,” Tavish said, combing

his goatee with two fingers.

“Or your stamina,” Hennesi replied with a giggle.

“Banba save me from fools,” the ranger sighed as she

reached for the entangled bird.

“Have I mentioned that he is good with his tongue as well?”

Hennesi said, her face wearing a huge grin.

“A time or two,” Kimber said, flatly. “Not that I care.”

“Your loss,” Hennesi said, shrugging. She turned from the

brush and stepped back to where her boots lay upturned near the

fire.

The ranger reached for the hawk and stroked its wings with

a gentle touch. She noted the eerie resemblance between the three

strange colored feathers at its neck and those worn by her

deceased friend, the druid Kisabuk.

“Ye seem to be fair with yer hands as well, lass.” Tavish

peered over her shoulder as she calmed the bird and slowly

pulled the twine from its taloned foot. A thin drop of blood ran

from a shallow wound where the rope had cut into the bird’s

flesh.

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“I merely make the animal feel safe and secure before I

charge in and try to aid it. Humans are notorious for killing for

pleasure.”

“Speaking of pleasure….” Hennesi mumbled.

“Do you think of nothing else?” the ranger growled.

“What?” the swordswoman said, innocently. “I was just

thinking about breakfast.”

“Mmhmm,” Kimber mumbled as she took the hawk from

the brush. It gave out a loud cry.

“My idea of breakfast may differ from yours of course,”

Hennesi added, still grinning.

“You two rut like rabbits,” the ranger said.

“Thank ye,” Tavish said with a small bow. “I’ll take that as

a compliment.”

“It wasn’t,” Kimber sighed. She gently wrapped the hawk

in her cloak and placed it by the fire.

Already, the others had roused and nearly finished preparing

the grouse for cooking. Lughdo sat near a large tree, humming

and shoveling blueberries into his mouth.

Gioffri sat silent, honing his blade with a fist sized stone.

Neftet stood alone, deep in thought, staring into the woods.

Q’ilaqiqi and Onvalay were engaged in a spirited discussion on

the merits of religion or, in her case, the merits of faith over

religion.

“Faith is the pillar that holds people together in dark times,”

she argued, “not a mandate from a group misreading a book.”

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“The word has been sent directly from the Gods,” Onvalay

insisted. “Bach Bychan carved the very tablets from the stones of

Gehenna.”

“And the priests have twisted those words to meet their own

needs,” the bard growled. “I have faith in Sithic to guide my

path, but I do not spend my life trying to please him.”

“Did you think maybe life would have been different for

you if you had?”

Q’ilaqiqi shook her lustrous golden locks. “I chose my own

path. The decisions and the consequences are mine alone. I do

not need to blame a God for my own problems.”

“How about praying for forgiveness?”

“When you have no regrets,” the bard said through her teeth,

“you have nothing to be forgiven for.”

The others left them alone to their conversation. Neftet had

a few thoughts on religion he would love to share, but he decided

to hold his tongue. He and Gioffri exchanged a silent glance and

a brief gesture with his fingers communicated his intent. Gioffri

sighed and nodded. Brawth and Bolan busied themselves by

trying to re-stoke the fire.

“A fine day for travel,” the albino spoke, suddenly.

“We agreed to camp and wait,” Kimber said.

“You did,” the assassin replied. “I made no such promise.”

“Well good riddance to you then” the ranger snorted in

indignation.

“I go as well,” Neftet Grimm said. “The longer I stay, the

longer we are all in danger.”

“I am not afraid,” Kimber said, her eyes narrowing.

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“I know,” the assassin replied, placing a scarred hand on the

ranger’s shoulder. He looked deep into the green pools of her

eyes. “I will not put the others in danger.”

“We are many and can…”

Neftet interrupted her with a finger to her lips. “If any harm

came to you on my account,” he admitted, “I would be

devastated. For the first time in my life I know what it means to

love. I do not expect you to reciprocate the feelings, but I cannot

live with myself if I put you in danger.”

Kimber was shocked. “Love?” she huffed. “What would you

know of such an emotion? You have been nothing but a killer.”

The words stung Neftet like a slap to the face. He looked

away.

“You are right,” he said. “Blood has stained my hands since

I was a small child taken in the night by the Fangs. I have taken

life without thought or provocation and been paid well to do so. I

have never known any other God other than Marbhan. You

cannot understand how it feels to never know anything but

death.” He sighed. “Now to have something else inside my

heart,” he returned his gaze to her, “makes me want to change

my life.”

“Noble,” the ranger said.

“To have that change,” the assassin added, “I need to sever

ties with The Fangs. To do that I need to be removed from

service or kill the assassin master, Rhollo. I have never known

the concept of friends. Now, I feel I am surrounded by them. I

cannot let others be harmed for my doings.”

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“Wait upon it,” Kimber said. “We can go together, all of us,

and exact revenge for all the lives that were stolen.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Gioffri intruded. “The whereabouts of

the lair is a closely guarded secret. They don’t let just anyone in.”

“What makes you think they will let you in?” the ranger

asked.

“They will let me in,” Neftet growled, “or I will tear the

fortress down around them.”

Suddenly, the campsite erupted into flame. Flaming casks of

oil were being hurled into their midst from afar. Dark figures

could be seen flitting between the trees all around them.

Lughdo jumped to his feet with a roar, dragging his huge

axe in a two handed grip.

“We are attacked,” shouted Bolan, axe instantly in his fist.

Brawth followed suit, swinging his greatsword before him and

glancing furtively around for an opponent. Q’ilaqiqi and Onvalay

scrambled for their weapons which lay yards away as overhead

another flaming barrel lit up the sky.

Hot ash and oil rained from above, singeing skin where it

touched. Bailey howled in agitation, her nose to the sky. The

mercenaries ducked beneath the falling embers and made their

way quickly toward the dark figures circling the camp.

“Friends of yours?” Kimber asked Neftet. He opened his

mouth to answer, but she was already in motion, a borrowed

bow in hand, fingers curled around a thigh length arrow covered

in black runes.

She aimed at a dark shadow, muttered an arcane phrase, and

let the arrow fly tracing its flight through the burning sky. The

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arrow honed in on its target, turning to strike behind the large

tree. She heard a cry as the shaft impacted with flesh. A figure

dropped from behind a large oak, gripping its thigh.

“Avoid the kegs,” the ranger cried. “ Push them back.”

Those who heard scrambled to follow the suggestion. Lughdo

was out of earshot and trudged his way forward where several

figures faded in and out of darkness. The attackers were using the

thick forest to their advantage.

Another flaming cask exploded in a shower of hot fire.

Brawth fell to his face in the snow, cursing and sputtering and

spit mud from his mouth.

“Bollocks,” he cried. “Kill them bastards.” Bolan sprinted

toward the closest shadow weaving his way across the

treacherous earth. His booted foot struck the upturned root of a

large oak and he tumbled out of the path of a thrown dagger. He

felt the breeze as it passed over his neck. Then he rolled in the

snow and lay prone for a few moments.

Tavish and Hennesi huddled behind a large boulder. Kimber

could see the flames burning the brush on the other side and she

chewed her bottom lip in frustration. Somewhere in the woods,

Bailey let out a terrible howl. Onvalay rushed forward like a bull,

head down and mace gripped in his meaty fists. Q’ilaqiqi lay face

down, hands covering her head.

Lughdo crashed through the brush ignoring the bite of the

brambles on his thick hide. He roared as he spied two dark clad

men, their faces painted to resemble skulls. Dark paint seeped

down their cheeks like tears of ink.

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“The two men rushed in unison, one swinging a scimitar, the

other a kilij. The half-ogre’s axe was wider than both men put

together and with it, he blocked the wild swing of the scimitar.

He felt the kilij strike his arm, leaving a garish wound that

fountained dark blood.

He roared in pain and reversed the swing of his axe. The

dark clad man jumped backward, the huge blade barely missing

his torso. Meanwhile, Lughdo reached out and grabbed the other

man by the front of his cloak, lifting the assassin from the ground

as easily as he hefted his axe. The scimitar fell impotently to the

frozen ground.

The man’s skull eyes widened in fear for a mere moment,

before the half-ogre threw him forcefully against the nearest tree.

An audible crack filled the air as the man’s spine cracked. He

crumpled at the base of the tree and Lughdo turned back to the

other man.

“You are even uglier than Neftet,” the man said, holding his

kilij in two hands and walking in a wide circle on the balls of his

feet.

“Him broken,” Lughdo said, pointing at the crumpled form

of the scimitar wielder. “You next.”

The assassin smiled, the garish paint giving him a demonic

appearance.

“All we want is the traitor,” the man said. “Give him to us

and we will let the rest of you go.”

“Me think not.” The half-ogre snarled, his great tusk

scraping along his leathery cheek. “Him friend. You want? You

take.”

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The man sighed and shrugged. “I offered to make this easy.”

He stepped forward faster than Lughdo could swing his great axe

and the half-ogre again felt the sharp blade of the kilij slice his

abdomen. He reached for the man, but he was already beyond the

half-ogre’s expansive reach.

Lughdo groaned in frustration. The man was fast. He knew

if he could get his hands on the human, he could tear him limb

from limb, but the man stayed just out of reach only darting in to

leave another shallow wound on Lughdo’s body.

Already blood flowed freely from several wounds on

Lughdo’s hide. The snow turned dark where the gore splashed

and was turned to slush by the huge ogre kin’s weight.

The assassin smiled again, infuriating Lughdo. The half-

ogre stopped and stood, breathing heavily, his breath coming in

bursts of vapor. Blood ran down his huge forearm and into the

palm of his hand making the grip on his axe slippery.

“I watch humans kill father,” Lughdo grumbled. “I never

ask for revenge. Now, your blood call me.”

The man darted forward again, but this time Lughdo was

waiting. Axe forgotten, he let it fall to the snow packed earth his

gaze never leaving the man’s long, heavy blade.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. The blade

descending; Lughdo catching the man’s wrist with a taloned

hand. The slight twist that caused the arm to fracture with a loud

crack. The man screamed in agony as his bone split through the

skin and showered them with gore. The kilij fell, heavily.

“In name of Alinard,” Lughdo breathed. “You die.”

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The man started to speak, but the half-ogre, though

weakened by his wounds, lifted the assassin overhead and

brought him down with such force across one knobby knee the

man’s skeleton broke in two at the pelvis, his body folding nearly

in half.

Bleeding and weary, Lughdo collapsed in the snow.

Onvalay met the first assassin to block his path with a

helmet to the guts. The man doubled over, vomiting out the

remnants of his lunch.

“I didn’t expect the inside of a man to look like that,” the

cleric said. “I expected it to look more like shite.” Before the

man could recover, the abhac’s mace crushed him into the

ground, his head a crimson smear.

He stood over the corpse, looking for more opponents. A

flaming cask came toward him and he ducked beneath it, feeling

it burn on the back of his hands. He gritted his teeth and

stumbled forward.

“By Bach Bychan’s beard,” he cursed. “You shall not win

this day.”

Kimber watched the abhac with trepidation. Fool cleric,”

she thought. At her back, Tavish stepped aside to avoid another

flaming cask. Though they were small, the missiles were

numerous and it still took great strength to toss one such a long

distance.

“Something else is out there,” the ranger said as Tavish

nodded in agreement.

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“Brawth,” she shouted above the din. “Take out whatever is

hurling the casks.”

“Easy for you to say,” the mercenary grumbled, but he

fought his way through the fiery rain deeper into the forest.

Bolan grinned to himself as he slashed another man across the

chest with his axe, splitting the man in two.

“How many are there?” Onvalay grumbled. Another howl

split the air, followed by an all too human scream. Kimber

grinned. Bailey was on the hunt. Pray to all your Gods,” the

ranger thought. She had seen the dog’s deadly jaws tear apart a

full grown bull, so she knew no mere human stood a chance.

“What is with people trying to burn down the forest?”

Gioffri asked from somewhere to her side. “I mean honestly.”

Of Neftet she could see no sign, but it wasn’t really

surprising. The man had made a career of being unseen. He was

in his element, a shadow of death. She was thankful to be an ally

of the man, but had no pity for his enemies. Whatever fate they

were given, they brought upon themselves.

Another cry of pain erupted from the woods and she heard

Brawth cry out in triumph. She made to step forward, but another

cask exploded nearby, knocking her from her feet. Breath was

forced from her lungs and when she tried to suck it back in, the

searing air burned her lungs. She collapsed, coughing violently.

Weakly, she gripped the hilt of her red bladed sword. The

sound of booted feet approached at her head. She glanced up to

see the grinning, painted face of one of the assassins. The man

held a crossbow to her head.

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“Could this be the one?” the man asked himself. “Is this the

woman that caused our Neftet to betray his master?”

“Bite me,” the ranger said.

“I will do that and more,” the assassin stated. “I hope you

taste as good as you look. Get up.”

Kimber began to struggle to her knees, tightening the grip

on her sword.

“You think me a fool?” the man asked. “Drop the blade and

stand so I can see what treasures I have found.”

Where in the Hells were Tavish and Hennesi? She knew

they were nearby. She could still see the rock they were using as

shelter.

“Kill me and be done with it,” she said in defiance. The man

laughed.

“Maybe later,” he giggled. “A man should be allowed to

enjoy his spoils first. Besides,” he began to circle her, crossbow

never aimed anywhere but at her head, “my mother told me never

to play with my food. Of course, I never did listen to my

mother.” He burst into a raucous laughter.

“Turn around,” the man ordered Kimber, “so I can see what

I have to work with.”

Slowly Kimber turned, the man glaring at her, hungrily. She

could feel his gaze burning on her well- muscled thighs, her

breasts, her shapely behind.

“Stop,” the man said when her back was toward him. She

did. The man mumbled something, approvingly.

“Nice,” he said. “I like the ass, particularly, but then I

always have been an ass man.”

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“More an ass,” Kimber growled , “than a man.”

“We will see about that,” the man said. Sounds of battle still

filtered to them from the woods. She was alone with this

madman. “Banba protect me,” she thought.

The man reached out a hand to feel the roundness of her

buttocks through her doeskin breeks. Kimber recoiled at the

man’s touch, but stood still taking the indignity with a stoicism

honed from a lifetime of being seen as an object of lust and not

taken seriously. It had been the fatal flaw of many men.

“I think I will take you as my prize,” the man told her. He

squeezed her left buttock with his hand. Then he cried out.

Kimber heard only a screech and flutter of wings. She

whirled to see the hawk tearing at the man’s face with sharp

talons. The man screamed and cried out in agony. The hawk flew

into the forest.

“My eyes,” the man wailed. “The beast took my eyes.”

Kimber leaned down and grabbed the hilt of her red sword.

“I will take the rest,” she whispered. She rammed the blade

into the man’s genitals and relished in his scream.

They couldn’t get close to the strange machine that tossed

the flaming casks. Brawth, Bolan, and Onvalay watched from the

shelter of a huge willow as the orc placed the kegs in a metal

basket hanging from a wooden arm. These he lit with a torch and

sliced a restraining rope with a wickedly sharp dagger. The arm

shot forward, tossing the flaming casks into the sky. Around him

were ten black clad men with crossbows.

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“We need to get closer,” Brawth muttered. “Damn those

crossbows.”

“We sure could use Dien right now,” Bolan replied.

“Maybe we should just rush them,” Brawth offered. Bolan

scoured him with an abrasive look.

“And have them shoot us down before we could take three

steps?”

“I don’t hear you making any suggestions,” the half shaved

barbarian grumbled.

“As soon as I come up with one that doesn’t involve

suicide,” Bolan said, “I will offer it.”

“We have to do something,” Onvalay added. “Otherwise our

companions are in danger.”

“Maybe Sithic will appear again,” suggested Brawth.

Bolan shook his head. “Only if the forest is in danger. The

fires are burning from outside the forest. Shooting from clearing

to clearing to avoid inciting the wrath of the LeafLord. Very

ingenious.”

“Now you praise our enemies?” Onvalay looked at him

quizzically.

“Respect where respect is due,” the mercenary stated. “To

underestimate an opponent is to die.”

“I trust in the power of Bach Bychan,” the abhac priest said

and he took a step forward.

“Fool,” shouted Brawth. “What in the Nine Hells are you

doing?” He took a step toward the obviously mad cleric, but his

companion halted him with an outstretched arm.

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“Let him go,” Bolan said. “Fools are always dying for their

faith.”

They watched the abhac make his way with slow, tentative

steps toward the large contraption. Ten crossbows aimed at the

squat figure as he approached. Onvalay held his hands to the sky

as he muttered a prayer to his God.

The orc wore a crooked, tusked smile as he cut the rope

again letting the flaming cask fly skyward, arcing over the trees

to explode in the distant clearing.

Several crossbows left with a twang, but most fell short at

that distance. One or two bounced from the cleric’s thick armor

to land at his feet. The mercenaries exchanged a curious glance.

Then, the contraption exploded in a spray of splinters.

A huge rock had crashed into the flame throwing machine

from the side. Their gaze drifted to where the ettin emerged, the

cackling bwbach upon its shoulder.

“We found our savior after all,” muttered Bolan. Brawth

grinned and took off at a sprint toward the surprised assassins.

“Damned hot headed fool,” Bolan said, shaking his head. He

stepped forward to follow.

Kimber ducked back from one more flaming cask. Small

puddles of flame burned all around the campsite. Her

companions were scattered. She could just see Gioffri up ahead,

kneeling down at the corpse of one of his former brothers. He

snatched something from the bleeding corpse and rose, looking

around for any survivors.

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Bailey had ceased her howling which could only mean two

things; there were no more enemies or the hound was dead.

Kimber hoped for the former. Her dog was her dearest friend and

they had been through a lot together.

Kimber took a step forward, her boots crunching in a pool of

freezing blood. Of the hawk there also was no sign. The bird had

probably saved her life, she knew. Surely she was blessed by

Banba.

From the distance she heard the cries of victory, mingled

with cries of pain. She stepped over bleeding and burning bodies.

All were dressed in black. None of the dead were her

companions then. Gods are good.

A shout from Tavish came from ahead and Kimber trotted

over the frozen earth, her tread sure and steady. She could see the

bard standing alongside Hennesi looking down at what appeared

to be a large pile of debris. As she came closer she saw that it

was the body of the half-ogre. The ranger’s heart sunk.

“Lughdo,” she cried. The half-ogre lay face down in the

snow, blood pooling around his massive body. There were still

shallow breaths filling his lungs. Relief spread through her

breast.

“He still lives,” Tavish said.

“Onvalay!” Kimber yelled at the top of her smoke scarred

lungs.

Nuzzgo the ettin swatted the bolts aside as if they were flies.

He could see the terror in the eyes of the strangely painted men

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as they quickly made to reload. An ugly orc growled and pulled a

notched cutlass from a red sash at his waist and rushed the ettin.

From his shoulder, G’narish barked orders in a guttural

tongue. He laughed as the mercenaries waded amongst their

midst, blades tearing through unprotected flesh, staining the

snow crimson. Several of the painted men fled, leaving deep

footprints in the snow.

Bolan roared a battle cry and tossed his axe with all his

strength. He watched the blade tumble end over end until it

struck a fleeing man in the back with a splatter of gore. The

assassin tumbled face first, his body bending nearly in half as the

momentum brought his feet almost to his head. The man was

dead before he even hit the ground.

The orc ducked beneath the grappling arms of the ettin.

G’narish scrambled to the opposite shoulder, hands digging into

a pouch. The orc swung his cutlass, powerfully and fearlessly,

but it merely bounced from the ettin’s hide, impotent and

worthless.

With a cry to Cobhthac, God of the dark folk, the orc leapt

forward, the cutlass scoring a deep gash across Nuzzgo’s chest.

The ettin brought the small tree gripped in its hairy fist down in a

huge arc. The orc dived, but the tree struck his legs, crushing

them into the earth. The scream was deafening.

The ettin raised a foot and brought it down, crushing the

orc’s skull into pulp and abruptly ending the screams. The

mercenaries, breathing heavily and bleeding from several minor

wounds, peered across the clearing for more enemies, but there

were none to find.

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Bolan limped across the ground and recovered his axe,

embedded so deep in the assassin’s back, he had to place a foot

on the corpse’s shoulder and pull. He wiped the wide blade upon

the dead man’s clothes and limped back.

“Again we survive,” Brawth grinned. “Damiar must be

pleased.”

“It does seem we are indestructible,” Bolan agreed with a

curt nod, “but let’s not get too cocky.”

“A good thing it was that I stayed in the area,” the bwbach

said from the ettin’s shoulder.

“Aye,” Onvalay agreed, attaching his mace to a thin cord at

his waist where it slapped against his thigh. “And well timed.”

“I do not approve of humans trying to burn the forest,”

G’narish said through the mask. “As I have said before.”

“I have misjudged you,” the cleric said, “and for that I am

sorry.” The abhac bowed low.

“Not the first time,” the bwbach said. “If I had any feelings,

they wouldn’t even be hurt.”

“I shall pray to Bach Bychan for penance.”

“Don’t ask the Gods for any favors on my account,” the

bwbach waved him off.

Just then they heard the cry split the air.

“Onvalay!”

Q’ilaqiqi cowered behind another rock as the flames

scorched overhead. She was cold and helpless, her weapon and

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harp buried deep in the covers across the camp. She cursed to the

flaming sky and crawled on her belly through the muddy snow.

She held her head down to avoid the liquid fire that spilled

from the casks as they tumbled overhead. She came to a large

tree where she rose to her hands and knees and leaned up against

its trunk. She rose her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms

around them.

The roaring of fire and the clash of battle came to her

tapered ears. It was nearly deafening.

“Damn the outside world,” she found herself crying out.

“And damn the Prince and all the humans and their destructive

ways.”

The roar of the flames was loud enough to drown out her

words. Even to her own ears. There was a slight buzzing as if

bees had built a hive in her head and she shook her head to clear

it.

She was disoriented; didn’t know which way she had

crawled. She glanced around, furtively, seeking her companions.

She could see the shape of the ranger standing in the distance, a

dark shape circling her. Another cry of pain caused her ears to

prick up, the sound carrying on the breeze. With a deep breath,

she found her courage and spun from the tree. Deeper into the

woods she ran, making not a sound. She was the wind blowing

across the fallen leaves, plastered to the ground by the weight

and fury of winter’s hold.

Breath ragged, she stopped at a large fir. Placing her hands

against the rough bark, she began to chant. A warm glow

surrounded her hands, the tree bursting with light. Sanctuary

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spell finished, she slumped down to her haunches and sighed. A

shadow moved toward her, blocking the wan sunlight and

sending a chill across her skin.

Q’ilaqiqi, bard of the Rowans looked up and screamed.

Towering over her was a large muscular creature in dark leathers.

The head writhed with several tentacles, two red eyes set too

close together in its center. A maw, set sideways, opened and

closed, gnashing serrated teeth and dripping saliva. At the

creature’s side was a squat creature with glowing eyes and razor

tipped talons, its mouth a jumble of broken teeth.

“Q’ilaqiqi,” the short thing said. “Your time of freedom is

at an end.” The Face Eater next to it made slow rumbling sounds

in its throat, that the bard assumed was laughter.

She took a glance sideways, but knew she could not escape

from the monsters. Steeling her nerves, she crossed her arms and

tilted her chin up, regarding the black creature with jeweled eyes.

“Make it quick, then,” she said, defiantly.

“I do not seek to kill you,” the black beast chortled. “There

is someone who will pay handsomely for your return and I aim to

collect.”

“The Prince,” Q’ilaqiqi hissed. The creature nodded its

smashed head.

“You seem to be quite the prize,’ the thing gurgled.

“Though what he sees in you, I can only guess. Pretty enough,

though a bit thin to feed upon.”

The bard blanched, her skin going pale. “He is worse than

even I could have imagined,” she muttered, breathily. “What foul

darkness must live in his soul to consort with the likes of you.”

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The creature’s smile widened. The bard didn’t see how that

was even possible.

“You are most flattering,” the creature said, “but I’m afraid

your sweet words won’t save you. It might do you well to

remember that he is King now.”

“I will never vow allegiance to that boy.” She gasped.

“Something tells me he will change your mind.” The demon

grinned again. “Pain has a way of making us do things we

normally would not do.”

The Face Eater strode forward and before Q’laqiqi could

scream, long tentacles wrapped about her head, smothering her.

“Take her, Zawn.” The voice of the demon was muffled.

“The King awaits.”

Cannivone screamed himself awake. Drenched in sweat, he

remembered the dream. It had all seemed so real. Smothering in

darkness, something clenched tight about his face. Luaithreach

was at his side in a moment.

“What is it?” Luaithreach asked, her face becoming less

blurry as Cannivone’s vision cleared.

“A dream,” the boy said, voice trembling. “Nothing more.”

“Must have been one hell of a dream,” she said, scratching

her leathery skull. “That scream could have awakened the dead.”

Cannivone’s eyes widened in fear.

“The woman is a fool,” the sword sighed. “Put her out of

her misery.”

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Cannivone groaned and dropped his head back onto the

pack he was using as a pillow.

“Leave me alone,” the boy muttered.

“Fine,” Luaithreach grunted. “If you do not want comfort,

then none will be provided.” Feelings hurt, the woman stomped

off through the snow. Her face was a mask of agitation barely

held in check by an austere exterior.

“Every time I sleep,” the boy offered, “I see the face of an

Asharii.” Perinia’s face clouded his mind. “Then it all turns to

Hell.”

“What about when you wake up?” Luaithreach asked, her

attitude gone. The boy turned to her with sorrow filled eyes.

“Waking is worse,” he said. “That’s when the voices start.”

The dragon-born woman smiled in knowing. Everything

was beginning to make sense.

Avegor’s journey led him north and east, through the

treacherous footpath that made its way across the ring of

mountains and around the dark lake in their center. His body was

clad in the bright plate armor of his order, the double tined cross

of Alinard emblazoned on his breastplate. At his side hung a

well-worn axe with a cruel spike on the opposite end that was

handy in piercing through an enemy’s armor. Tied to his saddle

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was a long spear with a wide, sharp point. A fur lined cloak was

wrapped tightly around his frame giving him warmth.

The last known location of the Golden Child was on the

border of Prionsia and Galis, weeks to the east. He prayed to

Alinard that he would find the boy. His one advantage being that

the son of Alinard traveled with a large and diverse army. Unless

the man had moved from the area, he should spot the forces

easily.

The trail was slick from patches of ice. As the path wound

higher in elevation, the footing became tricky. The hooves of his

mount skittered and scrabbled for purchase on the narrow ledge.

Avegor peered to his side to watch the dislodged rocks as they

plummeted hundreds of feet toward the distant waters of Lough

Dorcha. A fall would be deadly, he surmised and he yanked on

the reins with all his strength to help his mount regain balance.

The treacherous trail only continued for a few miles before

widening and beginning its descent toward the far side of the

lake, but every step was taken withheld breath, especially during

the firm grasp of winter. With a silent prayer, he coaxed his

mount onward, patches of ice fighting them with every step.

A loud bellow came to his ears, then and his horse stepped

back, nervously chomping at its bit. Its eyes rolled with fear, ears

pulled back toward the beast’s head. Another yell echoed across

the mountaintops. Avegor reached for his axe.

He never saw the black fletched arrow that took his horse in

the neck. It reared, screaming in pain and he felt himself falling.

He grabbed at the reins as the horse bolted, feet scrabbling on the

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ice. The combined weight of his girth and the armor pulled the

horse sideways toward the jagged edge of the cliff.

“Alinard protect me,” he cried as they toppled over the side.

They searched the woods for the bard, but she had vanished.

Onvalay was frantic.

“It’s my head on a stake if I have lost her,” he cried.

“You can’t just lose someone,” Hennesi said. “She left or

was taken.”

Neftet looked around the destruction of the camp. Brawth

and Bolan busied themselves tossing handfuls of snow upon the

patches of flame that still burned along the ground. A prayer to

Bach Bychan had staunched the flow of Lughdo’s blood and he

sat, bandages tight around his abdomen. He tapped a talon along

the haft of his axe with one hand and filled his mouth with

blueberries with the other.

Neftet and Gioffri made ready for their departure, filling

saddle bags and packs with dried strips of meat, frost apples, and

the strange fruit from the plandalamh, known for its curative

powers. The assassin adjusted his wide sword upon his back.

Kimber stood behind, scowling, arms crossed across her

breasts. Bailey stood at her side.

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“I understand why you think you need to go,” she said, “but

is there not more strength in numbers?”

“Today only proved that nobody is safe as long as I am here.

I go to wash the blood of decades from my hands,” Neftet said,

softly. There was a sadness inside his dark eyes that the ranger

had never seen before.

Gioffri shook his pale locks and glared at the pair.

“I was always a fool for hastily muttered goodbyes,” he

murmured.

“The whole thing is foolish,” Kimber added. “It is the quest

of a fool.”

“Perhaps I am a fool, then,” the Neftet said. “But I will put

an end to this. It will be my death or theirs.”

“Make it theirs,” Kimber replied. “I tire of losing friends.”

They clasped hands and Neftet smiled. His face was full of

warmth, almost making Kimber forget the ugly scars. She gently

placed a hand on his whiskered cheek.

“We shall meet again in Fialscathac,” the ranger added.

“Then may the Gods smile upon us,” he said.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Gioffri added beneath his breath.

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Chapter Twelve

Blood of the Innocent

Horns sounded, echoing through the sky. From all around

came the minions of Colm Sadach in a seething mass straight out

of nightmare. Already, several companies had abandoned them,

summoned home by order of the King.

“They try to surround us,” the Golden Child cried. “We

cannot let that happen.” He grabbed the hilt of Analil and rushed

toward the oncoming horde.

The huge black bulk of Marbha Leisg and her ogre carried

divan could just be seen amidst the throng of dark folk. Several

fachan broke free from the pack, springing forward, teeth

gnashing. With a haunting howl, the thousands of Mhallacht

rushed forward in a great wave, led by a slight woman with

unkempt red hair. Few carried weapons, relying on strength and

filthy claws to rend their opponents.

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The first wave sliced through Ioras’ rearguard like a knife

through bread. Bodies fell to the earth dead or dying. Blood

soaked the ground.

A skeletal creature in tattered robes stood to the side of the

army waving its arms in small gestures. Lightning sprang from

the outstretched fingers of bone and struck, sending several

paladins sprawling, smoke curling from their twisted bodies. The

smell of roasting flesh filled the air.

Draiocht Intinn countered with a spell of his own, streams of

searing light pouring into the Mhallacht like a blade. One slack

jawed, obese man looked down at the hole in his chest and fell to

the ground, unmoving. The red haired woman looked up with a

sneer and Ioras felt his blood go cold. The eyes were blank and

deep as the abyss. Even from the distance he could sense her

malice.

Noinion Bui and Cunnartach Gra, the champions of the

Golden Child, formed a protective wall with their shields,

standing defiantly before the coming throng. Fingers twitched

nervously at the tips of weapons as they awaited the onslaught.

In the midst of the enemy army, a group of giants towered

over the rest of the crowd, clad in filthy hides and sporting waist

length beards of dingy yellow. They carried huge axes and waded

through the milling combatants as if fording a shallow river.

Bodies flew through the air to lie crumpled and broken to the

side.

A lanky woman dressed in tattered leathers let loose an

arrow from her re-curved ash bow, striking a giant in the

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forehead. The giant roared in pain and annoyance, but swatted

the offending shaft aside as if it were a bee.

“Caught in the open,” Ioras mumbled. “We are vulnerable.

Father, aid us.”

The giants made steady progress through the stabbing

swords and spears, the hacking axes, the swarm of arrows like a

cloud of gnats. Finally, one toppled, the spear of a paladin of the

Leonach Or piercing its heart. The giant fell atop the knight,

crushing him and Ioras grimaced.

“More death,” the Golden Child muttered. “I have caused

more death. Was it my vanity that started this war? Or am I truly

doing the will of Alinard? Will I ever rid my hands of all the

blood?”

Ceol Binn, bard of the Kingsmen overheard the words and

raised his voice to be heard over the ringing sounds of battle.

“You cannot be questioning the right of this. Colm would

destroy all that we have known and loved and leave the

kingdoms a wasteland. If your father is truly The Creator, he

would put out a hand to stop this.”

“Maybe I have disappointed him,” Ioras said softly. “And he

has abandoned us to our fate.”

“Snap out of it,” the bard growled. “Use the power he gave

you and show the enemy we are not to be trifled with.”

“I cannot save the day alone.”

Ceol grinned, feral and serious. “Fear not. We will protect

you with our lives.”

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Ioras closed his eyes and calmed his nerves, letting all doubt

flow from his mind like ink into a bowl of water. His breaths

became slow and deep. He began to change.

“Of all powers granted by Alinard,” the bard sighed in awe.

‘The Changing is the most amazing. Go forth and show them

again the great power of the gold dragon.”

Ioras grunted as his body contorted, once more in the midst

of shape changing. His jaw elongated, becoming a long snout,

full of razor sharp teeth. Scales, each the size of a shield,

sprouted along the length of his stretching frame. Sunlight

glinted from the scales, blinding the group of giants; each

stopping to hold up a hand to block the glare.

Seizing upon the opportunity, Corp Salach, abhac delegate,

stormed forward and with a mighty swing, severed the ankle of

one of the giants then tumbled aside as the beast toppled, crying

out in a rough language. The giant never had a chance. Before

the body even hit the ground, dozens of blades were hacking him

to pieces.

Ioras lengthened and grew with the popping of bones. Soon,

he towered over everything. Even the giants were tiny compared

to his vast bulk. Talons as long as a man sprouted from his hands,

now stretched into huge claws. He roared his defiance and spread

the membranous wings upon each shoulder. The resulting wind

buffeted the enemy and sent a swirl of blinding dust into their

faces.

The red haired Mhallacht snarled, but could do nothing but

stand her ground against the rising dust storm. Hands before her,

pushing futilely against the wind, she yelped in impotent fury.

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The enemy stunned, Ioras, the great Golden Dragon, sprang into

battle.

One sweep of the huge claw sent two giants to their knees,

blood fountaining from deep wounds. The others attacked, their

axes bouncing harmlessly from the dragon’s heavily armored

side.

Ioras opened his huge maw, the tentacle whiskers upon his

jaw and to each side of his face, trembling. Without warning, he

vomited a cone of fire and watched his victims wither beneath

the intense heat.

The armies of Colm Sadach turned back from the onslaught

of the dragon, leaving blackened corpses in their wake. The red

haired Soulless snarled and led her forces back the way they had

come, commanded by the voice of the wizard Deresor.

“I do not trust him,” Kimber said, watching the two

assassins fade into the horizon. Bailey looked up at her with

semi-intelligent eyes as if understanding her words and let out a

soft whimper.

“Trust who?” Hennesi asked.

“That pale assassin, Gioffri.” Kimber scowled. “Something

about him doesn’t feel right. How easily he turned on his own

without thought or provocation. It just feels wrong, somehow.”

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“Neftet is not a child,” her friend said placing a hand upon

her shoulder, “who needs looking after. He has made his

decisions as we all do.”

Kimber looked into Hennesi’s dark eyes. “Some decisions

are made hastily,” she growled, “without heeding good advice.”

“Would it make you feel better if someone followed them?”

Bolan spoke from nearby.

“They would see our group for miles,” Kimber said shaking

her head.

“You misunderstand.” The mercenary raised a fist. “I offer

the services of Brawth and myself. We can be unseen if needed.”

“We are in need of your sword arms,” the ranger stated.

“What of the rest of us?” Hennesi said with a glare.

friends.”

“Me strong,” Lughdo exclaimed.

“Let the mercenaries go,” G’narish said. “We will

accompany you. Nuzzgo is quite strong.”

“This is not your war,” Kimber replied.

“Is it not?” the bwbach hissed. “Did they not try to burn

down our very home?”

“I for one would trust them better where I can see them,”

Onvalay said, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Aye,” Tavish nodded.

Kimber let out a breath in resignation. “Very well. Brawth

and Bolan can follow. Are the rest of you with me?”

“We follow wherever you go.” Onvalay assured her.

“We go to Fialscathac to ask for the aid of the church,”

Kimber said.

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“What of the captive bard?” G’narish asked.

“We will also get the aid of someone who can be helpful in

that area. Onvalay can track her with the comb and we will find

someone adept at acquiring lost items to free her.”

“If only Toric were here,” sighed Hennesi.

Kimber smiled. “I never thought I would say this, but I

agree. His skills would come in quite handy.”

“Let us go,” Lughdo growled. “Me mad.”

“Actually,” Kimber said, reluctantly, “I have a different

mission for you, Lughdo.”

Lughdo listened with attentive ears.

She awoke in pain. Her cheek throbbed and she could taste

the coppery hint of blood upon her tongue. She found it difficult

to move, her hands stretched above her head and held tight by

some kind of manacles. One eye was swollen shut and her vision

was blurred, but Q’ilaqiqi could see enough to know she was in

serious trouble.

“Ah,” a voice said. “You rejoin the living.”

As her vision focused she could see the leering face of

Gearalt so close she could smell the wine upon his breath. She

realized, too that she was naked. She felt as if she had been

beaten by a shovel. Trussed up like a pig ready for a feast. In

pain, naked, and helpless. This is not my day.

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“The Face Eater did not eat too much of your memory, I

hope.” The King smiled at her without warmth. His voice held a

slight hint of satisfaction.

“I am told their methods are quite unpleasant,” he added.

“But you will pray for their embrace after I am finished with

you.”

She tried to speak, but her tongue was a swollen thing,

barely functional that seemed to fill her mouth, choking her.

“I remember the last time I saw you,” Gearalt sneered,

leaning even closer. “Do you?”

Q’ilaqiqi tried to spit in his face, but her tongue would not

cooperate. All she succeeded in doing was drooling down her

chin.

“You aren’t looking as beautiful as I remember,” he added.

“Pity. You and I shared something special. Alas, it is gone much

like your life will soon be. Don’t worry. I will let you live as long

as you are able to endure it. You were good at warming my bed

at least. If you act nice I will let you share it again. Briefly.”

A tear ran down the bard’s cheek and she choked out a sob.

Just kill me, she tried to say, but words would not form. She felt

the king’s rough hands as they caressed the skin of her cheeks,

her shoulder, breasts. Through her one eye she could see his

gaze, searching over every inch of her exposed body. He had

seen her naked before, but never in such a vulnerable position.

She tried to pull away, but the restraints held her fast.

“Gods save us all,” she thought. “If the king consorts with

such foul beings, then all is lost.”

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“Before you die,” the King promised, “you will be very

useful to me,” he smiled, his face dark with malice. “Very useful

indeed.”

Fennel was exhausted. Half crawling through drifts of snow

higher than his waist had taken a lot out of him. He could use a

brandy and a smoke, but there was neither to be had.

They had found a low hanging outcrop of thick stone and

made shelter beneath it. They built no fire for fear that the

zombies and the fachan would find them, easily. Many times

they had heard the passing of heavy feet to the other side of the

ridge, but so far the Gods had been kind and they had not been

discovered. He watched Yor tense whenever a sound came near.

The Ratu, Morrigan moved her head from side to side peering

into shadows for any foes. The two jagats sat, licking their paws,

seemingly calm and reassured. How long their luck would hold

out was anyone’s guess.

A sparse sprinkling of snow had begun to fall, leaving them

huddled and shivering in a tight pack. Harmoni could still hear

the heavy footsteps crashing through the snow and shivered as a

chill ran down her spine. She gripped her tiny sword and listened

to the sounds of activity all around her.

The soft whispers of mothers trying to stifle the cries of

their young could be heard all through the camp. A spell of

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silence would be useful,” Meladi thought. But we have no mage

and no priest.

A man sat alone away from the bulk of the crowd looking

despondent and disheveled. He muttered to himself and looked

skyward every few moments. He made the double cross sign of

Alinard across his chest and tried to ease the trembling that

coursed through his frame.

“I am paying for all the wrongs I have done,” he mumbled.

“Alinard has forsaken me.”

“Quiet, fool,” Meladi hissed. “Do you wish the fachan to

hear us?”

“I doesn’t matter,” the man replied. “It is too late. Where is

the legendary forgiveness of Alinard? Why am I being punished?

I have offered my life to him.”

“You selfish git,” the abhac warrior, Yor snarled. “Look

around. You think you are the only one who is suffering? We’d

be better off throwing you to the beasts and ridding ourselves of

your worthless hide.”

“I never should have trusted in the words of the priests,” the

despondent man growled. “Every word from their mouths has

been lies. A means to gather more followers and funnel gold into

their greedy little hands. What makes them so much better than

me?”

“I care not about the followers of your silly little god,” Yor

stated, coldly. “But if you don’t shut up, I will cut your tongue

out. We have women and children here, helpless, cold, and

afraid. Draw the attention of the fachan and I swear to Bach

Bychan that you will not breathe but a moment after.”

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The man blanched and returned to his muttered curses. The

human will become a liability, Meladi thought. I will have to

watch this one. Warily, she cocked her head, listening with her

large ears.

Morrigan crouched near the man and tried to comfort him.

There it was, the sound of heavy feet crunching through

snow. It was near, she could tell. The jagats rose to their feet,

growling. Meladi pulled her sword from the jeweled scabbard at

her side and moved her gaze across the huddled forms, mere

shadows amongst the falling snow.

Then the screams began.

The Coin’s Edge Inn and Tavern was a small but well-kept

dive just inside the main gate of Fialscathac. Perinia was led

down its narrow staircase into the dimly lit common room where

several marble topped tables filled a square room. Several

curtained off areas singled out the private dining areas. A

staircase wrapped around the interior leading to an upper loft

where doors lined a carpeted hall.

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Another door was guarded by a scarred and muscular

tarbhac dressed in a leather vest. A large brass ring adorned its

nostrils. Beside it was a huge morning star, riddled with spikes.

A long bar ran along the length of the far wall, behind which

stood a weary looking sirite with a strip of green hued hair, the

rest of his scalp shaven bald. He looked up as Toric entered, the

girl in tow.

“Gru Pointieers,” the bwbach called, a smile splitting his

round face. “As I live and breathe, you are still alive.”

“Barely,” the sirite said. “After my last visit to Talantas.”

He wiped his hands on a grimy towel and offered a hand toward

the diminutive Toric.

“So I heard,” Toric offered with a nod. “Things got a little

dodgy from what I was told.”

“Dodgy?” Gru sneered. “The city was overrun by diabhols

and dragons. Most of it was burning when we left. Those of us

who survived did so barely.”

“Chalk it up to your long years of experience,” Toric added.

“And a bit of Gad’s interference,” the sirite sighed. “What

brings you to me after so many long years?”

Toric grimaced. It had been awhile and he was notoriously

awful at staying in contact with any of his previous allies.

“I’ve been….busy.”

“Still running from the temple guards?” Gru grinned.

Toric’s face reddened.

“I really had to piss,” the bwbach said. “When you gotta

go….” He left the rest unsaid and Gru chuckled.

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“Who is your friend?” the bartender asked, lifting his

pointed jaw toward the young human girl standing sheepishly

behind.

“Just a girl I borrowed from the King’s cells.” Toric’s face

turned serious. “I was wondering if you could keep an eye on her

for me.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Gru became furious, his face turning a

deep red. “Always getting me involved in business that costs me

gold, blood, or expensive repairs to my inn.”

Toric lifted an eyebrow, incredulous. “From what I hear

Carraig used to be the one who brought trouble to your

doorstep.”

“He was,” Gru said with a curt nod, “and I swore I would

involve myself no more in the silly games of that mad corani.”

“Yet you were in Talantas during the destruction.” Toric

crossed his arms across his thin chest.

Gru sighed. “A mistake of bad timing,” he said. “I went to

visit a friend at his request and was pulled into a war. Some wild

haired bitch with red hair and a frightening sword.”

“I heard the tale from Skrubb,” Toric said with a wave of his

hand. “The woman was slain in the end, no?”

Gru nodded. “But the sword is still out there somewhere.”

“Carried by a young lad the King wants,” Toric huffed.

“This girl was the boy’s friend. The King used her as bait. Will

you allow the boy king to get away with this? Skrubb would

consider it a favor if you looked after her.”

Gru took a deep breath and gazed at the girl. She was quite

pretty as far as humans went. Deep blue eyes and straw colored

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hair tied up in a bun. Tiny scars upon each cheek marred her

otherwise perfect complexion.

“She can stay for a week,” Gru finally relented. “But she

will have to earn her keep. Understood?”

Toric and Perinia both nodded. She was used to hard labor

so it mattered little to her.

“One week,” Gru reminded them. “Then you will have to

make other arrangements.”

Toric agreed and with a final handshake he stormed from

the inn leaving Perinia standing alone and nervous with the

strange sirite.

“So,” Gru asked. “What skills do you have?”

Perinia didn’t even know where to begin.

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Chapter Thirteen

A Joyous Battle

Somewhere in the distance, a bell was ringing. Q’ilaqiqi

swam through her muddled mind towards a surface devoid of any

light. Pain had become her constant companion and fear stood at

its side.

Gearalt has gone mad. It was the only thought that came to

her pain addled mind. The royal interrogators had taken hot coals

to her neck, pincers to her fingers. Blades had sliced deep into

her soft flesh peeling it away like the rind of an apple.

Her eyes had been taken by a searing iron bar. She

remembered its red glow-the heat emanating from it before the

searing pain took her sight and then her consciousness. She was

not dead and the thought surprised her. She wished she were.

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Freedom from the bindings would give her opportunity to take

her own life, but the freedom was a fading dream.

Daily, the king visited her, gloating about his plans for her.

She was told that healers of Diancecht would replenish her body,

cure her most dire wounds, but her sight she would not regain.

“You were blind to all but your own selfish agenda,” he told

her. “So shall you be blind to all.”

A small misshapen shadow behind the boy king chortled,

yellow eyes glowing. It was the last vision she remembered and

it would last inside her head as long as she survived. She planned

on it not being too long.

Twisted fingers tried to reach backward toward the thick

metal of the manacles, but long and slender as they once were,

they would not comply. She wondered if she would ever play the

harp again. One last time before joining Sithic in his leafy halls,

is all she prayed for.

Alone in darkness, she wept, but her ruined eyes were

unable to form tears. The stinging and burning caused her to cry

out.

“The pain lingers, then? ”a soft sibilant voice muttered from

nearby.

Her tongue had healed, but she remained silent, wondering

who spoke.

“I had hoped the healing would have eased most of your

suffering,” the voice continued. She could hear sincere sadness in

the voice.

“Who are you?” she managed to squeak, her throat raw and

burning from the hours of screaming.

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“You must be thirsty,” the man said. “Forgive me. Where

are my manners?”

“Who-“ she started to say, but the man spoke over her.

“I am Cennedh,” the voice said, softly. “Priest of Diancecht.

It is my duty to heal your wounds so that they can inflict more

suffering upon you.”

“Why?” she squeaked. Soft hands touched her face.

“If it were up to me,” the voice replied, cracking with

emotion. “I would give you a merciful death. It sickens me to see

the state they have left you in. Once so pretty….” The man’s

voice trailed off.

“Kill me,” the sirite whispered. “Send me into Sithic’s

strong embrace.”

“I cannot,” the voice replied, the tone filled with regret.

“The King was insistent that I let you live. I have done so.”

Where is the famous mercy of your church?” she cried.

She heard the man sigh. “Lost,” he said. “Along with the

kingdom. I’m sorry child. I have done all I can.”

Her well-tuned ears could hear the scrape of cloth across the

stone. She was left alone in the constricting darkness.

“Curse all the gods,” she spat, falling into a dark chasm of

despair.

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Perinia was scrubbing the plates, vigorously, whistling a

tune her mother used to sing to put her to sleep when she was

four. She absently found herself admiring the craftsmanship of

the silver platters, their beveled edges reflecting the flames of the

huge brick oven. The smell of roasting boar and baking bread

mingled in the air, causing her mouth to water.

The sirite Gru had been a gracious host. A small cot had

been set up in a storage closet between crates of apples and

bottles of cooking oil. The chef, a grumbling, hairy man named

Zett, complained constantly about the invasion, but Perinia heard

no real malice. The man actually seemed to enjoy the company

and the help, contrary to the way he grumbled.

She was always given a huge portion of food and was able

to munch on as much bread as she could stomach as long as she

worked hard. And work she did, from sunrise to sunset.

The work wasn’t any different from that she had done in the

castle, scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots, delivering

meals to the guards. Somehow, this dark, quiet inn felt more

welcoming. She nearly felt at home in the Coin’s Edge and it

helped to ease the pain and insecurity of missing her parents.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the green haired sirite

approach until he spoke.

“They are Okain,” he said, startling her.

“What?” she said.

“The platters,” Gru said with a grin. “I saw you admiring

them. They are from the island of Okai. Very durable and worth

every silver I paid for them.”

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“They are very pretty,” she admitted. Her hands continued

to scrub the scraps of food from the shiny platters as she spoke.

“I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable,” Gru added,

“the day you were brought to me. I am not usually fond of

visitors.”

“I understand,” the girl replied, her eyes fixed upon the task

at hand.

“Cease the work for a moment,” Gru exclaimed. “You have

been doing more work in a day than any of the other helpers I

have hired has done in a week. You can take a break for a while.”

“Sir? I…”

“Don’t argue,” the sirite said. “I actually like you,” he

laughed. “For a human you are quite industrious.”

“Thank you,” she replied, averting her gaze-a sign of respect

for the ageless being.

“There is always a place for you here,” Gru added. “As long

as you would like. I’m really not as gruff as I pretend to be, you

know.”

She smiled. “I know. I see how you are with the clients.

Very gracious, indeed. Almost as if you were raised in a royal

court as I was.”

The sirite grimaced. “Breas forbid that.” Perinia could swear

she saw him shudder.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, changing the

subject. The platters were left to soak in the tub of rapidly

cooling water.

“The plates can wait for now,” Gru said. “I want to show

you the rest of the place. You can keep a secret, yes?”

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Perinia nodded, her eyes widening as if trying to rival the

platters she had previously been cleaning. Within them, Gru saw

a sparkle as if they, too were made of silver.

“Follow me on a guided tour of the Coin’s Edge,” the sirite

said with a sweeping bow. Perinia giggled at the exaggerated

show of grace. “Such as it is.” He said the last with a heavy sigh.

“It’s cozy,” Perinia countered.

Gru frowned. “It was opulent once. Two fires later-

dwindling my funds down to a pittance, I might add- and this is

what I have left.”

“Your business is good.”

“I offer many services to many different types of people,”

the former thief admitted. Not all of it is approved by the

church.”

“Which church?” Perinia asked.

Gru gave her a look which seemed to say, you really need to

ask?

“I offer services for any of mankind’s vices, perversions,

wishes, or dreams. For a price.”

“I don’t understand.” Perinia looked puzzled.

Gru led her to a door on the far side of the common area

where a hulking half-orc in thick chainmail that hung like

drapery, stood with arms crossed. Several earrings adorned his

ears and he wore an eyepatch stitched with silver. At his side was

the largest axe the girl had ever seen.

“What I am about to show you must never leave this room,”

Gru stated, his face going serious.

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Honored that he trusted her, Perinia nodded, not able to find

words for a reply.

“Groill,” the sirite said to the guard. “Open the door.”

The half-orc grunted in reply and turned, his fingers

fumbling with the key ring at his belt. The twist of a silver key

and the click of a lock, and the door swung inward, revealing a

small staircase heading down.

Noise assailed them, a cacophonous din that buffeted at

them like a fist. How had they not heard it before? She

wondered. Strange lights blinked in a pattern and the melodious

strains of a violin could be heard echoing from the room below.

“This is the real empire of Domhan,” Gru said with a smile.

The stairs led down into an immense room. Globes of light

hovered on the ceiling basking the room in a dense glow.

Numerous people stood at low tables rolling dice or sat with

cards in hand. Gold and silver flowed freely from hand to hand.

At one end was a small colored wheel where gamblers bet upon

which symbol the ball would land on, the winner exalting with

each victory.

Scantily clad women of all races and skin colors cavorted

about the room, some with trays of blue liquid, others selling

their own wares to the lustily leering men. Doors leading to

private rooms dotted the walls and Perinia frequently saw the

women leading their customers through them.

Another bar lined the far wall and behind it, happily

engaged in conversation with the clientele was a handsome sirite

with flowing raven hair and wearing a silver tunic. His hands

moved with fluid grace as he refilled mugs and slid piles of coin

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across the counter top making the money disappear behind the

counter.

“My brother, Gro,” Gru said. “He manages this end of my

business.”

Perinia was speechless. Never could she have imagined the

amount of activity going on just beneath her feet as she cleaned

and cooked for the strange sirite. How had she not heard a noise.

“Many religions frown upon these illicit activities,” Gru

said, “but one must do what one must do to earn a living.

Besides,” he added quickly, “I offer a service that none other in

this town are willing to offer.”

“Why are you sharing this with me?” Perinia asked,

stunned.

Gru shrugged. “I feel like I can trust you. There is an

innocence about you that defies all logic.”

Perinia blushed eliciting a chuckle from the green haired

sirite.

“Besides,” he added, “I thought you might need a job.”

Perinia paled. He couldn’t possibly think that she would sell

her body for gold. She took a step back.

Gru laughed. “I don’t want another harlot,” he reassured her.

“I could, however, use an extra hand serving this rowdy bunch.

Interested? The pay is four silver a night.”

Four silver? It was more money than Perinia had ever seen

in her life. More money than her parents earned in a month of

working for the O’Duibhs. She stared, mouth open, not knowing

what to say.

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“I know what you are thinking,” the sirite added, holding up

his hands. “You will be well protected by my bouncers.” He

indicated the five hulking ogres milling through the crowd,

growling at any who showed any sign of aggression.

“I tolerate no nonsense in The Coin’s Edge,” he said with a

smile. “Upstairs or down.”

“I don’t ….” Perinia stammered.

“No need to answer immediately,” Gru said. “Think on it. It

isn’t like we are going anywhere.”

Not going anywhere was exactly what Perinia was afraid of.

“Let me think on it,” she said, but she already knew her

answer.

Kimber lay atop the hill watching as a line of refugees

entered the town’s low wooden gates. At her side, Bailey

whimpered. She patted the dog’s head, reassuringly. For two

days they had stayed in the camp planning their next course of

action. They had reluctantly sent Lughdo to the priest-lich Lareili

for any aid she may offer. The priestess of the Temple of Many

faiths had raised the young Darius from the dead several weeks

before and seemed to be filled with power. Any help she could

offer….

A whine from Bailey brought her back to reality.

“It’s alright, girl.”

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“There it is,” Onvalay said from behind her. “The sister city.

Are you sure your friend will be helpful? Priests are known to

have strong convictions.”

“And faith in an invisible God,” added Hennesi, shaking her

head.

“Are not all the gods invisible?” Tavish crossed his arms. “I

have never seen even a wee glance of Oghma.”

“Do you believe he is around you?” Hennesi asked. The

bard shook his head.

“Oghma resides within us, lass. He has no reason t’be

wastin’ his time out in the real world,” Tavish said.

Onvalay nodded. “The real Gods manifest within their

followers. It is where they get faith from. Not from empty words

and promises from boy loving priests.”

“Can we save the religious debate until later?” Kimber

asked. “We have a task to complete.”

“Aye,” Tavish nodded. “That we can, girl.” Kimber bristled.

She hated being called a girl. She hadn’t been a girl for twenty

summers. She ignored the slight, knowing there was no vicious

intent.

“So called civilization,” Brawth said with a humph. “I trust

the northern savages before I would trust any of them.”

“Or a human savage,” Onvalay added under his breath.

Bolan smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “never once has Brawth

thought to betray our friendship.”

“Isn’t that grand?” Tavish muttered. “I know the feeling of

betrayal.”

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Hennesi rubbed his shoulder, gently. He shook it off,

angrily.

“I dunna seek pity, lass.” The bard turned away with a sigh.

“I can no return to the castle where I have lived for seven years,

because the prince dislikes me.”

“Is it that bad?” Hennesi queried, crossing her arms and

scowling. “To have such company?”

“No,” Tavish replied with a shake of his luxurious curl. “I’d

just like t’sleep in a bed again.”

“Sleep?” Hennesi said with a wide grin.

The bard grinned back, his anger forgotten. “Or whatever,”

he shrugged.

Kimber groaned and rose from her stomach, wiping her

hands on her breeches.

“Come,” she grumbled. “To the Gru Pointieers before I

regain my wits.”

Beneath Castle Dubh the hill was filled with a multitude of

caverns and corridors left behind from a previous civilization.

Most people avoided them, saying the souls of the dead roamed

freely, eagerly awaiting a chance to take revenge on the living.

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Through these dark corridors Gearalt prowled, his body still

deep in slumber, his yellow eyes seeking. A pack of francagach,

filthy rat men in tattered rags, followed, their eyes flitting

nervously. Clawed hands clenched weapons tightly in

nervousness. Gearalt paid it no mind. He wasn’t affected by such

mundane things as stale air-the stench of death. The francagach

chittered behind him drawing a wrathful stare. He opened his

wide mouth and chittered in reply. The rat men grew silent,

drawing further back.

The thing inside him wasn’t sure what he was searching for,

not exactly. It just knew that something lie buried beneath the

ruins of this ancient barrow. Foolish humans to build upon the

graves of so many lost souls, he thought. But convenient for my

purposes.

He flowed across the ground like a shadow, fingers scraping

against the hard stone. His nostrils wavered as he sniffed the air.

Suddenly, his thin lipped gash of a mouth widened in what could

only be called a smile.

“At last,” he hissed. “I have found you.” The filthy hands

felt along the floor of the cavern, disturbing a pile of bones with

a clatter. Elated, he gripped a thigh bone in his fist and hungrily

gnawed upon it, a long black tongue licking across its surface.

Seemingly satisfied he tossed the bone aside and smacked

his lips.

“I can taste the ancient magic,” he growled. “It is here the

ritual must be performed.” The rat men squeaked, nervously

behind him their beady eyes looking around for any surprises.

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There was only an inky blackness that even their nocturnal vision

could barely penetrate.

Gearalt squatted, carving strange symbols into the earth with

his fingers His eyes blazed yellow like beacons in the darkness.

He began to chant.

“Hear me, oh mistress of lost souls. Send me a harbinger to

manifest in your image. Let it reign on earth in your stead. Let its

presence send fear into the very hearts of those who defile your

resting place. May it bring you long overdue revenge.”

The air grew colder causing the rat folk to chitter loudly.

Their anxious voices echoed in the corridor, but Dubhaca was

past caring. Only his enhanced vision could see the shadows as

they stirred and rose like a fog of blackness.

“Who summons me?” a disembodied voice asked. “Long

have I rested without being disturbed.”

“Seek my heart,” Gearalt replied, “and you will know who I

am.”

The fog washed over him caressing every inch of his

misshapen frame. He could feel the tendrils invading his very

essence, trespassing into his mind. In mere moments, the fog

retreated.

“You have no heart,” the voice replied. “I can taste it.”

“Then you know what I am, “the King said. “Send me your

avatar so that we can wipe the temple vermin from the face of the

earth.”

“It has been centuries since I’ve had the strength to

manifest,” the voice replied, whispering the words in his

flattened ears.

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“You did not have the blood sacrifice to lend you strength,”

the demon purred. “I have brought just the thing for you.”

The black fog poured over the area as if sensing the

presence of the other creatures in their midst.

“This is filthy blood, “the voice growled. “You know that

there is more strength in the blood of the pure.”

Gearalt nodded, merely a shake of his head. “I’m afraid that

purity has been driven out of this world in the past few centuries.

Human behavior would make you proud. They are more violent

and bloodthirsty than all but Cadjal himself.”

“Speak not of the Demon Lord,” the voice hissed, recoiling.

“Long has he been my enemy.”

“I have need of you,” the entity inside Gearalt growled.

“Forget your petty vendettas. The Churches of Eochaid and

Alinard have destroyed your temple, built over it, their Gods

growing in strength. Weakening the powers of diabhol and

demon alike. The centuries have not been beneficial to our kind.

Ruthangad seeks a truce to rid the world of the human vermin

once and for all.”

“Why should I aid the Crusher of Dreams?”

“A second chance at glory,” Gearalt said with a smile.

“Antius, the destroyer seeks an alliance. The temples are ripe for

the taking. Inner turmoil tears at their very fabric. Lies and

dishonor threaten to topple their foundations into rubble. The

people turn from their influence in vast numbers.”

“Why?” The voice seemed curious. “Humans were always

so fanatical about their faith in Gods that never aided them. Why

now?”

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The entity’s grin widened. “A mistake was made. The truth

has been discovered. They now know the church cannot be

trusted. Every lost disciple weakens their power. Aid us and

reclaim your place in the Pantheon.”

“What you offer sounds sweet. What is in it for me?”

The dark soul infesting the King chuckled. “A chance to

rebuild your temple in all its glory. The blood will be sacrificed

in your name. We will restore your prior glory and take our

places on the earth, no longer imprisoned in the Seven Hells or

the chaotic layers of the Abyss.”

“The power of the blessed stones keep me trapped. To feel

the sun again…” The voice grew distant. The entity knew he had

her. The Soul Stealer, Myala would soon aid their cause. He

could feel it.

“Yes,” Dubhaca added, with a whisper. “Take your sacrifice

and send me your power.”

“Yesssss….” The fog of darkness spread as if blown by a

brisk wind. It enveloped the frightened rat men like a cloak.

Their squeals of fright quickly turned into cries of pain. Their fur

disintegrated, the flesh falling from their bones in great gobs of

bloody flesh. In moments nothing remained but a gruesome pile

of fur and weapons. The black fog retreated.

“I approve of your sacrifice. Consider the truce to be in

force. But if Cadjal betrays me again it will be you who suffers

first.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Gearalt’s body replied,

graciously.

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“You may have the aid of my Eyewings,” Myala purred.

“May the battles begin.”

The dark soul shivered in pleasure and delight. How the

temples would tremble!

“It will be a joyous battle,” he hissed.

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Chapter Fourteen

By All the Gods

The light was intense. Ioras opened his eyes with a groan.

He found himself abed again, no recollection as to how he

arrived there. The last thing he remembered was the pain of his

body twisting.

“The curse” he mumbled.

“My lord?” a familiar voice said from his bedside. To regain

his focus, he rubbed at his eyes. The beautiful face of Naomh, his

priestess stared down at him with a huge smile.

“How long was I out this time?” the Golden Child gasped.

“Two days,” the priestess replied. “You destroyed their

giants, Ioras. You spread them across the meadow as if they were

wooden toys.”

“Fantastic,” he groaned, tongue burning with sarcasm.

“Water?”

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“Of course,” Naomh said, placing a wooden cup to his

dried, splitting lips.

“Why does the transformation always dry me out?” he asked

before gulping down the clear, refreshing liquid.

“Only Alinard knows.” The priestess shrugged. “He bestows

the gift. It is up to Him to determine the cost.”

“How many did we lose?” Ioras grumbled, changing the

subject.

Naomh’s face clouded over. “Too many I’m afraid.”

“A number, Naomh. No riddles.”

She nodded her head, sadly. “The abhac contingent have left

for Abhac Teach. The Leonach Or and Uachtar Lamh have

abandoned us, called back to their temples by order of the King.

The Crimson Keep prepare to leave as well. The sirite and

bwbach are still awaiting word from their respective kings. Many

paladins lie dead on the battlefield”

“We recovered the bodies, surely?” Naomh frowned. Ioras

groaned. “What of the mercenaries from Thoq? Our barbarian

allies? The capallach?”

“All still with us as far as I know.”

The Golden Child sat up, wincing as his body screamed in

protest, sending pain shooting through his ribcage.

“I feel as if I were stepped on by a giant,” he said.

“Actually,” the priestess said. “You were.”

Ioras grimaced at the realization.. “Our magicians. Are they

still allied with us?”

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Naomh nodded. “There has been no change. Though, we

lost a few in the last battle. Draiocht assures me that all the

Colleges still support our cause.”

“Even when the King does not?”

Naomh smiled, slightly. “You know as well as I that the

Arcane Colleges have always had their own agenda, despite the

King’s wishes. They will do what is best for them.”

“That is what I am afraid of,” Ioras groaned. “What if this

war is no longer what is best for them?”

“It is for them to decide,” she said, shrugging. “Alinard’s

will is Alinard’s will.”

“If we lose the support of the magicians,” said the Golden

Child. “All will be lost.”

“We must pray that does not happen, then.” Naomh said.

“I would begin now,” Ioras replied, falling back into his soft

pillows.

The voice of the silver dragon roared through the

underground chamber. Torchlight reflected from his shiny scales

like a thousand tiny suns.

“Why have you summoned me?”

Elioth bowed, his hand brushing the stony earth.

“Great Arkamath,” he began. “We are in need of aid.”

“A fact apparent by your arrogance in summoning me here,”

the dragon roared. “Get to the point human.”

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“Domhan has been threatened by dark forces,” MacLugh

said from where he stood in the darkness. He was thankful that

Elioth had left the irritating monkey behind to be fed by one of

the numerous Crystal Golems that inhabited the tower.

“I did not ask you to speak,” Arkamath hissed. “I speak with

he who summoned me.” The dragon stretched his serpentine

neck to its full length, a wedged head of enormous size placed

before the Crystal Wizard’s face and took in a deep breath

through nostrils the size of Elioth’s head.

“What my friend spoke is true,” Elioth said, showing no

fear. “You know of the battle in Talantas?”

The great wyrm nodded its head. “All dragons are aware of

the call of Mesz, the Dragon Lord. Only the colors answer. The

metals and the colors do not mix.”

“We may have found the key to protecting the kingdom

from further attacks by the diabhols.” Elioth beamed, his pride

clear upon his face.

“Intriguing,” Arkameth said. “I smell no taint upon you.

You may speak. Tell me of this key.”

Elioth nodded and took a deep breath. “Sithic, the LeafLord

told me that I was the second key,” he began, “but I was helpless

to stop the swarm of diabhols as they destroyed most of the city

and watched many people die. A young paladin died closing the

portal, but it was too late. We could not save the king.”

“This is known,” the dragon answered. “We have seen them.

They sit at Alinard’s side as do all who die with the faith.”

Elioth’s eyes narrowed. Even the great dragons believe in

the new deity. He was beginning to suspect there was some grain

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of truth behind the teachings of the devout priests who built their

tall temples as close to the Heavens as they could manage.

“You know also that King Uilleam was slain by a sword?”

the Crystal Wizard added.

“Not a true sword,” the dragon said, “but a vessel created by

those who have twisted Alinard’s teachings to further their own

ends. Power, wizard, is an extremely corrupting thing. Be careful

that you do not acquire too much.”

“The warnings are clear to all who follow the ways of

Elymas,” Elioth said. “Limitless power can destroy a man’s

heart. Let Colm Sadach be an example to all.”

“Yes,” Arkameth agreed. “Let him be that, at least. Once a

simple hedge wizard, he acquired the power to raise the dead and

manipulate the diabhols. Now his heart is black as night and he is

obsessed with the destruction of Domhan. Is that not why he is

now called Croi Dubh….Black Heart? Who wishes to rule a

wasteland of ruins?”

“I know not, great dragon, but we need the aid of your allies

to thwart the forces that corrupt the minds of the church; the

mind of the new king.”

The dragon laughed. Elioth and MacLugh exchanged a

puzzled look.

“It is not diabhols that corrupt the boy Gearalt.” The dragon

glared at them with a yellow eye. “It is love.”

“Love?”

The serpentine neck lowered to bring the dragon’s snout in

line with Elioth.

“Or more to the point: the loss of one he loved.”

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“His mother….” Elioth realized. “Why would that turn his

heart so black?”

The dragon took a long breath before replying, as if it were

pausing for dramatic effect.

“Such a loss,” Arkameth said, “can open the heart to outside

influence. In times of despair, you humans are quite weak.”

“What do we do now?” MacLugh chimed in.

“The answers you seek are in the Library of Hope.”

Elioth’s eyes narrowed.

“A cult of pacifists have the answer to ending a war?’

“Yes,” hissed Arkameth. “If you only look.”

“Ironic,” MacLugh chuckled.

“Quite,” mumbled Elioth giving the portly wizard a glance

that could scald his skin.

“One last favor to ask then,” the Crystal Wizard added.

“Perhaps,” the great dragon replied. “If it is within my

power.”

“How about giving us a ride?”

The dragon’s body shook with its laughter.

Gearalt strode down the carpeted hall of the oracle’s temple.

A strange dream had made his sleep fitful and he seeked

answers. His throat was raw and felt like he had swallowed fire.

Shadows retreated from his every step as if afraid he might taint

them. He was clad in a ceremonial gown of thick ermine, its

collar made from the tail of a silver fox. Rings adorned every

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one of his fingers. His youthful face was stern behind the sparse

whiskers covering his lips and chin. Blue eyes blazed with fire,

glinting in the torchlight with a faint yellowing of the white part

of the eyes.

He came to the circle of eternal fire, burning a bright

cerulean in the center of a round chamber. He knelt beside it and

crossed his arms upon his lap.

“Oracle,” he whispered into the flames. “Give me your

knowledge.”

The flames crackled and danced to an unheard tune.

“Deception,” a disembodied voice spoke. “Lies. Betrayal.”

Gearalt frowned. “I want answers, not riddles. Tell me

where those who plot against me may be found.”

“The greatest enemy lies within,” the oracle hissed.

“Darkness can only hide darkness. It cannot contain it.”

“What kind of shit is that?” The King spat at the flames in

fury. “Give me the answers I need. It is your duty to the King.”

“The worthy king needs no answers. He can find them

within his own soul. If your eyes fail to see, then all you see is

failure.”

“Another waste of time and the kingdom’s money,” the

King growled. “Will my father’s idiocy ever cease to haunt me?”

“Fear is a cancer that can eat you from within,” the oracle

said.

“Fear!” Gearalt’s voice rose an octave. “What do I have to

fear? It is my enemies who should fear. At a word I can send

death upon them in great waves of misery. I can take their wives

and daughters for my pleasure; confiscate their businesses to

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fund the kingdom’s expenses. I can raze their homes to the

ground; banish them to an existence of despair and poverty. All

my father has done, I can undo in a single word.”

“Hate.” The voice repeated and Gearalt stood, wiping dust

from his palms onto his immaculate robes. “Seek the answers

within.”

“You want fear?” the youthful ruler cried. “I will show you

fear.” He turned from the oracle with a great swishing of thick

cloth and purposefully fled from the eternal flame.

He exited through the great door with a crash. His two

guards, jumped at the sound, startled. Seeing their liege emerge,

a scowl etched upon his face, they quickly rushed to his side.

“Burn it.” The King said. “The entire temple. I want nothing

standing but the foundation stones.”

“My liege?” the nearest man asked, his face twisted in

confusion.

“Do not make me repeat myself, Gron. Or you will find

yourself burning with it. Am I clear?”

The guard’s face turned ashen. “Yes, my lord.”

“Make the flames burn so bright, everyone can see.” The

King turned from the stricken guards and stormed toward the

castle.

Talantas gleamed in the sun like a jeweled crown,

beckoning to be worn. It was enticing and beckoned like warm

fire. The party stood in the cold, contemplating their next move.

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Brawth argued against entering the city, but was promptly over-

ruled by the others. With a huff, he pouted.

“We will appeal to the king’s logical side,” Kimber offered.

“Make him see the folly of his ways.”

“Kings are seldom logical,” Onvalay replied. “And this

King less than others.”

“Somewhere inside must be a shred of decency,” Hennesi

stated.

“Only a shred,” Tavish retorted with a scowl. “The rest he

has shat out.”

“We must appeal to whatever decency is left. He is still his

father’s son.” Kimber was determined to make the young man

see reason. How could he not see the suffering his decisions had

caused.

The Gods alone knew what torment Q’ilaqiqi was being

subjected to. There was still time to save her; time to save

Domhan from this tyrant’s temper tantrum.

“What could cause the boy to behave in such a manner?”

Onvalay queried. “The An Corran is quite alarmed. His behavior

has become fouler by the day according to my employer.”

“Who is this mysterious employer?” Hennesi asked. “A

traitor to the crown?”

Onvalay shook his head, his beard trembling in the breeze.

“On the contrary. A patriot with the wellbeing of Domhan in

their heart.”

“I doubt the King would see it that way,” Kimber added.

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“The King couldn’t see shite if’n ye put it between his

eyes,” Tavish muttered. “Uilleam. Now that was a true King. His

lad….”

The look on his face said it all. Disappointment, trepidation,

and fear all mingled in the shift of his eyes, the way he nibbled

on the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit that had recently

become worse since he had been forced by Darius to give up

alcohol.

“There is his father in him somewhere,” the ranger added,

“and I will find it. We will recruit some friends in Fialscathac

and go to Gearalt to pound some sense into his skull.

Ratto was tired of tea, especially the imaginary kind. The

girl Ghia was pleasant enough, but the way she talked to the doll

as if it were real was a cause for concern. Ratto wasn’t sure the

girl had held onto her wits. After all she had witnessed, he

couldn’t exactly blame her.

He held the empty cup to his mouth, pretending to sip.

“Mmmm,” he hummed. “Very tasty. Did you add sugar?”

Ghia smiled. “Honey, silly.” She said. “It is what Ghambi

prefers.”

“Ah, yes.” The bwbach nodded. “Should have tasted it.

Sorry.”

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“It’s not too hot?” the girl asked. Her wide innocent eyes

stared at him.

“No,” he added. “It’s just fine.” Of course it was. It tasted

like air. That’s what it was.

“Ghambi says you don’t trust me,” the girl stated, seemingly

out of nowhere. Ratto’s jaw dropped.

“Why would she say such a thing?” he asked. He smiled,

innocently a cold chill running up his spine.

“I also trust few people,” the girl continued. “One will come

for me to take me from you. You must insist on accompanying

us.”

“And this person can be trusted?” the bwbach asked.

“Unknown,” the girl replied. “But I trust you and Ghambi. I

would have you both with me, wherever this woman takes me.”

“So it will be a woman?” Ratto was intrigued. “How do you

know this.”

“Ghambi has told me.”

Again a chill worked its way up Ratto’s spine.

“I will go with you.”

You must promise me, Ratto.” The girl was insistent. “I am

in need of your word.”

“I promise.” Ratto knew he could not leave this girl to the

machinations of those who wished to exploit her.

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For two days, the army marched, the earth trembling

beneath their feet. Colm Sadach’s forces were diverted by several

of the small villages along the way, soon left in burning ruin. It

irked Ioras that he was ordered to leave the battlefield. Already,

the wanton destruction had begun. How long until all of Prionsia

and Anglea were piles of ash? How could Gearalt order his army

to abandon the people in their darkest hour?

Another contingent of armed warriors left the mass, called

home by their duty to obey orders from their temples, kings,

lords, or countries. Every day, Ioras watched his forces shrink.

Soon, there would be nothing left. The Fennid forming a

defensive wall before him were already torn between the oath to

Ioras and fealty to the King. He could see the anguish on their

dirty faces.

Most were merely boys or girls, barely old enough to join

the militia. All had tanned, lithe bodies, well-muscled and long

hair tied in plaits, tight to their skulls. There was barely a beard

amongst them. Most of their weapons were pitted and rusted

from overuse. An ill fitted lot to say the least, but there were no

fiercer warriors on all of Domhan.

Ioras looked them over, pride swelling in his breast. His

father’s light was strong in them. He could sense it. He should

trust in the path of his faith even over King and country, but it

would only put his faithful followers in danger and he would

have no more innocent blood on his hands.

Strong hands fell on his shoulder breaking his reverie. He

turned, slightly to face his most formidable knight, Lord Thadius.

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Thadius smiled through upcurving whiskers of dusty yellow, his

green eyes squinting in the sunlight.

“The path you lead us on is righteous,” the Knight said,

reassuringly. “Whether the boy King sees it or not. His father

shared your vision of a Domhan without darkness. It is clear his

son does not.”

Ioras sighed. “Sometimes I wonder,” he said. “I have been

led to this path my entire life. As a boy, I was raised, learning to

make weapons. The day I was found by the woman Apthlosareus

and told I was the son of Alinard..” He let out a breath. “…I

couldn’t believe it. How could I be? And why had my father left

me behind to be raised by strangers? The more I discovered the

strange powers I have, the more clear my mission became. Then,

one day my father spoke to me, telling me to fix his faith.”

“The faith is strong,” the Knight said, “I assure you. All of

us would die for you. In your father’s name.”

Ioras nodded and placed a hand on the elder man’s shoulder.

“All this I know and I am grateful. The problem is not in the

faith,” he added, “but in the church itself.”

Thadius gasped. “What you speak is blasphemy.”

“What I speak is truth,” Ioras spat. “None know my father’s

heart better than I. The doctrines grew around tenets of faith that

reside inside a man’s heart, not from ancient fools who make

laws to suit their own ends using the Word as the basis to turn

men into sheep.”

“As you say,” Thadius said, bowing his head in

supplication. “My lord.”

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Ioras sighed. “I know your heart is pure, but the people are

losing faith in the ways of Alinard. Every soul we lose, lessens

my father’s power.’

“What are we to do?” the Knight asked.

“Restore peoples’ faith,” the Golden Child stated, “not in a

church that has betrayed them, but in the Word.”

“I am ever your servant,” Thadius replied with a slight bow

of your head.

“I need no servants,” Ioras said. “I need soldiers. Gather

what remains of our forces. We make the final trek to Talantas.”

“For a King who cares not about his kingdom?”

“Remember our oaths,” Ioras said. “They must stand for

something or else they are but empty words. People must see that

the true followers of Alinard are men of honor.”

“As you wish,” Thadius stated. “My men are yours until

death.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, my friend.”

“Ain’t you a pretty one?”

The huge man blocked her path and Perinia stopped,

balancing the tray, precariously on one upraised hand.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “but I must…”

“Very pretty, indeed,” the man interrupted. He crossed his

well-muscled arms and leered at her through upturned, yellow

whiskers, a lascivious grin splitting his face. She noticed his

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body was covered in scars, burnt into his flesh in exotic, twisting

patterns.

The tray tilted as she trembled, sloshing the amber liquid in

small pools on the cherry wood of the tray. Perinia tried to

control her shaking, but was finding it difficult.

“You would fetch a fair price in Thoq,” the man said. He

reached out a hand and cupped her chin between thumb and

fingers, squeezing tight. He turned her face from side to side.

Perinia closed her eyes.

“Even with the scars,” the man chuckled. “They give you a

ruggedness uncommon in most city girls.”

“Please,” she pleaded in a soft whisper. “My other tables…”

“A fair price, indeed,” the man continued as if she had never

spoken. “Providing you are still a virgin.”

Perinia paled. Such information was a private affair, not to

be shared with strange, scarred men in bars. No matter how

strong those men were.

She could feel the man’s gaze running across her body and

she shivered. His brown eyes roamed across her body as if

browsing wares in a merchant’s stall.

“A fine round rump, firm tits,” the man rambled. “Your skin

is soft. Maybe I should check and see if you are a virgin, eh? He

chuckled, sending a shiver down Perinia’s spine.

The tray tumbled to the ground splashing their feet with

liquid. It took all she had not to break out in tears. Why were

men such disgusting pigs? she thought. Only Cannivone seemed

to treat her like a person instead of a piece of meat ever since her

body had filled out, her bosom becoming quite ample. Until that

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time, she was treated as an awkward girl, then one day every man

took notice of her.

She could endure the catcalls, the whistles, the vulgar

remarks. Even an occasional pinch to her bottom. But this she

could not endure. The man was going to check her most private

places for signs that she had never been touched by a man.

Wasn’t that hypocritical?

“Please..” she pleaded. The man seemed not to hear or care

in the slightest what she had to say. Such was the nature of some

men, their lust making them single minded in their approach,

bringing out the worst in their nature.

“Twenty gold at least,” the man added, breathlessly, his

tongue flitting across lips that were dry and flaking as if they had

been dried in the sun.

He reached out with another hand tugging on the ties to her

tunic. She struggled in his grip, but he squeezed her chin harder,

her lips puffing out as he cheeks sunk in.

“Stay still, girl,” he snarled. “You are making this rather

difficult.”

He tugged the ties to her shirt, her breasts nearly popping

free from their restraints. The man ogled the orbs of flesh, lustily.

His hand caressed one of them, gently.

“So pretty,” he gasped. Perinia could not hold back the tears

any longer and she sobbed as they cascaded down her cheeks in

thin rivulets, eyes shut tight.

The man jerked back abruptly. She could feel him pulling

from her, his grip on her chin loosening. She opened her eyes to

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see the man dangling by the back of his neck, in the grip of a red

eyed ogre.

“No touch,” the ogre exclaimed. Perinia, aware of her near

nakedness, hastily made to tie the front of her shirt back up.

The man croaked from his constricted throat, his eyes wild.

Gru stood, wearing a scowl, arms crossed before him, just behind

the ogre.

“I have girls for that,” the sirite stated. “They cost extra.

Touch my servers like that again and I will let Borak break your

worthless neck. Understand?”

The man tried to nod in reply, but the ogre’s grip was too

tight. He kicked and flailed about, struggling for breath. His face

turned red and his eyes began to water.

“I should make you pay for the drinks the girl dropped, as

well.” Gru gestured toward the tankards lying on floor, drained

of their contents. “Maybe we should take it out in pain, eh?” The

man gurgled, eyes widening in fear.

The sirite stepped forward and placed a soft hand upon

Perinia’s cheek. She recoiled out of reflex, but Gru merely

smiled and wiped away the tears.

“Are you alright?” he asked. Perinia nodded and wiped her

eyes with a trembling hand.

“I always take care of my employees,” Gru said and without

looking back added, “Borak. Take out the trash.”

The ogre grinned and made for the door, the huge man

kicking in his grip and gasping for air.

“Take the rest of the day off,” Gru told Perinia. “You have

done enough for today. I will have Manida clean up this mess.”

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“Blood is the essence of life.”

The voice hissed in his head. An all-encompassing darkness

surrounded him like a blanket, choking the very air from his

lungs. His chest burned as he attempted to take in a deep breath,

his organs unwilling to aid him. He tried to cry out, but no sound

came.

Blindly, he stumbled through the inky darkness, hands

before him, feeling their way through the nothingness. His feet

bumped against something solid, nearly tripping him.

“You are not worthy of friends,” the voice continued. “You

are a killer, just like me. And killers cannot love.”

He wanted to scream, but could not. His tongue felt three

times too big in his mouth. He could taste the metallic tang of his

blood as if he had bitten his tongue.

Lights flashed in the darkness, revealing flickering faces

that flashed before him and were gone in the blink of an eye.

“Killer,” moaned Bredain’s non-corporeal form.

“Your hands will never be cleansed,” whispered King

Uilleam.

“You reek of death,” Renarthane hissed.

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Cannivone stumbled to his knees, reaching for the silver

sword,, his fingers fumbling at his side. But the blade was not

there.

“Do us all a favor.” His mother’s voice. “Kill yourself. Rid

the world of your dark soul.”

Tears formed in his eyes and splashed at his feet in huge

pools, rapidly filling the space he occupied. He felt it rise to his

ankles, his knees, his waist. Soon, he was splashing in a choking

torrent that washed over his head, sweeping him away in its

current.

Panic overtook him, his heart pounding. He thrashed about

to keep his head above the rising tide of tears. He could taste the

salt, swelling his tongue. Another urge to scream came to him,

but his throat was constricted. His lungs burned. He was

drowning.

Maybe it would be best, he thought, to just give in and let it

take me.

“Things cannot be that easy,” the sibilant voice hissed. “In

life there is suffering and you have much more suffering to

endure.

A familiar red haired face appeared before him, spiked hair

in disarray. A garish wound leaked blood down the front of her

leather tunic, between her small breasts. She smiled at him, her

mouth a dark gash of sharp teeth. In her hand, she held the silver

sword, its dragon claw hilt protruding from a clenched fist.

“We are one,” she said, the incessant smile never leaving

her face. “We are death.”

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Cannivone could only watch as the woman turned away

toward a kneeling figure on the ground at her feet. Straw colored

hair covered a heart shaped face. Crimson stripes adorned each

cheek, leaking blood. Slowly, the face turned toward him, boring

into him with bright blue eyes.

Perinia. He gasped, the brackish water filling his lungs.

“You did this to me.” Perinia glared at him with an

accusatory tone. “My blood is on your hands. Cannivone.”

The sword whistled through the air toward her neck.

“Cannivone.” Rough hands jostled him awake. Cannivone’s

eyes flew open, a scream just escaping from his bloody lips. He

had chewed through them as he thrashed about. He looked up

into the wide and concerned eyes of Luaithreach.

“You were having a nightmare,” the woman stated, as if it

were nothing uncommon.

A trembling hand wiped sweat from his forehead. He stared

at the hand as if searching for traces of blood.

“And killers cannot love.” The voice had declared it. The

accusation was clear. What sort of monster had he become?

“Leave me be,” he groaned. “I’m fine.”

Luaithreach scowled. “You did not sound fine when you

were thrashing about in your bedroll, choking and sputtering and

crying that name.”

Cannivone felt a cold hand grip his heart. “Name?”

“Yes.” Luaithreach nodded. “Who is Perinia?”

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“Not your concern,” he snarled.

Luaithreach gasped, a quick intake of air the only thing

attesting to the fact that she was alarmed.

“Cannivone,” she scolded. “Why the hostility? I am your

friend.”

Firm hands gripped his shoulders, gently as his face fell to

his outstretched hands. He looked up to see the smiling face of

Luaithreach, dark eyes blazing with warmth..

“I understand the burden you carry,” the woman said. “Let

me aid you in carrying its weight.”

“I cannot,” the lad sighed. “The burden is for me alone.”

Luaithreach sighed. “No man should be fearful of asking for

help in carrying a weight so vast. A man could be crushed

beneath it.”

“Then let me be crushed,” Cannivone snapped. “I want no

more blood on my hands.”

Luaithreach’s face screwed into a look of agitation.

“Stop the pity party,” she said. “If you refuse the aid with

your burden, then do not blame those offering the aid.”

Cannivone gasped. His face fell.

“You are right,” he said. “I am sorry. It is these damned

headaches. They are getting worse. I am beginning to feel like

someone else is controlling me from inside.”

Luaithreach patted his cheek, lovingly. “We all have felt

that way at one time or another,” she offered. “The Gods

participate far too much in our lives.”

“I apologize for my rash tongue,” Cannivone said.

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She merely shrugged. “It will all soon be over,” the golden

haired boy said. “The Gods give us gifts to test us.”

Cannivone nodded again. What makes her think this was a

gift from a God?

“Know this, friend Cannivone,” the dark skinned woman

said in all seriousness. “With all of my power, I will help rid you

of this dark influence.”

Though meant to be soothing, the words did not ease

Cannivone at all.

They stood before the Temple of Alinard, a gathering called

for by the King. Redric, fennid and warrior, glanced around at his

fellow soldiers. All wore the same questioning look of

wonderment at why they had been gathered. King Gearalt stood

upon the stone steps before the entry way to the temple, many

rings glittering on his fingers. beside him stood Mabsant, looking

sickly and pale. A dark cloaked figure stood behind, close to the

King’s side.

“Citizens!” the King shouted above the noise. “Today marks

the beginning of a new day in Anglea.”

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A murmur went through the crowd. Nearby, a group of

clerics stood, arms crossed in indignation.

“Why do we meet in front of the temple?” the elder asked,

his bearded face crunching into a scowl.

The King turned on the man with a snarl. “Shut up and

listen, old man. You religious types are always talking and never

sayin' anything. Interrupt me again and we will see how quickly

your head detaches from your body.”

The cleric paled. The crowd let out a collective gasp at the

ferocity of the words.

“From this day forward,” Gearalt called with a clear voice,

“the Alinardian faith will be outlawed. All who worship this false

God will be executed.”

The cleric’s mouth fell open. “But…you can’t…. your own

father sanctioned the building of the temples.”

“Tell me again what I cannot do,” Gearalt said in a

threatening tone. Mabsant cringed and felt his stomach rumble.

Why do I have to be such a coward? he thought.

“Arrest the clergy,” the King decreed. “Kill any who resist.”

The sound of steel and iron sliding against cloth filled the

air as weapons were drawn.

“This is blasphemy,” the old cleric said. “How can you turn

your back on your god?”

Gearalt turned on the cleric, savagely. “My God? Since

when? Why should I trust in a God that would take my mother at

such an early age, leaving me alone and helpless?”

“Alinard’s will is his alone,” the cleric replied. “Maybe he

needed her more than you.”

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“Needed her more than me? Needed her for what? To rock

him to sleep in her arms when he had a nightmare? To comfort

him and kiss his bruises when he fell? To love and protect him as

a mother is supposed to do? What a selfish, needy God he must

be.”

The cleric’s eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the silver

hammer in his fists. The fennid exchanged glances, obviously

torn between loyalty to their faith and a vow to their liege.

Redric raised his hands to calm the crowd.

“Your father…” Mabsant began, but the King turned on him

savagely.

“My father,” Gearalt spat, the words like acid upon his

tongue, “was too busy running a kingdom to have anything to do

with me.”

“He loved you,” the advisor gasped.

“And in his love I knew only loneliness,” the king sighed.

“Burn it down!”

“Hold, “the cleric said. “There doesn’t need to be violence.”

“No there doesn’t.” Gearalt shook his head. “Renounce your

faith and close the temple and you can all step away.”

“Never!” the cleric cried.

Mabsant retched, but managed to force the words from his

swollen lips. “Your grace. Is this wise?”

The King turned on him, savagely. “You question my

wisdom?”

Mabsant swallowed with an audible gulp.

“The paladins will abandon you. The fennid, the churches.

Your army will be lost.”

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“Let them all turn traitor, then,” Gearalt growled. “Let them

live the rest of their short lives as vagabonds to be hunted and

killed at my leisure.” The young man’s voice raised as he

rambled on.

“We will not stand for this,” the cleric shouted.

“Burn down their precious temple,” Gearalt snarled. “Kill

all the priests.”

None of the soldiers moved a muscle. Gearalt’s face

reddened with rage.

“Burn the fucking place down, or die like dogs,” he shouted.

More weapons found their way into fists. The dark cloaked

figure behind the King laughed, a deep rumbling growl and

raised his taloned hands. Flame burst from the thing’s fingertips,

exploding against the stone foundation of the temple with a loud

roar.

Chaos ensued. The crowd rushed the King with murder in

their eyes. Redric cursed and pulled his own sword from its

tattered scabbard. The clerics immediately patted at the flames

with their cloaks and hands to put out the flame, but it was futile.

Whatever magic fueled the blaze, it increased in intensity the

more they tried to quell it.

“We will not protect the realm of a madman,” Redric cried.

“Your armies will abandon you.”

“Treason,” Gearalt replied. “I have a new army. Surrender

or die.”

“We choose death,” the crowd roared.

“So be it,” the King whispered. A dark shadow passed

overhead. Eyes moved skyward to see the gigantic creature

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passing above them, darkening the sky. A ear shattering shriek

split the air as the beast mad a pass. A smoking liquid dripped

from its leathery flesh.

Screams filled the square as the liquid seared flesh, melting

it away, revealing bone. Redric screamed as his arm melted away

in a slither of liquefied flesh. Armor smoked and fell away in

chunks of pitted metal. From the shadows stepped a creature

from nightmare, snakes writhing where her arms should be, eyes

a bright scarlet, a fanged mouth, twisted into a sneer.

The King’s appointed guards, Cunnartach Gra and

Cwchmwri exchanged a confused glance, but stood their ground.

“I present Myala,” the King said. Faces paled as the soldiers

fled screaming in terror.

“Behold your new God,” Gearalt proclaimed as he watched

the forces flee.

It was, Toric Tusslegut realized, far too quiet in the temple.

He had crept through the window in gaseous form and found

himself in a storeroom filled with crates and boxes covered in a

thick layer of dust. Obviously the room had not been used

recently.

Curiously, he inspected the crates and found them to be full

of rice and wheat so long in storage that weevils had already

made a home in the grains. He cursed beneath his breath. The

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priests he knew would never have let the food go to waste. Not

when there were so many mouths to feed on the streets of the

city.

Toric pulled a short sword from his side and crept on his

padded feet through the oaken door and slowly turned the knob.

The rusted hinges squealed in protest, loudly echoing through the

hallway beyond. Toric winced, but there were no sounds of

footfalls or voices. No ringing of chains or armor. Not even the

whisper of a breeze. The hall seemed dead.

It was the sort of area that would normally give one the

creeps, but Toric had seen and experienced an array of

frightening and deadly things in his illustrious career. A small

iron cage in his pouch held a demon, trapped years before with

the utterance of a magic word. The cage had been useful many

times in the past.

His mind wandered back to when he had found it. His

companions and he had been hired by a wizard to recover the

Demon’s Stone, an artifact of great power reputed to be able to

hold a demon in thrall just by holding it and directing its power at

the foul beast. Foolishly, they had accepted.

Kimber had insisted on taking along Mesz and MacLugh,

despite the bwbach’s urgings to the contrary. He had nothing

against the pair, not really. He just hated splitting the spoils so

many ways. As usual, Apthlosareus had tried to be the mediator

in the bargaining that always took place when they argued over

the merits of accepting a quest.

And as usual, the priestess won. There was something in the

way Sareus’ blue eyes blazed in conviction when she praised the

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virtues of her goddess, Banba that was hard to resist. Never had

he seen the woman so sincere. That was before she had taken the

Golden Child under her tutelage and turned toward Alinard for

guidance.

In a deep cavern swarming with diabhols, the party had

encountered a dark armored man bearing the sign of Efnisien,

God of chaos and strife. In a brutal battle that left them all

battered and bloodied, Toric had snuck away finding himself in a

small cubicle with a silver curtain. behind the curtain he had

found several items, including a gilded cage. Inside was the tiny

form of a man, cursing and begging to be released.

From the tiny man, Toric had learned that the cage could be

used to trap living entities with the mere utterance of a magic

word. It interested the young rogue more so than the wand or the

magically enhanced gloves, so he had deposited it away in his

bag, away from prying eyes.

Months it took to learn of the means to set the tiny man free

and to trap other beings inside its fragile looking bars. He had

learned all he needed to know from an ancient mage named

Warric. When free from his prison, the man returned to his

imposing height and thanked Toric profusely. Forever in the

bwbach’s debt, the man vowed to always come when Toric

summoned him. The creation of an amulet insured the man’s

allegiance.

Toric thought about summoning Ran, now, but decided to

take matters into his own hands first. he had not needed the

assistance of Ran, who turned out to be quite adept with a

scimitar, for some time and he was enjoying his solitude.

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Eventually the secret of the cage was revealed to the rest of

the party. Apthlosareus preached about the rights of every

creature to enjoy a life of freedom, but it fell upon deaf ears.

Toric enjoyed having the means of gaining the upper hand and if

it were not for the magic of the cage, the demon inside would

have slain all of his friends. Eventually, even the priestess had

relented.

He smiled at the memories as he made his way through

another of the twisting corridors that wound their way through

the temple’s interior. The sound of voices raised in prayer

assailed his ears as he approached one of the oaken doors. He

chuckled to himself.

“Fools and their religion,” he thought. “To trust in a God so

fully that they are blinded to the world around them.”

He had witnessed it first-hand numerous times. Such was

one of the many reasons he chose to believe in his wits and skills

as opposed to trusting in an invisible entity that may help if they

are in the proper mood. Both his wits and his skills were ample.

His behavior in the temples had drawn their wrath and his

being banned from the chapels. His reputation of being a

blasphemer proceeded him everywhere he went. It bothered the

bwbach not a bit, but wary were those who sought his aid. Often

did one need the aid of the various temples and having Toric

along would not endear anyone to the temples.

He sneaked by a door where the prayer was extremely loud

and turned a corner. He faced an iron bound door guarded by two

dark skinned men holding large axes. They seemed agitated, but

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Toric cared little for their discomfort. He had a favor to ask the

temple and he would be heard.

He muttered a few arcane words and a faint glow emanated

from the tattoo on his chest. Slowly, he faded away into a mist

and rode the air toward the door. Voices came to his ears through

the thick door, muffled and incoherent.

In gaseous form, the bwbach passed between the door and

the wall effortlessly. He instantly returned to flesh, his furry feet

gaining purchase on the cold stone floor.

Three men stood talking on the far end of the room. One

was clad in blue and white robes and moved his arms animatedly

as he spoke to his two companions, two large dark skinned men

with axes.

“Just prepare, Rodni,” the robed man said. The heavily

muscled man nodded, slowly and dropped his chin in defeat.

“What are we preparing for?” Toric asked, causing the three

men to startle. Axes found scarred hands as the dark skinned men

turned toward him.

“I think you are lost, little one,” the robed man said, calmly.

“These are my private chambers. You were told where the

refugees are to remain.”

“You are the new High Priest, then?” Toric asked with a

crooked grin. “Aren’t you a little young?”

“You were supposed to lock the door,” Tongael chided his

larger companion.

“I did,” Rodni growled. Only a grunt was given in response.

“I am the acting High Priest, yes.” the man stood tall, pride

beaming from his pores like a toxic perfume. “I am Darius.”

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“You are not supposed to be here,” Rodni said, stepping

toward him. Toric lifted his hands, palms outwards.

“I mean you no harm,” he said. “I come to talk.”

Darius placed a shoulder on Rodni’s thick shoulder. “Leave

him be for now. Let him speak.”

Toric bowed low to the ground. “I am Toric Tusslegut.

Finder of things lost. Keeper of things found. I ask a favor from

your god.”

“How did you get in here?” Rodni growled. “I know I

locked the door. Are you a thief? An assassin?”

Toric again flashed a boyish smile of pure innocence. “I find

what others have failed to protect,” he said, “but that is

irrelevant. Can I ask a favor?”

Darius sighed. “All are welcome to Alinard’s bounty. What

do you seek the answer to?”

The guards didn’t loosen their grip upon the axes handles,

their faces stern, eyes watchful for any sign of treachery.

“Most use the front door,” Darius said. “Why do you sneak

about the temple like a criminal?’

Toric didn’t really know how to answer, so he decided upon

the truth.

“I have been banned from the temples for past

indiscretions,” he said.

“I knew it,” Rodni boomed. “A common thief.”

“How insulting!” Toric rose to his full height of three feet

and puffed out his chest. “There is nothing common about me.”

“But you do not deny being a thief?” Tongael quizzed him.

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“Never did I,” Toric shrugged. “But I did not come to steal

from your precious temple. I came to ask a boon.”

“A boon for a thief?” Rodni scoffed.

Darius placed his hands upon the agitated guard. Calmness

and serenity flowed through his hands and rapidly the guard’s

countenance softened.

“I will hear what this bwbach has to say,” he decided. “I am

safe in my master’s home.”

“Tell that to Amniar,” Tongael hissed.

“Ah yes,” Toric said. “I heard about the former High Priest.

Pity. It was he who banned me from these walls years ago. He

was doing what he thought was right, I’m sure. I assumed he had

informed the temple of my ban.”

“I heard nothing,” Darius admitted. “Though we have been

busy as of late.”

“The Alinard machinations continue to swallow up all other

faiths, eh?”

“Blasphemer!” hollered Tongael, but again Darius used his

calming touch.

“Speak your mind bwbach so that I may decide whether or

not to grant this boon of yours.”

“I have acquired something very precious that I need you to

keep safe.” the bwbach said.

“We do not store stolen property,” Darius huffed. “Find

yourself a fence or use the thieves’ guild.”

“I do not think they will give me much for this item,” Toric

said. “I can only trust in the purity of an Alinardian.”

“What in Alinard’s name is this item?” Rodni asked.

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“I liberated it from the king,” Toric said, just adding to

Rodni’s frustration.

“You stole it?” Darius cringed.

Toric shook his head. “I liberated it. It is quite stunning,

actually. If you like that sort of thing.”

“Enough riddles,” Darius huffed, He had had quite enough.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I merely want you to protect this item with all the power of

Alinard at your disposal. A storm is coming and I have grown

quite attached to this piece.”

“Again,” the priest asked. “What is it?”

“A human girl,” Toric said with a grin.

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Chapter Fifteen

A Place of Mourning

At last they entered the gates of Talantas, weary and travel

worn. The strange woman hesitated as if apprehensive about

entering the city. Cannivone’s posture stiffened as the walls

seemed to close in on him. The scars of the past were still fresh

in his mind.

All around was the stench of decay, filth, and excrement. It

saddened Cannivone to see the once pristine city in such disarray.

Only weeks prior it had been the jewel of the kingdom. Now, it

was just another overcrowded city filled with refugees and

beggars. Many had lost their homes and livelihoods when the

diabhols had climbed through the portal starting a war that had

left many dead, including the king, Uilleam.

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The thoughts made Cannivone sad. Uilleam had treated him

better than anyone in his life had ever treated him-almost like a

son. This had only incurred the wrath of Uilleam’s real son,

Gearalt. Cannivone had, in a moment of rage, nearly killed the

prince. Now, Gearalt sat upon the throne. It was clear by the

condition of the city, he was not the ruler his father was.

“Are all cities this foul?” Luaithreach asked. Cannivone

nodded.

“All I have visited,” he replied.

“How does one stand the smell?”

Cannivone chuckled. “A person can get used to the smell of

shit if he lives amongst it long enough.”

“Maybe,” Luaithreach pinched her nose. “But who would

choose to?”

“Many have no choice,” the boy added. “They know of no

other life. Besides, up until a few weeks ago, Talantas was a

pristine city.”

The woman looked at him as if he had gone mad.

“Well what in the Hells happened to it?”

“You are closer to the mark than you believe.” Cannivone

sighed.

“I am aware of the diabhol attack,” Luaithreach admitted.

“My father sent me to aid in the cause.”

“I’m afraid the King may not be what you are expecting.”

“How bad could he possibly be?” Luaithreach’s eyes

widened in disbelief.

“Look around you,” Cannivone waved toward a group of

huddled figures, dressed in rags and shivering in the cold. “Who

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would let their subjects suffer right beneath their nose, while they

sleep in warmth and safety?”

“Why do these poor souls not find shelter?” the naïve

woman stated.

“Trust me,” Cannivone replied. “If it were that easy, they

would have done it. Nobody wants to starve or freeze to death.

The shelters and barracks have all been burned.”

Toward the pair came a heavily armored group, wearing

scale armor, yellow cloaks fluttering behind them. They were led

by a grisly looking man with a deep scar that extended across his

brow and over a mass of scarred flesh where an eye used to be.

The sight somehow reminded Cannivone of Renarthane, the

paladin who had led him to this very city, such a short time ago,

yet it felt like ages.

Luaithreach watched the troops march by, an air of despair

clouding the air around them. She bristled as the man drew near,

clearly annoyed.

The leader stopped as they approached the pair.

“Turn around and leave,” the man said, “if you know what

is good for you. The King has gone completely mad.”

“He was always a bit mad,” Cannivone said.

“When Uilleam sat upon the throne,” the fennid said, “there

was order. The fool boy has burned down the temples of the

oracle and of Alinard and has been consorting with dark forces.”

Their faces fell. There would be no shelter in the temple it

seemed.

“What sort of dark forces? ”Luaithreach asked, her eyes

narrowing.

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“Face Eaters and Fachans have been seen in the castle,” the

soldier said. “A monstrosity stands at his side. We have

rescinded our oath to the throne.”

“Who will protect the realm?” Cannivone asked.

“The King has a new army.” The fennid sighed. “They are

to arrive shortly. We will not be here. We head southwest to

Fialscathac.”

“A new army? But the fennid have always been loyal to the

throne.”

“The army the king now commands goes against all that is

right and holy,” the soldier said. “We will not foul our names in

its filth.”

Intrigued and a little frightened, Cannivone pressed the man

for more information. The soldier shrugged.

“I must catch up to my forces,” he said. “Come. Join us for

your own safety.”

“I cannot,” the boy replied. “As much as I would like to.”

The soldier turned to Luaithreach. “If you value your lives, I

would obey. You will attract far too much attention. Then, there

will be no saving you.”

“We will take our chances,” she said.

“Then may Eochaid bless you,” the soldier said and turned

away. His boots clattered loudly upon the cobblestones as he

hurried to join the fleeing Yellow Branch warriors.

Cannivone watched the man go with a twinge of sadness.

The world was changing by the day, he thought, and not for the

better. He turned to the ebon-skinned woman where she stood

frowning.

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“You need not go where I go,” he told her. She scowled at

him.

“Where you go,” she replied, “I follow.” Father protect me.

“Then let us get this over with.” Cannivone stroked the hilt

of the sword, gently.

“Off to the blood feast, “the voice crooned in his head.

Gearalt sat upon the throne in silence, detached from reality

by the milk of poipin coursing through his veins. His head still

pounded on occasion from the grievous injuries inflicted by

Cannivone. It felt as if someone was pounding nails into his

skull.

Thoughts of the boy caused the young regent to curse softly

to himself.

“Any word of the boy, Cannivone?” the King grumbled,

ringed fingers clawing at his temples in agitation.

Mabsant stepped forward, nervously, pudgy hands rubbing

together in his agitation.

“Nothing, sire,” he said.

Gearalt fixed him with a stern gaze-one that bore a hint of

malice.

“Are you good for anything,” the boy king said, “other than

depleting the royal food stores?”

Mabsant narrowed his eyes at the insult, but kept the reply

from passing his tongue. Better to stay complacent until Onvalay

reported back, he decided.

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“I am here to advise,” the corpulent man replied, calmly. “If

you have no need for advice, I will expire to my chambers.”

“No,” Gearalt said with a sigh. “Stay. Advise me of what I

am to do with the next course of business.”

Mabsant stared at him with curiosity. Since when had the

boy ever asked for his assistance?

“My liege…?” he asked. The young King smiled, a smile

full of white teeth.

“Bring her forward,” Gearalt called.

Mabsant paled as the two hulking orcs dragged the broken

and bloody body toward the throne. The advisor noticed the

bleeding wounds, the burns that marred the naked woman’s flesh.

Golden hair fell in a blood plastered mess about the woman’s

face in a thick tangle.

The woman’s appearance was disturbing to Mabsant, but

not nearly as disturbing as the presence of the orcs. He watched

in grim silence as the green skinned creatures dragged the limp

body to the king’s feet and threw her, violently to the floor. A

small groan escaped her lips; the only evidence that she still

lived.

When she looked up, Mabsant gasped in horror. The once

beautiful sirite bard, Q’ilaqiqi was nothing more than a mass of

scorched and bleeding flesh.

“Bear witness to the fate of all who betray their true and

rightful king,” Gearalt said with a sneer. His gaze turned toward

Mabsant.

“Advise me on what I should do with this.”

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“Be merciful,” Mabsant replied, eyes welling with tears.

“Kill her quickly so she will suffer no more.”

“Why should I do that?” Gearalt growled. “Her suffering

would be a great deterrent for future behavior of this sort.”

Gearalt crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back, his

face beaming with a pride that Mabsant found sickening.

Face bleached of all color, stomach threatening to dislodge

its contents, Mabsant turned away.

“I am not feeling too well,” the advisor said. “I must go lie

down.”

Gearalt chuckled. “Cowards.” The boy King scowled at the

retreating bulk of his father’s most trusted advisor.

“I can only hope my newest allies are not squeamish about

using any means necessary to protect the throne from betrayal

and deceit.”

The orcs grunted in approval, mouths widening in tusk filled

grins.

“Very well,” the King said, at last taking a deep breath.

“End her suffering. She has served her purpose. But,” he added,

leaning forward to peer into the larger orc’s beady red eyes, a

smile once again splitting his jaw, “you don’t need to make it

quick.”

Mabsant shuddered and quickened his pace, no longer able

to hold the tears in. The dark sirite was right. The council must

meet in secret to find a cure for the curse of this new king.

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Fialscathac teemed with throngs of refugees, filling the

muddy streets with thousands of boot prints, churning the earth

into a quagmire. Darius watched from the window of the highest

tower of the temple, a sadness overtaking him as he watched the

huddled forms of families, their meager possessions dragged in

sacks through the mud. He turned from the sight with a savage

curse and called for his guards.

“Rodni. Tongael.” In short order, the two dark skinned

soldiers entered the chamber, axes in hand.

“Relax,” the priest said, soothingly. “I am under no duress. I

need only for you to guard the temple doors against any and all

intruders. Understood? Nobody gets in or out without my

permission.”

“Nobody?” Rodni asked, his eyebrow arcing above a dark

eye.

“Not even Alinard himself,” Darius replied. “There is

something dark coming. I can sense it. We must protect the house

of our lord by any means necessary.”

“You command,” Tongael, the smaller of the two guards

replied. “It will be so.”

“I know I can count on you,” Darius said with a warm smile.

“Strong in the faith are you both.”

The two warriors beamed with pride at the recognition, their

spines straightening with the conviction of their vow.

“None shall trespass without great bodily harm,” Rodni

snarled. “I swear by all that is Holy,”

“And what will you be doing?” Tongael inquired.

Darius looked at the man, sadly.

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“Praying,” the priest said with a hiss. “For all of us.”

Ioras entered Talantas at the head of his dwindling army to a

scene of turmoil and despair. Buildings were crumbling; people

slept huddled in the street. A dark cloud of foreboding spread

over the city like a death shroud. A tingling erupted in the back

of Ioras’ neck.

With a gesture, Ioras motioned for his advisor to join him.

Draoicht Intinn, wizard of Sithia, rushed forward, staff in hand.

“My liege,” the wizard said.

“You know you don’t have to call me that,” the Golden

Child growled. “I am merely a man.”

“I disagree,” the wizard said. “You are much more than

that.”

“I will not use my lineage to place myself above others,”

Ioras replied, his teeth grinding together. “It goes against all we

believe in.”

The wizard nodded. “That is what sets you apart from most

men-the ability to stick to your convictions regardless of what

obstacles or temptations confront you. Proof that you are more

than a man.”

Ioras sighed. As much as he wished he could argue, the

sirite had a point. It was in his very nature to live by his own

appointed code of conduct as laid down by the laws of Alinard in

the Holy Tome. He would not betray his father, willingly.

Marbhan take him first.

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“Something has gone terribly wrong,” the Golden Child

said, looking around at the desolation. “Talantas used to be a

jewel, now it is just much tarnished copper.”

“Damn that Gearalt,” snarled Draiocht from his side. “All

his father has worked for has been brought to this.” He swept a

hand toward a pale looking man lying in a pool of his own vomit

and trembled in rage.

“There will be judgment,” Ioras promised. “At the end of his

days.”

“We should pray that day is soon,” the wizard muttered.

The small contingent turned the corner and came face to

face with a swarm of dark cloaked creatures brandishing rusty

weapons. At their head, sitting atop a horse as black as coal, his

body covered in plates of steel, polished to a blinding brightness,

was a grinning Gearalt. At his side, was a female figure with red

eyes, her hands hidden deep inside the sleeves of her cloak. The

King leaned forward, a sneer on his face. A smaller dark figure

cowered just behind the king.

“Golden Child,” he spat. “You have followed the order just

as I knew you would.”

“As I ever have,” the son of Alinard stated. “What is the

meaning of this?”

“You dare to question your King and sovereign?” Gearalt’s

face reddened with anger.

“My vow of fealty was to your father, Gearalt, not to you.”

“Do you speak treason?”

“No.” Ioras sighed. “I speak truth.”

Gearalt smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

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“Let me tell you of the new truth,” the King said. “Your

petty religion is no longer allowed. Any following it are now

criminals. Surrender to my troops or we will take you by force.”

“What nonsense is this?” Draiocht cried from his side.

“Have you gone mad?”

Ioras raised a hand to quiet his outraged advisor. “Calm,

Draiocht.” He looked long and hard at Gearalt’s face, the

uncanny resemblance to his father Uilleam and felt sadness

overtake him.

“This is not your father’s way,” he added,

“Why does everyone insist on telling me what my father’s

ways were?” Gearalt spat with impotent rage. “He is dead. The

kingdom is mine now. I rule. I have made the decree and all must

follow the law or be destroyed.”

Ioras took a deep breath, his eyes filling with tears. “A

shame you were not more like your father.”

“Are you refusing to surrender?” Gearalt asked, his eyes

narrowing.

Ioras lifted his chin in defiance. “My first loyalty is to my

father, Alinard. He would not allow this.”

Gearalt grinned. “Good. I was hoping you would resist. I’d

rather see you dead anyway.”

“If Alinard wills it,” Ioras replied, drawing the sword from

his scabbard with a hiss of steel on leather. “I gladly will go.”

The dark cloaked woman stepped forward and tossed back

her hood, revealing a fang filled mouth, writhing serpents where

her hands should be. The smaller shadow leaped forward, yellow

eyes flashing, cackling like a man demented.

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“Revenge,” it chortled. “Revenge against Alinard and the

Golden Child. Revenge, at last.”

Ioras recognized the demon named Dubhaca and with a

shout, he spurred his mount forward. The demon laughed deep in

its throat as they met with a clash of steel. The remaining

followers of the Golden Child surged forward, drawing weapons.

Draiocht cursed, but began uttering the words of a potent spell.

Analil leapt into Ioras’ hand as if alive, pulsing with power

in the presence of so much darkness. The demon came low and

with a vicious swipe of his talons, severed the forelegs of the

Golden Child’s mount. It went down screaming, sending Ioras

tumbling from the saddle to the cobblestones beneath.

Instantly the demon was surrounded by a blue nimbus of

glowing heat. Dubhaca snarled in defiance as the spell took hold,

burning with holy power. Ioras gingerly regained his feet, Analil

still clenched in a tight fist. He sensed the presence of a horse

beside him and his thoughts were instantly drawn to his own

mount’s dying screams.

“Fool,” the voice of the boy king sounded from above him.

Gearalt sat atop his dark horse, a slim sword aimed at Ioras’

throat.

The Golden Child moved quickly, batting the blade aside

with his own.

“Your father would be ashamed to call you his son,” he

cried as he fell backward from the sharp point.

“He always has,” screamed Gearalt, spittle flying from his

thin lips. “Always did he treat others better. Especially that idiot

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bard and that boy…Cannivone.” The last word was spoken with

so much malice it caused Ioras to flinch.

“You cannot have fallen so far from Alinard’s grace,” Ioras

said, softly. “Search your heart. You don’t have to do this.”

Gearalt sighed, calmly. “But I do. A pact has been made,

I’m afraid. My rule will be long whereas yours, I am happy to

say is now over.”

“Fight this evil influence, Gearalt,” The Golden child

pleaded, “I beg of you.”

“Will you surrender?” the King asked.

“If it will stop the slaughter of these innocents,” Ioras said.

“Yes.”

“The slaughter is imminent,” the king replied. “As is your

capture and execution. Not even your father can stop it now.”

At that moment a shadow passed overhead. Where it passed

the temperature cooled. Whatever it was, was vast.

“Eyewing,” cried Draiocht. “Avoid its sweeping gaze.”

Already a beam was falling to the earth to smoke and dig deep

pits in the stone.

Distracted by the arrival of the huge creature, the wizard let

his concentration slip. With a loud cry, Dubhaca broke free from

his glowing prison.

“Cromm can suck it!” the wizard proclaimed as he swung

his staff at the dark creature that lunged at him like a ball of

darkness. He was too slow and the impact sent both he and the

demon tumbling in a heap across the cobblestones.

“What sort of foulness have you brought to the city?” Ioras

asked.

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As if in answer, the dark cloaked woman stepped forward,

snake arms writhing.

“Gods,” cursed Ioras. “Do you know what you have done?”

Gearalt merely chuckled.

“With great power comes hard choices,” the king replied.

“And I have made mine.”

“Then the Kingdom is doomed to a future of ruin,” the

Golden Child said.

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Gearalt stated. “You won’t be

around to worry about it anyway.”

A cry of pain came from behind, all too human and

sounding way too much like Draoicht for his liking.

“This cannot be the way,” Ioras said, defiantly.

“Oh but it is,” came the snide reply.

Several soldiers stepped forward to the Golden Child’s

defense. One was a large man in plate armor that barely covered

his considerable bulk. The double cross of Alinard blazed with

unearthly light upon his breastplate and in his hand he carried a

heavy hammer.

“Harm him not,” the man said defiantly. “Be ye king or

pauper, paladin or rogue, I will protect His son with my life.”

The man scowled through a beard of flowing gold, his face

framed by a ragged crown of oily locks.

Myala, the demon queen strode forward wearing a fanged

smile, moving her arms in small circles. The snakes hissed and

tasted the air with forked tongues. Gearalt stepped away from the

King’s blade while opportunity presented itself.

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An arm came to rest upon his shoulder as the soldiers

moved to form a wall before him. He turned to see Draiocht

bleeding from a small gash on his temple, but otherwise

unharmed. Relief washed over the Golden Child at the realization

that his advisor had survived.

Dubhaca bounded back toward the king, favoring one of his

legs. Green ichor poured from a deep gash.

“We must retreat until we can reform our army,” the wizard

breathed, obviously pained.

“Even now my forces surround you,” Gearalt said. “There

will be no escaping.”

The crowd around Ioras slowly backed away, the Golden

Child in their midst. The Eyewing passed overhead, the searing

beams of energy falling from the sky. Like a sinister cloud, it

hovered over the small group of soldiers.

Armor hissed and smoked where the energy’s landed and

there were many cries of pain. A tall man fell to the ground when

the glowing beam hit his eye, dissolving half his face into a

ruined mound of flesh. Ioras, for the first time in his life, felt

despair.

Behind them, several legions of Francagach swarmed from

the sewers beneath the city. The rat folk moved quickly under the

command of a white furred leader wearing a small helm and

carrying a crossbow. His teeth were large and prominent,

hanging from his upper snout like icicles. Small eyes flashed red

in the waning light of the day.

Soon, Ioras knew, they would be surrounded. If they were to

escape to fight another day, they must make a move immediately.

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“Fight your way back through the gates,” Ioras cried, his

voice rising above the tumult.

“Seize him.” Gearalt’s voice shrieked through the sky. His

army of orcs, francagach, ogres, and lesser minions, handpicked

and spirited into the city through a portal deep underground,

rushed forward. All the while the dark form of Dubhaca chortled

with unrestrained glee.

Ioras’ sword flashed in the twilight. The rat man’s head flew

from its body. Immediately, several armored men surrounded the

Golden Child weapons bared.

“Let them run,” Gearalt cried. “Like the cowards they are.

Soon all of Domhan will tremble beneath my feet and the Golden

Child’s head will adorn a spike at my front gate. Let them run.

When my army arrives, we will root them from their holes and

burn every damned temple of Alinard to the ground.”

Ioras was escorted toward the gates. Behind came they

sounds of cheering and awful sounds. Sounds of feeding.

They hadn’t gone far into the city when they encountered a

crowd of people leaving the city, belongings tied in bundles or

strapped to backs. Adults looked fearful and children were filthy

and sad. A fresh burning smell tainted the air and on their

tongues they could taste ash. Cannivone gripped and loosened his

grip on the hilt of his sword, obviously agitated.

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“So much you have taken,” the boy muttered. “You have

taken enough.”

In his head, the voice whispered. “We will take our rightful

place on the throne of Anglea.”

“Who do you speak to?” Luaithreach inquired.

“The King must be held accountable,” Cannivone said, his

eyes glazing over.

“The time has come for blood to spill,” Bloodletter crooned.

They followed the streets, buildings rising to each side like

sentinels, watching them with silent eyes. Toward the castle they

strode, purposefully, taking long strides to eat up the distance.

They passed more hopeless and forlorn people as they

rushed to the gates of the crumbling city-once a fine jewel now

reverted to nothing but a pile of rubbish.

Cannivone wiped a small tear away when he thought of how

beautiful the city had been upon his arrival.

“Crying is a sign of weakness,” the sword chided. “Now is

a time for the strong.”

“Bite me,” Cannivone replied. A dark shadow passed

overhead and they moved their gaze toward the sky. Droplets of

liquid fell from the sky.

“Now it rains?” Luaithreach queried. “Maybe it will help

wash the stench from this place.”

Cannivone noted that where the drops hit, the street smoked

and became etched. Fear and understanding came upon him at

the same moment.

“Avoid the rain,” he shouted and a drop seared upon his

hand. He jumped back and cried out in pain.. Luaithreach looked

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on in apparent apathy.. She scrambled toward the overhang of a

nearby building, boarded up and abandoned, gently calling to her

companion.

“What sort of foul sorcery is this,” she whispered, “that acid

falls from the sky?”

“Dubhaca,” the sword whispered in his head.

“What?”

“He is near,” the sword added. “I can feel him. I want that

bastard’s heart.”

“Who is Dubhaca?”

“An old…acquaintance of mine. He owes me much.”

Luaithreach looked at Cannivone with the piteous look one

gives the insane. He glared back at her.

“Stay or follow,” the boy said. “I care not.” With that, he

loped from cover in the direction the shadow had flown.

With a sigh of resignation, she followed, growling low in

her throat. Already the creature overhead had flown away, the

acidic drops falling in another location.

The sounds of battle rang into the sky as they approached

the bridge that would take them toward the Noble Sector. It was

here the great gate had stood; one final defense before the castle

walls were breached. It was here that Thofric had slain the

wizard Abracus.

The cobbles were still slick from the ice, although the sun

had made an appearance and began to loosen the snow’s grip

upon the city. Cannivone sadly looked at the burned and ruined

buildings ahead. He knew that many lives had been lost at the

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portcullis for no reason other than a bloodthirsty woman wielding

the very sword he held in a tight fist wanted power.

Power corrupts, he remembered his mother saying when he

was but a boy. Thoughts of her always brought a twinge of

sadness to his chest. He still remembered watching her wither

away while his uncle did nothing.

From a distance they watched a huge swarm of men

retreating toward the city gates. In the center, a golden armored

man blazed like the sun.

Cannivone, sword in hand, crept toward the sounds.

Luaithreach followed a nightmare. Gearalt sat astride a black

horse, surrounded by every foul creature Cannivone had ever

read about in the thin, leather-bound books his uncle loved so

much. Cannivone had thought the tales were myth. His eyes were

telling him the folly of such thoughts.

“We must return to fight another day,” Luaithreach said

from over his shoulder. “We cannot defeat so many.”

“Where would we go?” Cannivone asked.

“The army that leaves,” she said. “We will follow them.”

Cannivone reluctantly agreed and for once the sword was

eerily silent.

With a great flurry of leathery wings, the dragon dropped

toward the courtyard of the Library of Hope. Flagstones rushed at

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them rapidly as the dived toward the earth. MacLugh giggled

with childish glee, but Elioth paled as his stomach tumbled,

threatening to give up his morning meal.

“Take it easy,” he grumbled. “I’m not the youth I once

was.”

Arkameth laughed and rode the currents, gliding more

gently toward the earth. Below, a gathering of Librarian priests,

peaceful folk, dressed in white linens adorned with the quill of

Oghma, looked up with amazement at the appearance of the

legendary silver dragon. Murmurs went through the crowd and

many fell to their knees in reverence.

“Humans,” snorted Arkameth. “Of all races, they are the

weakest.”

Elioth bristled at the insult. He had been many things in his

life, but he would never have been described as weak.

Sensing his agitation, the dragon quickly added, “Easiest to

manipulate I mean; to find a reason for awe where none exists.”

“Have you seen the rites of the sirite?” Elioth grumbled, his

voice barely audible above the whistling wind.

The dragon heard, however, its hearing far beyond the

abilities of lesser creatures.

“I have,” Arkameth stated. “Their deity is all around them.

They see it every day. They worship the trees and the wind. The

animals that provide them with food and clothing. The smell of

the flowers. Are these things not truly awe inspiring?”

“He has a point,” MacLugh shouted.

“As does every sirite,” the Crystal Wizard grumbled. “At

the tip of each long ear.”

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Gently, the dragon placed them on the ground. As his feet

struck the earth, Elioth breathed a long sigh of relief and glanced

at MacLugh who seemed like a disappointed child that the ride

was over.

“Fun time is over,” Elioth said. “Work time begins.”

“Thanks, Arkameth,” MacLugh told the dragon. “You are a

prince among your kind.”

The dragon grinned.

“At least this one knows the value of flattery,” he said and

with a flutter of wings he soared back into the darkening sky.

Elioth turned to face the awestruck crowd, his hands raised

above him clutching his oaken staff.

“It is I, Elioth,” he began. “Called by some the Crystal

Wizard. I seek knowledge that only the Library of Hope contains.

I beg your indulgence that I may peruse the vast trove of volumes

in your dispensary.”

An elderly priest stepped forward, his bald head ringed by a

fading strip of thin white hair.

“We have heard of you,” the elder priest said. “and you are

most welcome. Your arrival brought us excitement we haven’t

had in many a year.”

“I bet,” MacLugh said under his breath. A life of constant

reading and copying ancient manuscripts would bore him to

death, but he shrugged it off. To each their own, he thought.

“I am Chief Librarian Wadilas,” the old man said. “We offer

shelter and wine. Our Library is a place of peace and solitude.

None will disturb your studies. Follow, please.”

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Elioth looked relieved, but MacLugh couldn’t hide his total

lack of enthusiasm.

“Are you sure we can’t have a little distraction?” he asked,

sheepishly. Wine was wonderful, but conversation was like gold.

Conversation with anyone other than the crusty old curmudgeon

Elioth. And if that someone happened to be female….

“We will see what we can do to accommodate,” Sian

replied, bringing a smile to MacLugh’s face. Elioth scowled at

him, but the younger wizard ignored the scathing look.

“We don’t both need to study, do we?” MacLugh asked.

Elioth snorted and followed Wadilas, his body stiff with

indignation.

MacLugh grinned again.

“Where’s that wine?” he said.

The call had come inside his head. Ruthangad smiled,

grimly and stretched his legs. He brought a small reed pipe to his

lips and blew a low discordant note. The answering cry of the

fachan split the sky, low and terrible. The reaper shivered as a

cold chill crept down his back.

Outside the Broken Wheel he could hear the tramping of the

beasts, the gnashing of their rotting teeth. He smiled with pride as

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he remembered how savage the beasts had been, but how easily

they were manipulated by his magic flute. Creatures of low

intelligence were always pliable.

“We travel toward Fialscathac,” the lanky man said to his

closest guard, a particularly stout fachan with spikes of hair that

protruded from his scalp like the leaves of a carrot. Bones had

been knotted throughout the lengths of the hair.

“Gather the forces, Urk. Another town is ripe for our

master’s picking.”

Ruthangad grinned. How easily they had taken the town of

Belton unaware. If they made haste, the same could be said for

Fialscathac. With Dubhaca in place in Talantas, it was a matter of

time before the whole kingdom fell to Colm Sadach’s rule. As

promised by Deresor, the lich, The Little Black One would take

his place beside the dark wizard as hand of the king, second in

rule only to Colm, the Blackheart. His smile widened.

He called for the other necromancer to his aid, the frost

giant named, Heorik. Death would come.

Who says death can’t be a lucrative business?

The mob of refugees poured in to the low gates of

Fialscathac and Fennel found the mass of bodies made good

cover to escort his group of women and children through. The

bwbachs were no larger than five year old humans and would not

catch an unwanted eye. Meladi and Harmoni argued in low

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voices about the merits of one song or another and the ex-mayor

of Belton sighed.

“We made it,” he said in a barely audible whisper. “Keep

the children close. We must now find a safe haven.”

“Where are we to do that?” a woman asked, eyes still red

from the torrent of tears.

“I have an old friend here,” Fennel replied. “I only hope Gru

has forgiven any past transgressions.”

“Gru?” Harmoni asked, a puzzled look upon her face.

Her father smiled. “Short for Gruverius. He is a sirite and a

strange sort at that, but he has a soft spot in his heart for

children.”

“Let’s find him then,” Meladi said. “Quickly. I can no

longer feel my toes.”

Three days travelling through the snow had left more than

one of the crowd on the verge of frostbite. Had Fennel not worn

his warm gloves, he too may have lost a finger or two.

“Last I knew,” the mayor said. “He had opened a casino in

this place. What was it called…….The Cutting Edge?”

“Keep an eye peeled,” Meladi suggested. “Or ask someone.”

“There’s an idea,” Fennel growled. “Which of the refugees

should I ask?”

Meladi scowled. “Father. Use your head. This town does

have a militia, yes? And guards? Find one and inquire as to your

friends’ whereabouts.”

“Not that easy, my child.” Fennel replied. “The history of

Gru and I goes back to a time before I was the man of means you

see before you. To a time when we both had an occupation that

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was more…..underground. The watch may not even know my

friend’s name.”

“Is it not worth a try?” Meladi hopped from one foot to

another trying to keep the blood flowing through her legs.

“As long as they brew mead,” snorted Yor.

“What about the Temple of Alinard,” suggested Morrigan.

“It is reputed to be the largest in Domhan.”

Fennel rubbed his chin in thought. It was true the temple in

Fialscathac was the first and largest on the continent, but it

housed a large army of paladins and priests. Would they even

have room for such a large number of refugees?

Only one way to find out, he thought.

“To the temple, then.” Fennel made a sign of warding across

his chest. “And hope Alinard has mercy today.”

“A shame,” Fennel pondered. “This once fine city has been

converted into a place of mourning.”

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Chapter Sixteen

Suffering Is Good For The Soul

The candles flickered in the wind as the door burst open.

Heads raised from thick bound books as the man entered,

swaying from the alcohol coursing through his veins. Scowls

etched into every face, but none said a word as the portly mage

waddled to where Elioth sat in studious silence, perusing his

hundredth volume.

MacLugh plopped down on the empty seat next to him.

“What have we found?” the younger wizard asked.

Elioth frowned. “We as you so eloquently put it have found

different things, obviously. I have found boundless tomes of

knowledge where you have found another bottle.”

“And a wench,” MacLugh added with a wink. “Don’t forget

the wench.”

Elioth’s face fell to his hands where he rubbed at his

temples in agitation.

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“I spend hours poring over these tomes and have nothing to

show for it. You are acting like you are on holiday. My monkey

would have been more help than you.”

“You could have chosen to bring him instead.” MacLugh

shrugged. “If death greets me tomorrow,” he said, “I refuse to

meet it with the regret of not living while I had the opportunity.

Our lives are short and over too quickly.”

“Over sooner if we do not find an answer,” Elioth groaned.

“What did Sithic mean about the second key? Why was my

magic so impotent during the final battle?”

“It wasn’t impotent,” MacLugh retorted. “Just ill timed. The

wrong gods were looking over us that day.”

“Elymas is the foundation of our very power,” the Crystal

Wizard remarked. “Magic takes dedication.”

“Some are more dedicated than others,” the younger wizard

replied. “A life not lived to the fullest only leaves a death with

regret.”

“And do you have regrets?” Elioth asked.

“Some,” MacLugh sighed. “I regret not having fathered a

child or having settled down with the right woman.”

“These things matter to you?” The Crystal Wizard gazed at

him with bloodshot eyes.

“Only when I speak of my mortality,” MacLugh replied. He

smiled, warmly.

Elioth yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“You have been at this for hours,” MacLugh said. “Let me

take over the task for a while.”

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“You have been drinking,” Elioth snorted. “We need a clear

head.”

“My head is clearer than you think, my friend,” MacLugh

chortled. “I have only just begun to replenish my fluids that the

chambermaid so willingly took from me.”

“Tempestuous youth,” the Crystal Wizard growled. “Must

everything revolve around your cock?”

“No,” the younger wizard answered. “Sometimes it revolves

around my stomach. Now go and rest.”

Elioth sighed, but nodded, weakly.

“Alert me immediately if you find anything,” he grumbled.

“Of course,” MacLugh reassured him. “I am not completely

useless you know.”

Lughdo entered the Temple of Many Faiths, weary and out

of breath. The eternal flame still burned, the ever present pig

crackling and crisping over its heat. He leaned his double bladed

axe against the wall and kneeled. His hands were cold, so he

pushed them toward the flame, rubbing them together to increase

the circulation. Though born with a thick hide and clad in layers

of bear hides, he was not immune to the winter’s cold bite.

The smell of cooking meat caused his stomach to rumble

and he reached into his pouch for a handful of blueberries. To his

chagrin, he found the pouch empty.

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“Lughdo sad,” the half-ogre sighed.

‘Back so soon?” the musical voice said from behind him. He

whirled, a snarl escaping from his upturned lips. The satyr, Chard

MacMuinwere, keeper of the temple and Lareili’s aide, stood, his

goat feet wide apart, hands on his hips, a huge smile across his

bearded face.

“Friends in trouble,” the half-ogre said.

“Is there another companion you need raised from

Marbhan’s realm?”

“No.” Lughdo shook his head. “Me need to ask favor. I ask

Alinard. He no answer.”

“Maybe you are asking the wrong questions,” the satyr said.

This elicited a confused scowl from Lughdo. Chard laughed.

“Word has come to us of the battle in Talantas,” the satyr

said. “Of the loss and the despair inflicted upon the realm. We

are safe up here in our mountain lair. The rest of you…” He

shrugged. “Not so much.”

“Me try to learn of Alinard, but have no luck.” Lughdo

frowned, his tusks jutting upward, nearly to his bulbous nose.

“If it is luck you are after,” the satyr said, “better you speak

to Gad. Alinard helps those who have the balls to do for

themselves.”

“Me frustrated.” Lughdo fell back on his haunches and

leaned against the wall, basking in the relaxing warmth of the

flame.

“Doesn’t your kind usually follow darker gods?” Chard

asked.

“Me follow god who cares,” the half-ogre growled.

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The satyr lifted his hands in supplication.

“Easy,” he said. “Just asking. I think it is commendable that

you choose to embrace your human blood over that of your

father.”

“Me never knew father,” Lughdo said. “Only knew love of

mother.”

“As every child should.” The satyr stepped forward, a set of

pan pipes appearing in his hand. “Sad it is when a child is

abandoned by the one who gave it birth.”

“Only ogres do this,” Lughdo proclaimed.

“Sadly,” Chard sighed, shaking his horned head, “it is not

so. Humans have the uncanny ability to detach themselves from

their emotions more than any other creature on all of Domhan.”

“Why?” Lughdo asked.

“Fickle are the Gods,” the satyr stated. “Who knows their

ways?”

“Lareili?” Lughdo offered.

Chard MacMuinwere chuckled. “She is wise and can speak

to them, but do not think she holds all the answers to their ways.”

“Me confused,” Lughdo admitted, shaking his bald head.

“Eat, drink, relax,” Chard said. “I will speak to the Lady for

you and see if she will grant you an audience. Few there are who

have been granted such a boon twice.”

“Me lost cause?” Lughdo looked downcast.

“On the contrary,” the satyr said. “A half-ogre who

worships the new god of the humans? Anything is possible.”

The satyr disappeared behind a large iron door leaving the

half-ogre to think upon the words.

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“No make me wait too long,” Lughdo muttered to the door.

Mabsant shifted uncomfortably in the small seat. Before him

sat the members of the An Corran, meeting in secret, in a dank,

musty room in the cellar of The Silver dragon Inn. Atheala Ith sat

at his side, patting his thigh reassuringly.

“Let this first meeting of the independent council come to

order,” the obese council head said, trying to hide the waver in

his voice.

“Order?” exclaimed Duach Bluetoes. “Amidst this chaos?”

Atheala leaned forward. “Remember your place,” she stated.

“All will have a chance to speak in turn.”

“The fennid and paladins have all abandoned us,” Mabsant

said, sadly. “The city lies in ruins, its people distrustful of the

church and of the lawmakers who they were to trust. The King

has chosen to align himself with dark forces. The time for drastic

measures has come.”

“What will happen to us if the King hears of our treason?”

Elleth of Cliath asked, her usually well-kept hair hanging loose

and un-brushed, so hastily was the meeting called.

“Death would be the least of punishments,” the obese

advisor stated. “But do we not owe it to the people to do

something?”

“Maybe the King will come to his senses,” suggested Echu.

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“At this point our lives are forfeit regardless,” Manech said,

surprising even himself. “We may as well die knowing we tried

to make a difference. I can no longer sit back and watch this…

boy destroy our kingdom. Call on whatever favors you have left.

We must start a rebellion.”

The abhac advisor, Cadaroc Stoneskin stood with a scowl on

his bearded face and hammered a fist into the oaken table.

“A rebellion is an easy thing to start,” he roared. “But

quelling one is not so simple.”

“Let the people fight. Let them decide who is worthy to be

their next king,” Adarc the Seer, corani delegate said, peering

over his bent spectacles.

Atheala Ith, second to the speaker, raised a hand, demanding

order.

“We all have arguments for and against open rebellion,” she

stated. “The bottom line is: the kingdom cannot stand in its

current state. I agree with Mabsant. Use whatever contacts you

have. Gather them in Fialscathac. Let them cut the boy king off

from his nearest neighbor.”

“This will incite the wrath of the king,” Echu of Habad

replied. “He may choose to put us all to death.”

“Only if he learns of our intentions,” Mabsant sighed. “Hold

your tongues and we may live a few more years in our luxuries.”

The sirite Tarnimmil Thorn creased his mouth into a grim

line. “Should have known it would come to this. Humans cannot

be trusted. Why the Gods have chosen them to be the greatest

race I cannot fathom.” He sighed and added, “Very well. I will

send a bird tonight to King Estelion and inform him of these

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matters. What he chooses to do with the information I cannot

say.”

Mabsant nodded, slowly. “Inform all the kings,” he said.

“From Thalli the Fortieth to Joxeu of the Yrthlings. Domhan

must stand in defiance of this tyranny. Our lives-and the lives of

every living soul on Yrth is at stake.”

“Dramatic,” sneered Cnychwyr ap-Amlawdd, the centaur. “I

shall return to the court in Calandrium. King Bergagris will not

be pleased.”

“None of us are pleased, my centaur friend.” Elleth of Cliath

said with a scowl. “It is just the way of things.”

“Is business at an end then?” the centaur added brusquely. “I

have a long way to travel.”

Mabsant let out a long held breath, his chin falling in

despair.

“Our business is at an end indefinitely. So ends the final

meeting of An Corran.”

Ghia had just settled in to a corner of the safe house when

Ratto returned, a bag full of provisions thrown over his shoulder.

The dilapidated and decaying building had once been a tinker’s

shop, but fire and time had left it a barren shell. A window on the

west wall afforded tem a clear view of the temple and the

courtyard before it.

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“There are tunnels beneath,” Ratto said, tossing the bag to

the floor. Fresh baked rolls, a bunch of carrots, and two raven

eggs rolled out into the dust.

“Tunnels,” Ghia said without emotion, barely hearing the

words as he mind was kept locked up in conversation with her

doll.

“Yes,” the rat-like bwbach said, scratching his pointed nose.

“They were used by smugglers. They go far underground and

reach beyond the city walls.”

“Mmmhmmm,” she replied. Ratto snorted and dropped to

his bottom on the straw lined floor.

“Not much of a conversationalist,” he murmured. He picked

up a carrot and bit into it with a loud crunch. He ate, noisily,

pulling his cloak around him to avoid the chill that seeped

between the cracks that split the hull of the building.

“Wait,” Ghambi said. “And watch. Pantania comes.”

Kimber had never seen Fialscathac so crowded. Soldiers,

merchants, beggars, rogues, even a few clerics of Alinard, mud

and filth spattering their robes, gathered inside the gates. A small

force of militia, undermanned and overwhelmed tried to direct

the refugees toward safe houses of inns, but there were far too

many to accommodate.

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“They swarm into the city like bees in a hive,” Onvalay

said.

A worried expression creased Kimber’s face. Her soft skin

showed signs of the recent troubles by spouting a wrinkle here

and there. Bailey growled at her side. They lived their lives far

from the influence of others, sometimes not seeing a soul for

months. Such a large group made the dog uneasy. Kimber could

feel it too; something just at the edge of her senses, warning her

that something was amiss.

“I’m sure we can find a place for most of you,” the voice of

the Guard Captain said above the din. His voice sounded strained

and Kimber could see how tense he was by the way he stood

rigid, his jaw clenched and twitching between each word.

“It’s a foin mess we find ourselves in again,” Tavish

exclaimed.

“Messes seem to find us,” Hennesi stated,” whether we want

them or not.”

“Where is this friend of yours?” Onvalay grumbled. “Will

he have ale?”

Kimber smiled to herself. He would have ale and more,

since he owned a tavern-at least he had the last time she had seen

him seven winters prior.

“I’m sure he will be able to accommodate you,” she sighed.

“I was once a slave to the drink as well, y’know,” Tavish

offered. “Now I am intoxicated by the beauty of this foin lass.”

he motioned toward Hennesi.

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Onvalay harrumphed. “No beard,” he said. “What sort of

woman has no beard? An abhac woman takes pride in her facial

hair nearly as much as the men do.”

Tavish grimaced. “That would be like kissin’ meself,” he

said, then his face brightened. “Not that that would be a bad

thing.”

“Relax, lover boy,” Hennesi said. “You don’t have to resort

to that just yet.”

The bard grinned at his lover. “Does that mean I get to kiss

yer lips again, soon?’

“Yep,” Hennesi replied “If you count yourself lucky.”

“Ever have I been lucky,” the bard chuckled.

Kimber groaned. “Could you two wait until we find a room,

at least?”

“Jealous?” Hennesi teased. “I’m not above sharing you

know. Or are your thoughts on the ugly, scarred one?”

Kimber turned on her friend, savagely. “Do not speak ill of

Neftet. He has saved us on more than one occasion. And whoever

I choose to lay with is none of your concern.”

“The lass is in love,” Tavish said.

Kimber snorted. “Imbecile,” she growled. What a bunch of

nonsense. She merely worried about the man who had become

her friend. There was a warmth inside the man that one had to

find by peeling away the layers of hate and hurt he carried. Is

there something wrong with having compassion for a man whose

whole life has been death and pain?

“Getting her to admit that,” Onvalay added. “Would be like

rowing up a waterfall.”

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Gerald L. Black

Fighting their way through the crowd, they crossed the

marketplace toward the battered wooden sign that read:

The Coin’s Edge Tavern and Casino Gru

Pointieers prop.

“It appears to still be in business,” Kimber exclaimed.

“When we enter, I want you all to be on your best behavior.”

“Yes, mother.” Hennesi stuck her tongue out at the ranger,

playfully.

“Are we not always on our best behavior, “Brawth replied

with a shrug. “Should not be an issue.”

“Banba give me strength to deal with fools,” Kimber

muttered as she stepped into the doorway.

The initial shock of the heat from the fireplace was

unnerving, Kimber turning her head away, but the sweet smells

of food being prepared in the kitchens soon had their mouths

watering. Behind the bar, looking bored out of his thinly

stretched skull, stood a blonde sirite with sad looking eyes.

“Welcome to the Coin’s Edge,” the barkeep said. “What is

your pleasure?”

“We wish to speak with Gru,” Kimber said, looking the

sirite over with a cursory glance of distaste.

“My brother is a busy man,” the bartender said without

emotion. “Making money keeps him busy.”

“And what would pry him from his important business?”

Onvalay growled. He threw a small pouch onto the counter and it

clanked with the sound of coins. “Would this suffice?”

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The sirite raised an eyebrow and reached for the pouch.

Untying it, he emptied several silver coins into his palm and

smiled.

“It’s a good start,” he said. “I am Gro. Make yourselves at

home. I will get my brother. Drinks are on the house.”

“We would probably be better off drinking them there,” the

abhac said, “from the looks of this place. It looks like a dragon

ate it, spewed it up, ate it again, and shat it back out.”

Tavish looked around the fire scarred room and nodded

slowly. “I have seen worse,” he added.

“A abhac would never allow his drinking establishment to

fall into such disrepair,” Onvalay groaned. “It is unheard of.”

“My apologies,” a voice said from a far doorway. “I agree

that my establishment has seen better days. Damned warring

wizards. One more fireball through my door and I may rethink

my retirement.”

All eyes turned to see the sirite with the green strip of hair.

Kimber smiled.

“We need your help,” she said.

Gru Pointieers paled. “So soon?”

“It has been a few weeks,” Hennesi added. Tavish smiled

behind his facial hair and opened his mouth to speak.

Kimber raised a hand to silence him. “ “We merely need

shelter. What in the Hells is going on out there?”

“The King has gone mad, apparently,” Gru said. “His fennid

have abandoned him. The paladins have left his employ. They

say he dabbles in dark magic and burns Talantas to the ground.”

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“I feared as much,” the ranger said. She sat at a table,

scarred from many years of sharp daggers and placed a weary

head in her hands. Bailey whimpered.

“I don’t usually allow pets in here,” Gru said. Bailey

growled. “But I guess this time I can make an exception. I shall

summon my newest serving girl to assist you with anything you

need.”

“Does she have the King’s head on a platter?” Onvalay

grumbled.

“A silver one would be nice,” Tavish added.

Gru smiled. “I’m afraid not, my abhac friend, but he appears

to be placing it under the scythe as we speak.”

“I could use a drink or three,” the abhac groaned. “Bach

Bychan must be disappointed in me to make me suffer this way.”

“Suffering,” Kimber added, cryptically, “is good for the

soul.”

“I remember you,” Tavish said, “from the throne room. Ye

helped in the final battle.”

Gru shrugged. “I don’t know how much help I really was.

The King still died.”

“That failure we all share,” Kimber replied. “We could not

stop his death.”

“If the Gods wish a death…” Onvalay began.

“The priest is here,” Gru interrupted, “The one from that

day.”

“Darius?” Kimber’s eyes blazed with life. “At your tavern?”

Gru giggled. “No, silly girl. He has been placed in charge of

the temple. Quite the feat for one so young.”

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“We know where we must go,” Hennesi said. “The lad is

strong in his faith.”

“Mayhap he needs some strong arms behind him,” Onvalay

pondered.

“There is only one way to find out,” Gru said. “Go see him.

I will lend you my companion, Varis. He doesn’t speak much,

but he will keep the undesirables away.”

“Why?” Hennesi asked, innocently. “Does he stink?”

“No,” Gru smiled. “He is a tarbhac.”

“The bull men?” Kimber gasped. “Can he be trusted?”

“He can be relied on as well as any other creature,” Gru

answered.

“Then we accept,” the ranger retorted with a nod.

Suddenly the door burst open, bringing in a blast of cool air

that flickered the candles and peppered their skin with

gooseflesh. All heads turned to see the bwbach, red faced and

panting, leaning against the supporting beams.

“Toric!” Gru and Kimber exclaimed simultaneously. The

ranger rushed forward to greet her long lost friend.

“Ale,” the bwbach said, “and plenty of it. What I have seen

can only be cleansed by libation.”

Gru gave him a quizzical glance and reached for a stone

mug.

“What have you seen?” Kimber asked, her brow dropping

into a scowl.

“Ale first,” Toric said. “It was a swift journey and I am

parched.”

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Gerald L. Black

The sirite filled the mug with the dark, bitter liquid, scraping

the head of foam into an iron floor grate and handed it to his

bwbach friend. Toric upturned the mug and emptied it. He wiped

his mouth with the back of his sleeve and burped.

“As good as I remember,” he said. “Another.”

“Not until you start talking,” Gru said. The bwbach looked

at him with a hurt expression, then let out a long breath.

“Very well,” Toric said. “But get another mug ready.

Talking will only aggravate my thirst.”

“Spill it, ”Hennesi shouted. “Why do bwbachs never get

straight to the point.”

Toric turned to the lanky, sparsely clad human woman and

offered a slight smile.

“We have more to say then the likes of you, probably.” He

crossed his arms and raised his chin, defiantly.

“Forgive my companion, Kimber interjected. “We also have

had a long journey and nerves are frayed. Please, continue with

the story.”

“Or at least begin it, “Hennesi muttered and shut her mouth

when the ranger gave her a wilting gaze.

Toric sighed. “There I was in the temple making my way

through the quiet halls.”

“What were you doing in that temple?” Onvalay asked,

suspiciously.

“Now who is doing all the talking?” the tiny man retorted.

He held the cup out in anticipation of it being filled and

continued his tale. “I can assure you I have my reasons.”

“We have faced such creatures before,” Kimber replied.

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Gru filled the cup from a wooden ewer. Toric brought the

mug to his lips and took a long drink.

“Gru,” Toric said. “I need you to fetch the girl.”

“Girl? Kimber felt a knot of fear coil in her stomach.

The bwbach nodded. “One quite important to the King,

apparently.”

The ranger cursed. The bard’s eyes widened in fear.

“What have you done now, bwbach?” she said. The silence

that followed was deafening.

“You come to Gru with this girl?” Kimber asked.

Toric shook his head. “I come to check on my charge. How

does she fare?”

Gru smiled. “Better than most I must admit. She is a hard

worker.”

“I need to see her,” the bwbach added, swallowing the

contents of his mug.

“I will send Gro for her,” the green haired sirite replied.

“She has been working hard and I sent her to rest in her room.”

He rose and exited the room.

“You have a charge?” Hennesi asked with a raised eyebrow.

Toric gave her a sneer. “I found her in the king’s cells. I

figured she would be safer here.” He shrugged. “Now, I am not

so sure.”

“A pretty girl?” Onvalay asked. Toric nodded.

Excitement arose inside the abhac and was quickly dashed

when he asked, “A Sirite bard?”

Toric snorted. “Hardly. A pretty human girl. I think the only

safe thing now is to get her to the Temple.”

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“Aren’t you barred from the temples?” Hennesi chimed in.

Toric huffed. “One incident years ago. The damned priests

can hold a grudge longer than even a sirite.”

“You blasphemed their temple,” Kimber reminded him.

“I had to piss,” the bwbach said for what seemed the

thousandth time. “They should be happy I relieved myself when I

was still outside.”

“I am sure they would have offered you a bed pan,” Kimber

said. “Or a bottle.” she couldn’t hide the grin. Often they had

enjoyed teasing the bwbach about his propensity to urinate on

things when they went against his plans.

“Maybe,” he returned with a shrug and a wink, “but the

bastards would have thought it was golden wine and then where

would I have ended up?”

“In a completely different sack, I’m sure.” Hennesi wore a

huge smile as she spoke the words.

“Och,” Tavish added. “Seems to me I missed all the fun.”

Onvalay and Kimber exchanged a puzzled look. Bailey

suddenly leapt to her feet, tail wagging and barking, excitedly.

The party turned to face the stairs where Gru’s brother Gro

stepped gingerly, a petite blonde girl in tow.

As she came into view, Tavish gasped. Kimber and Hennesi

looked at him in astonishment.

“You know her?” Hennesi inquired, crossing her arms

across her breasts.

Tavish nodded. “I believe so. Sure and isn’t it the pretty

servin’ wench from Gearalt’s castle.”

“Are you sure?” Kimber asked.

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Tavish nodded again. “Aye. Have I ever forgotten a pretty

face?”

Perinia seemed shy, staying back behind Gro until she spied

Toric. Then, she rushed forward and threw her arms around him

in a tight embrace.

“I thought you abandoned me,” she said.

“I would never do such a thing, child.”

“Yer name wouldn’t be Perinia would it?” Tavish asked.

The girl nodded, a curious look upon her face.

“How do you know me?” she asked, sudden fear changing

her expression.

“You served me wine on more than one occasion, lass,” he

said.

Recognition came to her features, then and she smiled.

“The bard?”

Tavish smiled back with his perfect teeth.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“We can explain it all to you later,” Toric added. “We must

first get you to safety.”

“Am I not safe with Gru?” she said.

“None are safe,” Toric stated. “So take your chances under

the protection of Alinard’s priests or suffer in the company of the

mad sirite.”

“Suffering is good for the soul, ”Gru muttered.

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Chapter Seventeen

Off To Calandrium

“What are the questions you need answered, ogre-blood?”

Lareili’s voice like tearing parchment echoed through the

chamber. The half-ogre felt a knot of fear in his throat, but he

swallowed it like a bad apple.

“Me sent by friends for help,” the gentle creature said.

“This is known to me,” the lich said. “All has been chaos. I

speak to the Gods, half-ogre. They tell me much.”

“Do they tell what me must do?” Lughdo looked so forlorn,

Lareili nearly laughed, but the seriousness of the situation was

not lost on her.

“I will speak to the Gods on your behalf,” she decided.

“There is much in you for them to like. You have shunned the

dark Gods of your kind and chosen to embrace your gentler side.

You have that in your favor.”

“Please,” Lughdo pleaded. “Lughdo's friends in danger.”

“Will you abide by whatever decision the Gods make?” the

undead cleric asked. Lughdo nodded.

“Me swear by Alinard,” he muttered.

The lick’s smile was all teeth. “I shall ask him first, then,”

she said. “First answer me a question.”

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“Sure,” Lughdo shrugged.

“What makes one of your dubious lineage become so gentle

natured?”

“Mother loved me,” the half-ogre replied, quickly. “Told me

treat others lie me should be treated.”

‘Fair enough,” the lich answered. “Let the ritual begin.”

In the back of the room, Chard stood, nervously rocking

from hoof to hoof. He hated the feel of the ancient magic that

permeated the room.

Lareili began to chant. The room filled with light mists that

coalesced into strange shapes. Lughdo placed his hands over his

ears to block out the eerie cries that emanated from the swirling

fog.

Lareili seemed lost in the rhythm of the chant. She spoke in

soft tones, her blackened tongue quivering as it unleashed the

sibilant sounds. The blue glow in her eyes blazed, suddenly and

she spoke one word.

“Chosen.”

A searing pain shot through Lughdo’s shoulder and he

grunted. He clasped a hand to his shoulder, his tusks jutting

forward as he grimaced.

“Alinard has marked you as one of his own,” Lareili gasped.

The half-ogre looked at her in confusion.

“Never have I seen such a thing, “ the lich said. “Blessed

you surely are to have the hand of God touch you so.”

Lughdo still did not comprehend what was happening. He

was known more for his brawn than for his thinking capacity.

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Gerald L. Black

The creature was cunning if not bright, but his decisions never

came without extensive planning.

“It burn,” he wailed.

“The pain will remind you of your place at Alinard’s side,”

Chard said, his eyes wide.

Lughdo removed his hand and craned his neck to see what

had pained him so. His eyes widened as he saw the mark, etched

into his mottled flesh as if branded: the double tined cross of

Alinard. The half-ogre fell to his knees.

“Rise, Holy Warrior of Alinard,” Lareili said, her voice

booming. “You have received your answer.”

“Me no hear answer,” he replied.

“The mark is the answer,” the lich said. “With this mark,

Alinard has bestowed you with power, yours to use in His name.

To veer from the path will cause the mark to burn in flame,

damning you to eternal suffering. Are you up to the task?”

Lughdo nodded, his pig eyes moistening.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Chard exclaimed, followed

by a short whistle.

“Alinard has spoken and his words are these.” Lareili looked

directly into the half-ogre’s eyes her empty sockets burning with

a blue light. “A task has been set before you of monumental

implication. Never before has one with tainted blood been

allowed into the Holy ranks. To prove you are worthy you must

accept a challenge.”

“What is challenge?” Lughdo asked, proudly jutting out his

chest.

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“Far below Domhan, in the realm of the Yrthlings and the

Sirite Thios, rests a portal to the Abyss. The veil that covers the

portal has been thinning. You must journey to the underworld

and close the portal. Prove your worth to the God you would

serve.”

“And save friends?” Lughdo asked.

Lareili chuckled. “Yes. Save friends and more. Save all of

Domhan. There are many risks along the way. I will send my

faithful companion Chard to guide you along your newly chosen

path. May Alinard guide you.”

“But…” the satyr began, but the lich turned on him, a

skeletal finger pointed.

“Do this in my honor,” she said. “If the forces under Colm

Sadach prevail, all is lost anyway. The diabhols will invade this

world in unstoppable numbers. Even I cannot be saved.”

Chard MacMuinwere, satyr bard and protector of the Lich

Priestess, bowed his head in supplication.

“Point me in the right direction,” he said.

Cannivone followed the trail of the army and Luaithreach’s

advice, despite the protests inside his head.

“Another wasted opportunity.”

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Gerald L. Black

“I am the hand that wields,” he grumbled. “I will decide

when an opportunity arises.”

“We could have slain that bastard king and taken his

crown,” the sword crooned.

“That may be your desire,” Cannivone sighed, “but it is not

mine.”

Luaithreach had become used to the strange boy carrying on

conversations with himself. It still unnerved her, slightly, but she

could sense the good inside him, so she ignored it and chalked it

up to divine intervention. She often spoke to the wind, hoping it

would carry to the ears of her savior, Denosia. Who was to say

the boy didn’t do the same?

“Do you not seek revenge?”

Cannivone shook his head. “I do not know what I seek.

Peace of mind, I guess. “Part of him longed for the feeling of

power unleashed by the shedding of blood.

“Peace of mind can be found when we sit upon the throne.”

The blade was persistent. “Then everything can be yours.

Including that girl you dream about.”

“Do not mention Perinia,” Cannivone snarled. “She has

nothing to do with this.”

The sword chuckled. “Just keep telling yourself that. You

cannot fool me. I live inside your head and inside your dreams. I

know what eats at your heart. Rejection.”

Cannivone gritted his teeth. The memory of her words still

ate at his gut like worms. Friends, she had said. He had hoped for

so much more. He missed the walks through the park; her smile.

The way her eyes lit up when he had handed her the white rose

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he had climbed up the tower for. The way she sat by his side

when she thought he was dying.

“Would you not do the same for me or any other friend of

yours out of concern?” The words had stung him. She thought of

him only as a friend and he was prepared to tell her of his

feelings. How could the Gods mock him so?

“We can become stronger than even the Gods,” the sword

whispered. “Then you can take her; make her your bride. If you

are king, she cannot deny you.”

As wonderful as all that sounded, Cannivone would not take

her by force. She would accept him of her own volition, or not at

all. He would rather see her dead than forced into a life of

slavery.

“We will speak no more of Perinia,” he growled, closing his

eyes against the headache that crept behind his lids. “Or you will

find yourself rusting at the bottom of the river.”

“There will always be a hand to wield me,” the sword

warned, cryptically. “Men desire power. I give it to them. How

stupid the church was to create the very weapon that gave over

their control of man.”

Cannivone ignored the words, but could not suppress the

slight shudder.

“Are you well? “the woman asked, rushing forward to aid

the boy. He shrugged her off.

“Just cold,” he lied.

“Soon we can warm ourselves at their fire,” the woman

said, pointing toward the diminishing army.

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“Or by bathing in their blood,” the sword said. Cannivone

shivered again.

Finding room for all the refugees was no easy task, but

Darius tried to appease them all. With the aid of Cipsis, he

cleared out space in the stables, laid out pallets in the foyer and

chapel. Fennel and his daughters were given the use of a quiet

room usually reserved for visiting dignitaries.

News of Belton’s fall saddened the priest. Tales of an army

of fachan and undead sneaking from the south worried him. The

Golden Child had failed. It was unthinkable. His dejection was a

visible entity that softened his face.

Reluctantly, he prepared his remaining paladins for the

inevitable battle.

“The foul army will not stop at one city,” he told them.

“They will attempt to raze all of them to the ground. I expect

them to come for us next. We must be ready.”

“But we are so few,” a paladin of The Faithful, followers of

Lugh, named Cormac MacOuain stated. “Most of our armies

follow the Golden Child.”

“We shall have to make due,” Darius said. “Train the

citizens. Form a militia. gather anyone able to wield a weapon

and let them defend their home. Alinard will aid us.”

“I don’t put as much faith in your God as you do, priest,”

the paladin said.

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Darius placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Put your faith

in whatever God you must,” he said. “But be sure he hears your

prayers.”

“Lugh starts each day with the life giving light that warms

the earth,” Cormac grunted. “Every day starts with a miracle.

You wish me to ask him for another?”

Darius shook his head. “We don’t need a miracle. Hope and

faith will suffice.”

“I will see to it,” the paladin said. Cipsis watched the

retreating form of the Templar and sighed.

“There will be enough bloodshed for all soon enough,”

Darius said. “Do not hasten washing your hands in it.”

Cipsis looked down, ashamed that the priest could read his

thoughts. How he longed to spill more of the foul blood that

coursed through the veins of the dark folk. Something inherent in

his very nature caused him to surge with anger whenever he

thought of the wanton destruction; the waste of lives they caused.

He wore the same borrowed sword he had used to slay

diabhols in Talantas. Deep grooves had been etched into its blade

form the acidic blood. Still, it had served him well.

“I will give you a task,” Darius said through his thoughts.

“You will be assigned to protect our guests if any attack enters

the temple. Agreed?”

Cipsis smiled. Now there was a task he could readily agree

to. He rather enjoyed the songs and tales of the two bwbach

bards. Domhan was enriched by their presence. He would protect

them with his very life. He swore it to Alinard.

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With a spring in his step, he took the stairs two at a time

toward the small room the bards shared with their travel worn

father and a grizzled abhac who called himself Yor Granitespire.

Cipsis had never seen an abhac up close. He had only seen

them as they passed through Talantas in merchant caravans or

trading in the marketplace. Thought to be gruff, dour race, his

mother had forbidden him to approach one. His mother was no

longer here to tell him what to do. He quickened his pace through

the tapestry lined hallway, eventually arriving at a thick door of

maple.

He took a deep breath and knocked.

Cwchmwri was torn between honor and duty. The

capallach, equine features seemingly out of place on his heavily

muscled human body, gripped the long sword in his hand so

tightly, his fingers were numbing.

His kind had always been raised to guard kings. The

capallach took a vow seriously and would honor it to the grave.

They were headstrong and stubborn, fiercely loyal, and possessed

great strength.

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However, Cwchmwri had given his oath to Uilleam. He

believed in the late King’s vision for a united Domhan. His rule

was just and fair to all races. The capallach had no quarrel with

humans.

He was sorely vexed by the new king’s decision to use the

untrustworthy and stupid tarbhac in his war. The bull men were

the capallach’s sworn enemies and many wars had been fought

between the two races.

He had spoken his concerns to his fellow guard, Cunnartach

Gra, a particularly tall human with black hair that was tied in

long braids to his waist, his body covered in tattoos. As the two

stood outside the King’s chambers, the sounds from within

caused them not a little discomfort.

Stifled screams penetrated the chamber door, despite its

hand’s-breadth thickness. The guards knew the King had called

for one of the kitchen wenches to sate his lust, but the guards

feared Gearalt’s appetites had grown more violent.

Cwchmwri periodically glanced back at the door, clearly in

distress.

“Nothing to be done,” Cunnartach Gra said. “Remember

your vow.”

Cwchmwri let out a rattling breath. “My vow was to protect

the King. I do not have to approve of his methods.”

Cunnartach thought about this for a moment and shifted his

spear to the opposite hand.

“We know nothing of running a Kingdom,” he said. “Our

purpose is to guard and to slay. Surely the king has the realm’s

interests at heart.”

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Cwchmwri grunted. He wasn’t so sure. He had witnessed

several questionable deeds from his liege.

“I guard him because to break a vow is like death to my

kind,” the capallach said, “but my honor makes me question his

motives.”

“You are in the middle of a dilemma, my friend.”

Cunnartach spoke gently, but his agitation was clear. “To

question your duty is akin to breaking your vow.”

Cwchmwri turned on his friend, savagely. “What do you

know of my vow? You humans have always been a self-centered,

devious race.”

The human guard lifted his hands. “We both took the same

vow under the watchful gaze of the Gods.”

“There are still some of us with pure hearts and good

intentions,” Cunnartach argued. “Even amongst Alinardians. The

problem is with power. When a person becomes too wrapped up

in power, they begin to believe they are the Gods.”

“Our Gods seldom agree,” Cwchmwri said. “On principle or

on matters of right and wrong.”

“Do you claim your God to be greater than mine?” the

human was aghast. “Does Epona’s honor outweigh that of my

Eochaid?”

“I would never debate the value of any God,” the capallach

stated. “Faith is necessary to give us hope.”

“So what are you getting at?” Cunnartach asked.

“We all must decide where that faith leads us,” Cwchmwri

added, the wisdom of his words ringing through Cunnartach’s

muddled brain.

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“But our vow,” the human reiterated.

“My vow was to my God,” Cwchmwri said. “No human law

can override that. Epona knows the truth in my heart. She will

show me the path.”

Cunnartach grunted. “ Hopefully the path won’t lead you to

your death.”

Cwchmwri hunched his square shoulders with what was

meant to be a shrug. “If Epona wishes me to run in her herd I am

ready. At least my honor will be intact.”

Cunnartach Gra, warrior of Cruithnia nodded in affirmation.

Sometimes honor was all a man had.

“I will wait,” the capallach stated, “and watch this new king.

Upon his actions hinge the very future of my action, my

decisions.”

“In that we are agreed,” the large tattooed human replied.

They grasped each others wrists in a show of brotherhood, an

unspoken pact formed between them. Cunnartach knew the

capallach would honor this oath with his very life. Such was the

way of his kind.

“There it is then,” Elioth said with a huff. “We must find our

answers elsewhere.”

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MacLugh closed the ponderous tome and smoothed the soft

cover of deerskin. Dust rose into the stale air of the tomb-like

room. Several Librarians glanced at them with agitation written

across their aged brows.

“Clues that lead to clues that lead to even more clues,” he

said, scratching his chin and lowering his voice to a harsh

whisper. “It is confounding.”

“Only one place has a greater collection of knowledge than

The Library of Hope.”

“You cannot be thinking to go all the way…”MacLugh

frowned.

Elioth nodded, his eyes narrowing. “I will travel across all

of Domhan and through the Nine Hells if I must,” he said.

“But… Calandrium, the centaur city?” MacLugh gasped.

“You know they are mistrustful of outside races.”

“Does not one sit at the very council to the King, the An

Corran?”

MacLugh nodded in assent. “True, but his loyalty is

tentative. It hangs by a proverbial thread.”

“Then we must strengthen that thread,” the Crystal Wizard

replied. “Weave it with magic and faith in Elymas so we can

push knowledge through their thick skulls.”

MacLugh snorted. “And you are the one wizard in recorded

history to tame the stubbornness of a centaur?” He laughed. “I

wouldn’t miss that for all the gold in Domhan.”

Elioth frowned. “If I had all the gold on Domhan, I could

hire another idiot to do this for me. We will make the centaurs

listen. It is their realm under attack as well as ours.”

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MacLugh’s laugh became louder, echoing through the book

filled chamber. He slammed a hand down on the table with such

force, a pile of tomes toppled.

“Let us be off to Calandrium, then.” His laughter was warm

and jovial. “Where is that damned dragon when we need him?”

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Chapter Eighteen

Death Comes

Arquel was thin, with copper hair and amber eyes. She was

thought to be exceptionally beautiful, and finely dressed;

compassionate and generous. She knelt before Ioras, head

bowed, a sharpened military pick on the ice at her feet. Behind

her were the remnants of the paladins of the Wyrmslayers, their

banner, a red dragon on a black pennant snapping in the breeze.

Even kneeling in mud and filth her comeliness was awe-

inspiring. Ioras felt the all too human stirrings in his loins at the

sight of her and he closed his eyes to block the temptation from

his heart. His father was always testing him with lustful

temptation and he had only given in once as a young lad, in a

camp outside Talantas. It was his thirteenth summer. Sick and

near death, he had been nursed to health by a local woman

known as Caeral. Every night the woman came to him, wiped his

brow when he was feverish, warmed his body with her naked

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form when he had chills. It was all, she said, in the name of

Alinard. He was young and naïve and weary from battle.

One night he awoke to find her next to him. Feverish and

near delirious, he had given in to the pleasures of the flesh. He

still remembered how warm and inviting her body had felt.

She was a comely woman, not as lovely as the paladin who

now knelt before him, but pretty in a common sort of way. She

had all her teeth and soft skin and a tangle of yellow hair to rival

his own. It was her smile that had been his downfall, however,

pulling her cheeks into dimples that seemed to beam with light.

She had been two winters his senior and eager to please the

injured boy.

When he had recovered, he returned to his war, leaving the

woman behind. Often, he wondered what had become of Caeral.

He prayed for forgiveness to Alinard for having used the woman

so. His guilt soon diminished, but in his heart his memory had

remained as if etched into its surface.

His kind and humans were known to mate, though it was

frowned upon in most circles.

“My Lord,” Arquel’s musical voice brought him back to

reality. “Does that suit you?”

Damn, I missed it.

“I am sure the Golden Child will agree to any help you can

provide Marshall Arquel,” Naomh Iobairt said from his side,

where she seemed to be more often than his own sword.

“All aid is welcome in Alinard’s army,” Ioras replied,

unsure of what he had agreed to. When the war was over, he

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vowed to leave the world of men for a while, hiding away in

some remote cave and sleeping for decades.

Few knew his secret. Those who witnessed his stunning

transformations usually wound up torn into pieces. It was an

unavoidable side effect of being dragon born and could not be

helped. He had grown accustomed through the years to

surrounding himself only with aides he could trust.

The first had been Apthlosareus, a priestess of Banba who,

with her companions, had rescued him from the deadly aim of

assassins sent by Colm Sadach and raising him as her own.

Watching the boy grow had converted her to Alinardism.

Favored by the god, her power had grown. Soon, she built a

formidable fortress just to the southeast of the Sliabh Cruinn.

Protected by spells that deny entrance to anyone not pure of

heart, she named it the Temple of Infinite Goodness and opened

her doors to all.

It was there Ioras had learned of war, of family, and of love.

With Sareus’ guidance, he had learned to lead, gathering his

army at the age of ten and marching off to battle the Sinforce of

Galis. Over the many years of battle, Sareus and her companions

acquired items for Ioras; his sword, Analil, the golden armor, a

helm, and a shield. All were blessed by Alinard and strong in the

energy the mortals called magic. Ioras knew the power came

from the glowing blue metal that had fallen from the sky-a gift

from Alinard.

Arquel rose with a ringing of armor and placed a fist to her

palm, bowing slightly.

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“We shall make camp on the southern perimeter,” she said

and stalked off. Ioras turned to the priestess at his side and gave

her a puzzled look.

“Your attention span is getting worse,” she said with a shake

of her dark tresses. She is pretty, too. For someone so old,

thought Ioras with the slightest hint of a smile.

Ioras chuckled to himself drawing a look of disdain from the

cleric.

“You really need to pay more attention,” she admonished.

“You may be the son of a god, but it doesn’t make you better

than your followers. They trust you with all their hearts. Do not

break that trust.”

Ioras nodded, responsibility slapping him in the face. In his

twenty seven winters he had gained the faith of Alinardians as his

father’s avatar on earth. He vowed to earn that trust.

“Forgive me, Naomh,” he sighed. “I tire.”

“Then we shall have to see you to bed at once. Tomorrow is

going to be a long day. We will arrive in Fialscathac.”

Wearily, he shook his head in agreement and let the cleric

lead him by the shoulder to his tent.

A half days journey outside Talantas, Cannivone and

Luaithreach caught up with the retreating army as it stopped to

regroup and take account of its losses. Approaching the sentries

was no easy task. They were highly alert and nervous, eyes

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moving like hawks. They raised weapons at the pair and gave

them uncomfortable looks.

“Come no closer,” the tallest guard said. Cannivone

recognized the insignia on his tattered tabard as that of Nysien,

God of Peace. Curious that a follower of peace would go to war.

“We are allies, ”Luaithreach said, stepping forward with

hands raised. Her weapon she wore upon her hip. “We wish to

join the crusade against the King.”

“We could take the head of this Golden Child,” the voice

whispered in Cannivone’s head. He ignored it.

“Where have you arrived from,” the guard asked. “And

where are you headed.”

“We newly arrived at Talantas to a grim scene,” the woman

replied. “We wish to only succor from the madness.”

“You will speak an oath of loyalty to the Golden Child?”

“Why?” Luaithreach said with a smile. “My only purpose is

to join in the struggle. My blade is at your disposal.”

The sentry looked the pair over with an appraising eye and

spent a moment in contemplation.

Cannivone fought against the urge to slay the pompous

bastard, the voice in his head telling him to teach the man a

lesson in humility. He shook the thought from his head and

quietly told the blade to be silent. A throbbing began behind his

eyes and he rubbed them, tiredly.

“You may travel with us,” the sentry finally agreed. “With

the refugees at the rear of the army. Rest will be rare and hard to

come by as long as we are pursued.”

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“The King will not follow until his new army arrives,”

reminded the squat man with hairy ears next to the taller guard.

“When that day comes,” the tall guard groaned. “May the

Gods watch our backs. “ Then back to Luaithreach. “Come. Join

us at the fire. Eat something. You look famished.”

“Thank you sir,” she said. “Mesz will watch over you with

his ever present eye.”

“I hope he will mind my privacy when I am bathing or

relieving myself,” the guard said with a grin. “I’m a bit shy, truth

be told.”

Luaithreach frowned. Why did so many mock her father?

Mesz had done more for the race of humans than any of their

other gods combined.. This Alinard was a mere child in the

pantheon of Gods that interfered in the lives of mortals, treating

them like toys.

She took a deep breath and remained calm, the litany of her

God echoing through her head. There is a time to make them

burn and this is not it. It was more than their race deserved,

tearing down forests and not replenishing them, killing animals

for sport and leaving the carcasses to rot, poisoning the water and

the very ground where the life giving trees grew. Her religion

promised no hope for the short lived race of man, though and

she devoutly believed in that prophecy. Only the destruction of

all other races but the mighty dragons could insure a life of purity

and utopia on Yrth.

She chose to ignore the man’s impudence, though her flesh

warmed as her anger seethed. Her charcoal skinned burned.

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“We will be glad to travel with the less fortunate,” she said,

forcing a smile upon her thin lips. “We much prefer their

company. As for your offer of food..” She sneered. “We will

feast with our own kind.” She strode off, leaving the guards

speechless.

The arrival of the speaker was welcome to Gearalt. The

goblin was well attired in robes of deep purple, looking garish

against his sickly yellow skin. A belt of human hairs, patterned

in various hues was knotted about his waist. In stubby, gnarled

hands, the creature held a small staff of twisted maple upon

which snakes were carved, coursing up its length. A large garnet

topped the staff and glowed with a soft light. The goblin opened

its wide mouth full of broken fangs and spoke.

“My master sends his greetings, king.” The goblin’s breath

stank of corpses. Gearalt placed a thin lace kerchief over his

mouth and nodded.

“Where is my army?” Gearalt asked, his voice muffled by

the napkin.

“They are to arrive within days,” the envoy replied with a

quick bow. “Already Zawn brings them in through the portal.

The bulk will arrive at your gates by dawn two nights hence.”

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“Why does your master not come to me in person?” the

King leaned forward. Cwchmwri and Cunnartach tensed, not

knowing what to expect from the unpredictable king.

“Apologies,” the creature cackled with another bow. “He

sends Gaspuc in his stead. Do I not please you?’

“You are a fucking goblin,” the King snapped. “How could

that possibly please me?”

“You are not fond of goblins?” Gaspuc queried. “My master

has other loyal subjects that may be more appealing to you. Let

me send news of your displeasure.”

Gearalt sighed. “No. You will do. But know this. If you

betray me or abuse that trust; if you do anything to upset me, you

will pray to whatever foul god you worship for death to come

swiftly. Are we clear?”

“We are clear, majesty. Gaspuc is at your service.”

The King leaned forward in his throne. “Tell me, Gaspuc.

What can we do to speed the arrival of my army as was promised

by the little black one?”

Gaspuc swallowed the knot in his throat. “As you know,

Colm Sadach’s forces are leagues away and vast in number.

Travel is slow and cumbersome. Much of the way is treacherous

and small bands of soldiers attack without warning. They are

making progress and will arrive. I promise.”

“If I were you,” the King said with a sneer, “I would try my

damndest to please me.”

“If it pleases the most wondrous king of the human lands,”

Gaspuc cooed, “let Gaspuc offer his services as your loyal and

eager servant. All your needs will be supplied by Gaspuc.”

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Gearalt leaned back on his throne and let a small smile

stretch his lips.

“Be careful what you offer,” he said. “You know not what

pleases me.”

The goblin chuckled, wickedly.

“Could anything else possibly go wrong?”

Harmoni cursed, pulling the broken string from her harp.

She had just begun the Tale of Mendor, when the string snapped,

halting the performance. Cipsis tried to hide his disappointment

with a stoic look, but was unsuccessful.

“Nothing to be done for now,” Meladi offered. “The lad has

heard three stories, already.”

“He seems eager for more,” the blonde bwbach stated. The

fact was obvious, but there was nothing to be done. All was a

moot point. Harmoni was a much better storyteller with her harp

in her hands.

“Do you know any stories?” the youth asked Meladi who

snorted.

“Hardly,” she said. “I am strictly background

accompaniment. We have much training ahead of us yet.”

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“There will be time for that when this mess is over,” their

father said from where he sat, huddled beneath a thick blanket on

the luxurious sofa. “We are lucky the church took us in.”

“I have found that luck is seldom your friend,” Harmoni

sighed, looking forlornly at her harp.

“Many men have wasted precious time, energy, and

resources searching for luck.” Meladi shook her head. “I will not

trust in such a fickle thing as Gad’s luck.”

Cipsis was just making to rise when there was a knock on

the chamber door. The three bwbach exchanged a glance, Fennel

reaching for a small dagger.

“I’m pretty sure you won’t be needing that,” Darius said as

he entered. “I apologize for the intrusion, but guests arrive.

Please join me for dinner.”

“Now that”, Fennel thought, “is a plan.” His stomach

grumbled at the thought.

“Cipsis,” Darius said, “It is time for evening prayer.”

The boy sighed and nodded. He would do as he was told,

not for the young priest who had befriended him, but for his

mother who had been a stout believer in Alinard and had tried to

raise him with honor and respect. He exited the room.

Reluctantly, the bwbachs followed.

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Luaithreach dreamed beside the fire. Sweat glistened upon

her forehead as she writhed in her sleep. She thrashed about, but

her breathing was calm, steady.

Cannivone watched the strange woman sleep, his mind full

of dark thoughts. Hunched over the small fire, he held the sword

across his knees and caressed it lovingly.

“I so miss the touch of a man,” the sword sighed. “I wish to

feel the rough hands all over my body, the warmth of flesh

against flesh.”

Cannivone grunted in reply. Glassy eyed, he leaned forward,

entranced by the dance of the flames.

“She will thwart your attempts at revenge,” the sword

crooned. “It is in her nature to do only what she desires.”

“How is that any different from you?” he growled.

“I have been used-manipulated-by many, time and time

again,”

“Silence,” Cannivone grunted. “Leave me be.”

The sword chuckled. “You will never be free from me. We

are bound together since you killed me. She will try to stop you,

you know.”

Cannivone bowed his head in shame. With one hand, he

rubbed his eyes where the slight tingling of a headache had just

begun to manifest.

“I will not allow that,” the boy growled. “Gearalt must die.”

“And with it, the throne shall be ours.”

“I have no desire to rule the kingdom,” Cannivone replied.

“I wish to have my life back.”

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“Are you mad?” The sword bristled. “You wish to return to

a life of eating shit? Of living in the dirt, beaten and bullied? Of

being alone? what of this girl you dream of? If you were King

she would be yours for the taking.”

“Leave words of Perinia from your tongue,” Cannivone

snarled. “I have no desire to take her by force.”

“Sometimes force is the only way to achieve our dreams,

boy.”

Cannivone drooped his shoulders in dejection. “What would

you have me do?”

“Kill Luaithreach.” He could swear the sword was grinning

the way the itch began to grow between his eyes. “And we shall

make our own way to that shit eating King and show him what

blood is.”

“I will not,” Cannivone snapped. “She has been kind and a

friend to me.”

“Friend?” the sword chortled. “You barely know her. She

is using you for her own ends. I should know. I was such a

woman once.”

“You lie,” the boy snarled. “Be quiet.”

Bloodletter chuckled. “Do I?”

Cannivone shook his head to clear it of the thoughts and to

relieve the pressure that pounded at his temples. He stole a

glance at the restless woman, rolling in her blankets upon the

frost covered ground.

He had just met this woman. How could he know she wasn’t

a spy or sent by enemies to hunt him down and kill him? Only

the Gods knew and they weren’t divulging any information.

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He crawled on his knees through the crusted snow. The

previous day had warmed, melting a layer of snow, but the night

had come with a cold hand, freezing the drifts hard and brittle.

Slowly, Cannivone made his way to where the dark skinned

woman lay. The hilt of the sword felt warm and inviting in his

hand. It thrummed and purred in his grip.

“Yesss,” the blade hissed. “Do it. Free us from the

interference of others. Kill her and we can return to Talantas

and take the head of the boy king.”

Cannivone trembled as he fought the urge to shove the blade

down into the woman’s leathery flesh. He raised Bloodletter

above his head in two shaking fists, legs spread wide for

leverage, There, he hesitated, sweat glistening upon his brow.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“Don’t be a coward.”

“Don’t call me that,” the boy snarled. A strange calmness

suddenly spread over the boy and he took a breath, staring at the

dozing Luaithreach. Visibly relaxed, he let out a breath and

slammed the blade point downward into the earth a mere fingers

breadth from the woman’s nose. The woman stirred, her eyes

flitting open. Seeing the blade, she yelped and pushed upward to

a sitting position as far from the sharp blade as she could muster.

She looked at the boy with wide eyes.

“Don’t touch it,” he snarled. “The blade can rest right where

it is. It can rust for all I care.” He turned from Luaithreach and

stumbled through the snow back to his resting place.

Luaithreach’s eyes narrowed and she eyed the blade, quivering

in the earth as if alive.

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“The demon must be removed from that blade,” she

whispered. “And free the boy. I see now, father.”

Just inside the Coill Ugrannach was a warren of deep

caverns. Steam billowed from them in thick clouds from deep

underground, melting the snow for yards. It was said the caverns

led deep into the earth, to the Nine Hells themselves, but who

was foolish enough to test that theory? Nobody alive had been

foolish enough.

Legend spoke of the great paladin Mendor who had entered

the abyss to rescue the soul of his lady love, Arial, stolen by the

demon prince Araxis, because her beauty was said to rival that of

the meadows in spring. Araxis wished to make her his bride.

Mendor fought his way through all nine of the Hells to confront

Araxis upon his very throne.

The battle was epic. The paladin’s enchanted blade carved

great rents in the demon prince’s tough hide. The power of

Alinard seared the great demon’s eyes and kept his minions at

bay. Arial was freed from her infernal prison, but Mendor was

sorely wounded.

The paladin gave his lady a last kiss goodbye and watched

her enter the pathway toward the surface, then with a grim

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determination, he shattered his blade across his armored knee.

The explosion that ensued from the magic being released

collapsed the caverns, filling them with rock and earth, sealing

the ways for centuries. Alinard’s power trapped the demons for

centuries until a dwarf named Dwain inadvertently excavated the

wrong cavern, leaving a small doorway the diabhols used to enter

the world.

Arial tearfully told the tale of Mendor’s sacrifice over the

roar of an inn’s fire until her death some forty years later. The

story had become mythical; a legend told by bards and popular in

the training rituals of the paladins of Alinard. It was, they

attested, a testament to the power of faith and the selflessness of

their order. To sacrifice one’s self to save others was an

honorable thing and Alinard kept a special place in his heaven for

such heroes.

Chard stood beside Lughdo at the entrance to the legendary

warrens, basking in the warmth of the steam. It was strange to

feel such warmth and comfort when all around was buried

beneath a cool blanket of white.

“Therein lies the path to the Abyss,” the satyr said. “The

final resting place of Mendor, greatest of Alinard’s champions.”

“Me thank you for leading here.” Lughdo shouldered his

axe, patted his pouch of blueberries and stepped forward.

“Hold on,” Chard grumbled. “Lareili insisted I go with

you.” The satyr said the words as if they were sour upon his

tongue. “You will not have to travel alone.”

“Me may not come back.” The half-ogre seemed sad at the

thought. “Me cannot ask you to sacrifice self.”

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Chard grinned. “You didn’t. Lareili did. I owe her my life

and more. If she wishes this of me..” He shrugged. “It is the least

I can do.”

Lughdo grinned his crooked grin, tusks protruding

awkwardly.

“Then me welcome your company.”

The satyr visibly blushed, his flesh turning a deep red. “No

need to get sentimental,” he grumbled. “I am doing this for the

lady. Not for you.”

“Me understand.” Lughdo stepped toward the billowing

steam, wincing as the heat struck his flesh. chard followed,

grumbling beneath his breath.

“It stinks,” Lughdo stated, scrunching up his nose. Chard

nodded in agreement. The smell of brimstone and ash, stale air

and decay assailed their nostrils. At their feet, bones of numerous

small animals clattered underfoot. Chard stamped his little

hooves in agitation,

“Damn I hate the underground,” he muttered. Lughdo

snorted and stepped into the darkness.

It only took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, his ogre

blood giving him the ability to see for a short distance in even the

darkest of shadows. He sensed the movement of small lizards and

spiders as they scurried from crushing feet. Chard shivered at the

thought of actually being touched by one of the foul creatures. A

satyr was a creature of the forests and had no bearings

underground. He grabbed the back of Lughdo’s hide loincloth

and let him lead the way.

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The air was thick and heavy. Sweat began to pebble upon

their skin as the path led further into the depths of the earth.

Small animals scuttled from their path as they trod. Lughdo had

to walk hunched over to avoid bumping his warted head upon the

ceiling. His axe he dragged behind leaving a deep furrow in the

moist dirt.

“It’s bleeding hot down here,” Chard swore, wiping his

forehead with a dirty nailed hand. He wore no clothing, carrying

a simple satchel across his chest, but his perspiration dripped in

great drops from his flesh. At his side, he carried a cudgel tipped

with iron.

“Me like it hot,” Lughdo grunted. “Too cold in winter.”

“I prefer nature to whatever this is,” Chard grumbled.

“You return if you like,” Lughdo replied. “Me not think you

coward.”

“Coward is it?” The satyr huffed. “Why I have more

courage in my finger than the lot of the human race put together

and half of the sirite. When the Gods handed out courage they

put a double dose in me.”

“Me see,” Lughdo said with a grin.

“Are you implying that I am afraid?” Chard seemed

appalled at the thought. “Chard MacMuinwere knows not the

meaning of fear.”

“It mean you not like to do thing.”

“Sarcasm,” Chard grunted. “It’s called sarcasm. A lost art

apparently.”

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“Me hungry,” the half-ogre said, reaching into his pouch. He

pulled out a fistful of blueberries, freshly picked in the gardens of

the Temple of Many faiths.

Chard eyed the mottled creature’s actions. Suddenly, his

demeanor changed to one of dejection.

“You wouldn’t happen to have some more of those,” he

prodded.

Lughdo grinned.

“Sit. Eat.” Chard willingly obliged.

Morrigan could not stay at the temple. her cats were nervous

and hostile toward many of the guests. With nowhere to turn she

found herself amongst the homeless, the beggars, the dregs of

society. It caused a twinge in her breast to look at the suffering of

so many innocent people and she gave a silent prayer to Denosia.

A small fire built in the remnants of a tanner’s shop kept

her warm and the twin jagats kept her from being bothered, but

her food and resources were getting dangerously low. The jungle

cats would return each night with fresh kills, rats or dogs mostly,

and eat noisily while she sat by the flames and honed the blade of

her runic sword.

Firelight played off her eyes as she scraped the stone across

the blade. Her brow furrowed as she contemplated her complete

isolation. Denosia was truly testing her mettle, her worthiness to

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the Ratu. She vowed that His faith in her would not be in vain.

She owed it to the temple, her brethren, and, more importantly, to

Denosia Himself. It was he that gave her the strength, imbued her

with great power and ability. Without Him, she would be just

another peasant, living in filth and eating scraps.

With a chuckle, she realized that was exactly how she was

living and the irony wasn’t lost on her. A lifetime of devotion to

her deity and this was where He had led her? The Gods have

strange sense of humors, she surmised as she pulled her cloak

tighter about her shoulders, then continued the tedious task of

honing her blade.

She had chosen her campsite for two reasons. She was

sheltered from the elements and curious eyes and it offered her a

view of the entrance clear of any obstructions. No one could

enter the tanner’s shop without her noticing. Having two alert

jungle cats did not hurt matters. She was warm and secure, but

the rumble of her belly told her that something needed done to

remedy her food situation.

She rose with a sigh, returning her blade to its proper

position on her broad back.

Fennel Flatfoot did not know what to think of the temple’s

guests. A human woman dressed in chainmail and carrying two

swords, a neatly coifed bard, a tall woman with an even longer

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sword, two rough looking men, an abhac priest, and a bwbach

with an ample belly to rival his own, escorted a young human girl

with scarred cheeks. Darius seemed to be acquainted with them

and was utterly delighted with the company.

“You bring dire news,” Darius said through a mouthful of

roast duck. “Fennel brings news of the same ilk from Belton, I’m

afraid.”

Harmoni and Meladi exchanged a glance, fire burning in

their wide eyes. The abhac, Yor grunted behind his mug of mead.

“Gearalt has lost his wits,” Onvalay said, shaking his head.

“Leave it to the humans to behave in such a manner,” Yor

griped, wiping his beard upon a billowing sleeve.

Kimber steepled her fingers under her chin, lost in deep

thought. Her food sat untouched. At her feet the war dog, Bailey

lay snoring.

“We must not blame the short lived races,” Onvalay said in

a soothing tone. “Bach Bychan himself taught us that a short life

hastens one’s judgment.”

Yor chuckled. “You believe in the words of an abhac dead

for centuries?”

Onvalay bristled. “Bach Bychan is not dead. He lives inside

the breast of the stoutest abhac.”

“Better to trust in Gofannon to give your arm strength to

meld the ores into blades to fight the dark folk,” Yor huffed. “It

will be just as fruitless.”

“How dare you blaspheme…” Onvalay growled.

“The gods abandoned our kind after imparting us with

knowledge and left us to fight the eternal battle with the

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francagach. Centuries of warfare has left us locked away in the

darkness away from all the other races.”

“It was our destiny to guard the gates of the underearth,” the

abhac priest remarked.

“And a foin job ye be doin’” Tavish said. Hennesi punched

his arm and he spewed water from his mouth. The abhac glared

at the foppish bard.

Cipsis sat quietly at Darius’ side, fingers idly tearing strips

of meat from the carcass on his plate. He seemed dejected and

Darius patted his shoulder gently.

“What is wrong, young Cipsis?” The young boy sighed and

shrugged his small shoulders.

“It just seems everything is happening so fast. It seems only

yesterday I was enjoying a meal with my mother. Now I am

companion to High Priest of the Temple of Alinard. The Gods

work in strange ways.”

“Life passes us by in the blink of an eye,” Onvalay

mumbled through a mouthful of duck. “Even those of us who

live for centuries.” He washed the food down with a copious

amount of mead.

Yor grunted in reply. “Has it really been two hundred

winters since I was initiated into the Shield Sworn?” He shook

his head.

“All this is pointless,” Kimber said, slamming her fists on

the table and rising from her seat. “Does it matter if the Kingdom

is destroyed by the very hand that has been appointed to protect

it?”

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“Peace, ranger.” Darius spoke softly, calmly. The ranger sat

slowly exhaling a long held breath.

“Already the fennid have abandoned Gearalt,” Hennesi

stated. “Refugees escape his grip daily. The paladins are sure to

follow suit.”

“Already they have begun to enter Fialscathac,” Darius

confirmed. “They find shelter where they can.”

“Why do you not let them shelter in the temple?” Fennel

asked.

Darius thought for a moment as if his words held great

meaning, but he stated simply, “They will not.”

Onvalay looked confused. “Will not?”

Darius shrugged. “The paladins are a devout lot. They gain

their strength by sacrifice and hardship. Their entire life is

devoted to their God be it Alinard, Eochaid, Lugh, or whomever.

Constant discipline and training both mentally and physically

shows them worthy to be imbued with the power of the Gods.”

“So they would rather freeze to death than stay in a warm

temple?” Harmoni asked. “That is stupid.”

Darius smiled. “If the temple did not have so many refugees

temporarily using it for shelter, the paladins would doubtless stay

inside our strong walls. They feel their duty is to protect the

innocents that we shelter and will do so with their very lives.”

“Honorable,” grunted Yor Granitespire. Honor and duty

were a trademark of the abhac as well. He could well understand

the paladins’ convictions.

“A bard such as meself must undergo rigorous training as

well,” Tavish said. “Many was the night I had to go without food

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in me belly.” He glanced at Hennesi with a lascivious grin. “Or a

warm woman beside me.”

“Thank the Gods that has been remedied,” Kimber spat

with sarcasm.

The two bwbach bards-in-training stared at the human bard

with awe and reverence in their wide eyes.

“There is much we would learn from you,” Meladi said at

once. “If you are willing.”

Tavish looked stunned. “A teacher? Me?” He scratched his

beard in thought. “Never put much thought toward such a thing.”

“Your knowledge would be most helpful,” Harmoni urged

with pleading eyes.

“Oghma’s balls!” Tavish chuckled. “How can I resist such a

face? I will teach all that I know.”

The bwbachs were delighted. They clapped their tiny hands

and squealed in pleasure. Already their food was left untouched.

“Will you be teaching them sarcasm and stale wit, as well?”

Kimber grumbled.

“’Tis a part of what I am, is it not?” The bard’s smile was

annoyingly white. Kimber opened her mouth to reply.

Suddenly, the chamber door burst open. Rodni stumbled in,

breath heavy, followed by a ragged man in torn clothing. The

man fell to his knees at Darius’ feet.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the guard said. “This man brings urgent

news.”

“I come from Ioras, the Golden Child,” the man stammered.

“He seeks the aid of the church. Talantas has fallen. The

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remnants of his army will arrive outside the city walls by mid-

day tomorrow.”

“What is your name, lad?” Darius asked.

“Gerel, Your Grace. I am a mere servant of Alinard’s will.

The Golden Child has protected me from the dark folk.”

“Rise to your feet, Gerel.” Darius spoke with power and a

persuasiveness seldom seen in one so young. “All are equal in

the House of our Lord.”

Gerel rose on shaky feet. “I have traveled leagues in haste.

My horse fell a few miles outside the gates. I traversed the rest of

the way through snow and cold to bring my message.”

“What is the message?” Darius asked.

“Prepare the city for onslaught,” the man replied,

breathlessly. “Death comes.”

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Chapter Nineteen

A Sad Tale

Hidden away in a dark corner of Talantas sat a ramshackle

inn called Faeran’s Folly. It was here that Mabsant liked to go to

escape from the mundane existence of his everyday life; to blend

with the common folk in complete anonymity. It was with heavy

heart that he sat at the table, heaping plates of steaming food

untouched by his pudgy fingers, the large flagons of wine sitting

forgotten.

He had served the realm faithfully under Uilleam O’Duibh

for twenty winters, because he had believed in the man’s honor

and ideas for a fair and just rule. Together, they had formed the

An Corran, or The Crescent, the council that advised the king on

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all political matters. Always was Uilleam attentive to their

advice, flexible in the rendering of laws and decisions.

He remembered Uilleam’s joy when he his son had been

born, coming into the world wailing with strong lungs. It was a

proud day for the king and his wife Siarli. Mabsant watched the

two bond as a father and son should until they day Siarli fell ill.

The King had remained at his wife’s side, loyal to a fault in

his love for the woman. Gearalt had been a small lad then. After

Siarli’s death from the fever, Uilleam grew distant, detached

from all personal relationships. Including the one between he and

his son. Mabsant took it all in as an observer, not thinking to

intervene. Had he known the pain and the scars it would leave

upon the young man’s soul, Mabsant may have chosen a different

path. Gearalt seemed to blame his father for his mother’s death.

He sighed, weary head falling into his hands. He could feel

the tears welling up in his eyes and he swallowed the apple sized

lump that seemed to lodge in his throat. The common room of

Faeran’s Folly was empty during the early part of the day and

Mabsant could always rely on the proprietor’s discretion. Usually

he would be gone long before the evening crowd shuffled in,

weary and thirsty from toiling in the fields or sweating over

crafting their goods.

In this instance, Mabsant was far from caring who witnessed

his ample frame in the dirty inn. He knew it was a place of ill

repute, a meeting spot for cutthroats, assassins, rogues, and

bounty hunters. It was here he hoped to find one who could aid

him.

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Death was not a thing the obese advisor wished upon

anyone. Normally. He wondered lately if the realm would be

better off without the presence of the foul boy who called himself

King. Or if he would be better off in Alinard’s warm embrace.

His reverie was broken by the sound of a small figure

settling into the chair opposite him. The legs of the rickety chair

squealed in protest across the flagstone floor. He glanced up to

see a tiny figure, face obscured by a thick cloak made up of

patches of various hues stitched together with the sinew of a

mountain giant.

“You the one looking for someone to do a dirty job?” the

figure spoke in a feminine voice.

“Perhaps,” Mabsant said. “With whom am I dealing?”

The figure chuckled. “Anonymity is essential in my line of

work. You should know this.”

Mabsant nodded. “I do. At least tell me of your affiliations.

And what to call you if I have need of reaching you.”

A smile flashed from the darkness of the cloak. Teeth filed

to a sharp point filled a wide mouth. The figure leaned forward,

revealing skin as black as coal.

“You may call me Jezamiel.”

“A strange moniker,” Mabsant said, “but if it pleases

you….”

“I have been sent by my Deity to aid in your plight,” the

woman said.

“A plight would be to understate the situation.”

“Quite.” The woman leaned back in her chair. “The King

must be stopped and the sword must be recovered.”

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Mabsant appeared stunned. Sword?

“What in Alinard’s light are you talking about?” the advisor

queried. “I know of no sword.”

The woman smiled with her sharp teeth. “Ah, but you do. It

was wielded by the very woman who slew your friend the King.”

Mabsant paused for a moment, choosing his words

carefully. “There was no sign of the sword to be found.”

The strange woman leaned forward. Mabsant caught a flash

of green eyes from the blackness of the cowl. “We know where it

is.”

“Why don’t you go recover it then?” Mabsant was

becoming agitated. “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Killing the King will not cure the state of the kingdom,”

the woman muttered. Mabsant looked on in shock as if the

woman had read his mind.

“How did you...” he began, but she cut him off.

“My God knows much of what happens on this world. He

does however have limitations to where he can and cannot

intervene.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My God’s sphere is that of dragons. Not vessels to trap

souls created by a failing religion. His intervention would cause

dire consequences upon all of Domhan.” She sighed. “Already he

has interfered too much.”

“The dragons at the court,” Mabsant gasped. “The night of

the attack. You are a minion of Mesz?”

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“It seems you have solved my first riddle,” she said. “Now

we must solve the riddle of how to acquire the blade from the

boy Cannivone.”

“To what purpose?” Mabsant had begun to sweat and he

dabbed at his moist forehead with a silken cloth.

“To destroy it, silly human,” the woman trilled. “Until the

creature that controls it is slain, there will be no peace on

Domhan.”

“A feat far beyond my meager abilities,” Mabsant admitted.

“But you have the ears of the council,” she replied. “Use

them to your own ends. The fate of all life rests on your success.”

“How can such a responsibility be placed upon my

shoulders?” he whined. “I am but one aging, overweight, tired

man.”

“Who has been give great power,” Jezamiel continued. “Use

it to right the wrongs. Normally. my God would not care if you

lesser races destroyed each other, but failure to destroy the

creature would bring about the destruction of the Gods as well.”

“Where should we begin?” Mabsant hissed.

“There resides in Anglea a wizard of great power keeping

himself hidden from the folly of man. Seek him out and request

his aid. Never has Domhan been more in need. Convince him

that the world needs him. His name is Obnoctin of Thale.”

“Where should I seek him out?”

“He has friends, heroes from the past. Their leader calls

himself Brodribb Bender. He is an archer of uncanny ability. A

mannach who keeps strange companions. You can find them near

the Prionsian border.”

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“Whom would I send as a liaison?”

“Seek the guildmaster known as Skrubb,” she said. “He is

great friends with this Brodribb and can help you find him.”

Mabsant sighed. “Every time I think I have washed my

hands of the trouble, they get dirty again.”

“Such is the ways of power,” the woman stated. “Dirty

hands or idle ones. Your choice.”

“Done,” he groaned. “I will dispatch a search party at once

in secret.”

“Don’t even tell the An Corran,” she said. “There is one

amongst them that you cannot trust.”

The words cut Mabsant to the heart. The council was

supposed to be the final bastion of defense for the citizens of

Domhan. To find there may be a traitor in their midst was nearly

more than his weak heart could bear.

“I will find someone.”

“Good,” the woman replied. “Are you going to eat the rest

of that pheasant?”

Mabsant stood and walked toward the door.

“You eat it,” he said. “I seem to have lost my appetite.

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“You treat me like a whore,” the sword pouted in his head.

“Using me to further your own needs then tossing me aside when

it suits you.”

“One of the advantages of being made of flesh and blood

and not silver,” the boy stated. He glanced at his companion

where she struggled through drifts of snow..

“We will be at the city soon,” Cannivone told her. She

looked up with tear rimmed eyes and nodded.

“It will not be soon enough,” the strange woman growled.

“Who can live in this bitter cold?”

Cannivone smiled. “The temple of Alinard is warm, I bet.”

“I hardly think a priest will waste a Gods given spell on the

such as I,” she snapped. “What with a war going on and all.”

Cannivone scowled. “Never be surprised at the charity of

the church of Alinard,” he replied.

“Or of their duplicity,” the sword warned. Cannivone

ignored the remark.

In the distance the low wooden walls of Fialscathac spread

across the horizon like a dark smudge. The army of Ioras

swarmed across the snowy plain like a warren of ants, churning

the earth into a morass under hoof and foot . Livestock, horses,

and capallach left a scar in the earth’s flesh. Thousands of booted

feet caused the earth to tremble.

Being relegated to the rear of the army, they were not privy

to the details of the march. They passed an occasional corpse as

the refugees succumbed to the cold or to wounds inflicted in

Talantas. Luaithreach was greatly disturbed by one corpse that of

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a young boy, swollen and black with rot from a festering wound

in his thigh, left behind to die in the crusting snow.

“Have the Gods no mercy upon the young?” she had asked

Cannivone.

“We are far beyond their mercy,” the boy had replied,

sending a shiver up the woman’s back.

Raised in the reclusive cavern of her father, Luaithreach was

sheltered from such violence. As dark hearted as dragons could

be, they seldom showed such mindless brutality. The coldness

with which Cannivone accepted such things filled her with dread.

She knew there was a darkness around the lad, but nothing could

have caused her to believe the boy capable of such callous

disregard.

Cannivone looked tired to her. His eyes were glassy and his

cheek twitched with an occasional spasm as they walked behind

the shambling army. The silver sword gleamed in the boy’s hand

as if mocking her.

It was still clear in her mind the way the blade quivered

before her nose, nearly close enough to draw blood from its

finely honed edge. She could feel the darkness emanating from

the blade as it seemed to hum. It was the first time in her life she

had felt fear.

She watched the boy, warily as she stumbled beneath the

weight of his choices. All her faith in her father was being sorely

tested and it took every ounce of her conviction to continue upon

her journey. She prayed to her God for strength.

“I could use a hot bath,” the boy mumbled. Luaithreach

thought this statement odd, considering the boy had never once

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complained of the dirt and grime covering his body; of the

stench both he and the woman shared.

“I miss the soothing warmth of a bath,” the sword purred.

The town grew larger as they approached. Though small

compared to Talantas the city still was impressive to Luaithreach,

stretching for miles across the plain, farms dotting the landscape

toward the small stream to the north. She breathed heavily

beneath the cold’s weight and grumbled.

“We are running out of time,” Luaithreach said with a voice

that trembled. Strange how the cold had affected her in such a

short time. “My breathing has slowed.” She stopped and let her

heavy body fall into the snow

Luaithreach clutched at the icy powder as if in pain. “Damn

you, father,” she managed through trembling lips.

Cannivone went to her side and placed a gentle hand upon

her shoulder.

“I am sorry for your discomfort,” he said.

“Father,” she cried to the sky. “How could you send me into

this foulness?”

“The Gods do not care about our losses or our pain,” he

said, flatly.

“What of your Alinard?” she asked, wiping tears of pain

from her cheek.

“He has no need of one such as me,” the boy proclaimed. “I

am ruined and cannot be saved.”

Luaithreach could find no words to answer. Together they

said a quick prayer to Manannan, God of the storms and made to

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catch up to the army. The whole time the blade was laughing in

his head.

Although lucrative for a guild to have the constabulary pre-

dispensed, Skrubb found no value in the abandoned merchants’

shops, boarded up and abandoned, their wealth taken in carts

from the burning city. He gathered his closest, most trusted

rogues and embarked on a journey of his own.

He didn’t travel far, merely out of his secret lair deep in the

sewers. He had to get a look at what was transpiring above. His

spies had been very vague in their descriptions of the horrors that

filled the streets of Talantas.

At his side strode Shallot and Skallion, his twin children.

Thofric limped along, grumbling beneath his breath. Two sirite

took the lead, peering ahead, cautiously as they made their way

through the eerily quiet streets.

Carraig Laidir the corani, Skrubb’s closest friend was not

present and it was with a touch of sadness that the guild master

walked the streets. The corani was on a much needed vacation to

his homeland to visit family and Skrubb missed his annoying

self-assurance. A close call at the castle had made Carraig face

his own mortality.

Blackened buildings still towered to each side of the rogue

assembly as they made their way silently on padded feet. How

Skrubb wished he were a younger bwbach without the aches and

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pains that wracked his ninety seven year old body. Though still

not ancient, by bwbach standards, he was no longer youthful and

had taken many injuries in his long career. The cold seeped into

his bones and he wrapped himself tighter in the thick bearskin

cloak, but it did little to deter the biting wind.

Flexing his hand, he winced at the pain that shot from his

thumb and through the pudgy fingers. To be young again….

The hand fell to his side where he wore an intricate sword,

the length of his arm, gripping a hilt made of interlocking iron

keys. Treasure Seeker had served him well over the years,

especially in his profession, filling his mind with a throbbing

hum whenever treasure was nearby and unlocking doors with a

mere tap upon the lock, regardless of the lock’s intricacies.

“If it could only soothe the pain that courses through my

bones,” he thought.

“The city is eerily quiet,” Thofric said from where he stood

leaning upon his sword as if it were a crutch. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like anything,” Shallot replied with a small

smile, her cheeks dimpling, warmly. She enjoyed teasing the

grumpy bwbach and he seemed to take it lightly. There was

affection between them, but not in the carnal sense. He was like

an uncle to her.

“Stop complaining,” Skrubb growled. “Yer givin’ me a

headache.”

“A city of this size should not be so quiet,” was all Thofric

had to say.

“Where are we to meet this Mabsant?” Thofric growled. “It

is probably a trap.”

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“That is why I have brought my guards,” Skrubb replied,

clearly agitated. “Stop being so paranoid.”

“He is a politician,” the limping bwbach grumbled. “I

wouldn’t trust him to tie a knot.”

“We are to meet him in the cemetery,” Skallion snapped.

“Do not come if you wish to stay behind.”

His sister, Shallot placed a hand gently upon his shoulder.

“His concerns are not unfounded, brother.”

“True,” Skallion said, “but I tire of his constant whining.”

Thofric pouted, then and with a grunt, stumbled toward the

back of the group, his injured leg dragging.

Ahead, through a gate of roughhewn granite the cemetery

loomed. Already fingers of fear crawled up the spines of the few

guild members brave enough to accompany Skrubb to this

meeting. The dead were said to walk freely through the cemetery

and it led a sinister sense to the air.

Cautiously, he entered between the two granite pillars

holding an iron gate that swung half opened in the slight breeze.

He turned toward his followers and raised a small hand.

“I need take only two,” he said. “The rest stay back and

watch for anything out of the ordinary.”

“I still think it is a trap,” Thofric grumbled, but he paced a

hand on his small sword.

“Then you stay behind and watch my back. Be on the

lookout for treachery.”

“I am always on the lookout for that.” Thofric said with a

grin. “It is difficult when I have to always watch out for your ass

as it gets into trouble.”

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Skrubb grinned back. “Lucky me,” he said. “Skallion and

Shallot will accompany me.”

His children rushed forward, eagerly, hands falling to hilts.

“You can count on us, father,” Skallion said.

“I know,” Skrubb said, proudly. “It is why you were

chosen.”

“If there is treachery,” Shallot growled, her face bunching

up into a scowl, “we will show them how big a bite we little folk

have.”

“That’s my girl,” Skrubb beamed. “Now let us go meet this

Mabsant.”

Darius stood on the steps of the temple flanked on each side

by his guards, Rodni and Tongael. He raised his voice to be

heard over the din of the huddled masses, waiting in squalor and

misery for the gods to answer their prayers.

“Citizens of Fialscathac,” he cried. “Listen to me.” He was

mostly ignored by the throng, but a few stopped in their routine

long enough to heed the words of a cleric of the church they had

once had so much faith in.

“I know you have reason to mistrust the church,” he

continued. “But believe me when I tell you that your lives-our

lives- are in peril.”

“Why should we believe any of your words, priest?”

shouted a reed thin man in ragged clothes. “All we have been

told has been lies.”

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Darius raised his hands. “Not all. I know these are trying

times. The church has done some things that have caused you to

question Alinard himself. But those were the deeds of men.

Flawed men full of sin as we all are. They were not the deeds or

wishes of Alinard.”

“More manipulations,” cried a filthy woman with a babe at

her breast.

“No” Darius shook his head. “I do not lie nor tell you this

out of any personal hopes for gain or enrichment. I wish only to

save us all. An army approaches from the south. An army more

foul than you can imagine. We are sorely outnumbered, dejected,

and seemingly alone.”

“The king will send forces to aid us,” another man shouted.

“Alas,” Darius replied. “The King has abandoned us all. His

army no longer protects you. He has a new army bent on your

destruction. But Alinard will never abandon you.”

“Bullshit,” many voices cried out.

“H has already turned from us,” an abhac chimed in.

“Please,” Darius pleaded, “for your own sake, for the sake

of your families, if you can fight gather weapons. Defend your

homes against this army. If you cannot, lock yourselves away in

cellars or leave the city for sanctuary at one of the fortresses. The

church will offer sanctuary to all we can.”

“The church seeks to enslave us with their drivel,” the abhac

snarled. “We never should have trusted in this new god. The old

gods never failed us.”

“Never failed you?” Darius was nonplussed. “How many

wars did the old gods stop from ravaging the countryside. How

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many of your loved ones died because the Gods refused to

become involved in the lives of mortals? How many of you have

lost a child or a spouse to sickness, murder, disease? Where were

the old gods then?”

A slight murmur went through the crowd at this, faces

looking around sheepishly.

“If what you say is true,” the abhac said with a clenching of

his jaw. “We are all doomed anyway. Whether the gods aid us or

not.”

“True,’ Darius said. “But we can fight back. What little

army remains will fight for your defense. Alinard will see us

through these dark times. I know he will. He has sent his own son

to fight and possibly die to protect you. Can you not give him the

same in return?’

The abhac hefted a small axe from his belt and frowned.

“I have no faith in Alinard,” he said, “but I will defend

what is mine. By the beard of Bach Bychan, I will relent only

when they all lay dead or this axe is pried from dying fingers.

And the gods better stay out of the way.”

A cheer rose up from the crowd and Darius smiled.

Manech MacMal had spent most of his time since arriving

in Fialscathac in the small enclosed shrine dedicated to Eochaid.

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There had been no time to mourn the loss of his friend Uilleam in

the previous weeks and the truth hit him like a mallet. Sadly, he

knelt with bowed head and prayed for answers. There were none

forthcoming.

“Sir Manech,” a voice called from behind as the small door

burst open. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but The Golden Child

arrives.”

“He arrives?” The former Rifennid leapt to his feet, grabbed

his greatsword and turned to face the speaker. He recognized the

face of Mathiel, a young recruit in the service of the Leonach Or.

The golden lion was acid etched upon his breastplate and the

double cross of Alinard was clearly on display on the pommel of

his blade. Standard issue for the new recruits, Manech knew.

“His army makes camp just outside the gates of

Fialscathac,” Mathiel added.

“This is dire news,” Manech said.

“Dire news?” Mathiel couldn’t believe his ears. “The arrival

of our savior is dire news?”

“Oh yes,” Manech said, plainly. “His arrival means he has

been defeated or the war is over. Which seems more likely?”

Mathiel paled as the implication struck him like a hammer

between the eyes.

“I will be along shortly.” Manech said. “Who leads the

renegade fennid?”

Mathiel shrugged. “None that I know. They seemed

disoriented and lost since they arrived from Talantas.”

Manech sighed. “Take me to Ioras, then gather what fennid

you can find. I would speak to them.”

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“Sir,” the young paladin said, straightening himself in a

military salute.

“And it wouldn’t hurt to pray,” Manech added for good

measure. “We could use the aid of any God right now.”

They rode from the city in a straight line, side by side.

Darius rode a swift gray gelding flanked to each side by Kimber,

Cipsis, Fennel, and Rodni. He had chosen his entourage

carefully. The others had stayed behind in the warmth and safety

of the temple to keep Bailey and the bwbach bards out of

mischief. Just outside the gates the remnants of the army of the

Golden Child spread out in a chaotic jumble of hastily erected

tents and wagons. Tattered banners fluttered in the cool breeze.

A central fire had been erected near a huge pavilion tent

striped in blue and white. Ioras’ banner flapped, noisily. The

priest and his companions approached, cautiously. Their way was

quickly blocked by two figures in piecemeal armor.

A woman who would have been considered quite attractive

if not for the blue whorls covering her face and body stood in a

rigid stance, a greatsword clenched in her fists. A shorter, rotund

figure stood next to her, a russet beard flowing from his chin,

tucked into the thick girdle about his waist. The abhac leaned

upon the haft of a huge axe.

“Halt,” the abhac said. Darius stopped his horse with a quick

tug on the reins.

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“We come to welcome the Golden Child,” Darius said. “I

am Darius, interim High Priest of the temple of Alinard.”

The abhac raised a bushy eyebrow above one eye.

“A bit young to be a High priest, aintcha?”

Darius shrugged. “I was appointed for my faith. “I do not

question the ways of my god.”

“I would prepare for battle, were I you.” the abhac replied.

“The King’s foul army will come.”

“I wish to speak to Ioras,” Kimber cried out. “Long have we

known each other. “

“And whom should we say is looking for audience?” the

woman asked, her blonde hair a billowing cloud behind her head.

“Kimber,” the ranger replied. “Kimber O’Cian.”

“The Kimber?” the abhac gasped. “We have heard much of

you from our Lord’s own lips.”

Kimber smiled. “I hope it was all good.”

The tattooed woman scowled. “The Golden Child has

utmost respect for you and your friendship.”

“And I for him,” the ranger added. “Now, can we speak to

him, please?”

“ I will announce your arrival,” the abhac said, then turning

to the woman. “Stay here, Noinion. Entertain our guests.” the

abhac ran off his short legs lending his gait a waddle.

“Corp thinks he is in charge,” the woman said with a roll of

her eyes.

“A common trait amongst abhac,” Darius said, calmly.

“They would make great priests.”

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Noinion Bui, champion of Cruithnia, bared her filed teeth in

a feral grin.

“It depends upon which deity they follow,” she said.

“Truth,” Kimber agreed. “It always falls from the tongue

least associated with a subject.”

Noinion flashed a smile.

Soon, the stump legged abhac returned, his breathing heavy.

“He will see you,” Corp Salach said, “but you need not go to

him,” He paused, a quizzical look upon his bearded face, “It

seems he comes to you.”

Noinion gazed at the abhac as if not believing his words.

The crunch of brittle ice sounded from behind them as Ioras

strode purposefully, Naomh at his side swinging a censer of

burning incense.

“Kimber!” the Golden Child shouted, nearly running into

her embrace.

The woman only stood to his chest. She couldn’t believe

how much the boy had grown. When last they parted, he was a

mere lad of fifteen , his face barely covered in sparse whiskers.

Now, he was a man. Tall, handsome, and strong. And he led an

army.

“It warms my heart to see you again,” the ranger said. She

pulled away from the Golden Child’s embrace and held him at

arm’s length. Looking into his eyes, she could see the weariness,

the pain that resided there.

“And mine to see you,” Ioras replied. “Long has it been.

Come. Your companions are welcome at my fire.”

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With a gesture, Kimber bade the others to follow. Noinion

and Corp exchanged a glance and shrugged, bringing up the rear.

They wended their way through a motley group of ragged

soldiers in varying armors in a myriad of colors. There seemed

no rhyme or reason to the camp.

Ioras led them to a huge blue and white striped pavilion tent

where his banner flapped in the slight breeze. The dismounted,

wrapping the reins about a small stump and sat across the small

fire. It instantly warmed them from the biting chill.

“So it has come to this, eh?” Kimber said, looking around.

“Is this all that remains of your army?”

Ioras sighed with a slight nod.

“Sadly,” he gasped. “It is. Many of the King’s soldiers have

joined our side against him, but we are still outnumbered. Rumor

has it that he has aligned himself with Colm Sadach.”

“Then it is a dark day for Domhan,” Kimber growled.

“What a fool the boy is.”

Ioras shook his head. “There was a strangeness in his eyes.

Something out of place. I could sense the presence of another

soul within him.”

“Meaning?”

“He is under the influence of some dark force.” Ioras sighed

again and dragged a hand through his golden locks.

“Dubhaca,” Kimber breathed.

The Golden Child nodded. “That would be my guess as

well. Long has he been a thorn in our sides. You remember how

he used to torment us while I was a boy.”

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Kimber did remember. It seemed every time they defeated a

foe, the little black demon would throw another obstacle in their

path. They had lost many allies to the demon’s treachery.

“What are we to do then?” Cipsis cut in from across the fire.

“Wait for death to come to us?”

Ioras’ head popped up at the voice. “Who speaks?”

“The boy is Cipsis,” Kimber said. “He fought well at

Talantas.”

Ioras gazed at the boy, taking in his golden curls, his bright

eyes. The boy was lean and wiry, reminding Ioras of…

“It cannot be,” the Golden Child gasped.

“What is wrong?” Kimber asked.

Ioras ignored the woman, his attention fully on the youth.

“Step forward, Cipsis.”

The boy looked around, sheepishly before taking a step. He

cast his gaze downward, uncomfortable with the attention.

Ioras came forward and gripped the boy under the chin,

raising his face to look into his eyes. A feeling of familiarity

flooded through Ioras. How could he know this boy?

“Where are you from, Cipsis?”

“Talantas, sir,” the boy replied.

“You were born there?”

Cipsis nodded.

“And your parents?” Ioras pressed the boy, urgently. He

seemed almost desperate to know.

“My father I have never known,” the boy replied. “The last I

saw my mother she was running form the diabhols when they

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attacked our home. I fear she is dead, but I hold onto hope that

Alinard has led her to safety.”

“Faith can make you strong.” Ioras gripped the boys

shoulder, gently.

“Or weak,” Rodni muttered.

“Her name?” Ioras asked the boy.

“Caeral.”

Ioras reeled as if he had been struck. It could not be true. A

flash of memory sent him reeling to the past; memories of fever

and weakness.

“How old are you, boy?”

“Thirteen.”

The Golden Child staggered back, his face bleached of

color. Corp and Noinion rushed forward to aid him, concern

etched upon their stern brows. Ioras shook them off.

“Alinard,” gasped Ioras. “Why did you not tell me?”

The small party exchanged worried glances. Cipsis stood

wearing a confused look upon his face. Ioras came forward again

and gripped the boy by the shoulders.

“I am sorry,” he said, a tear coursing down one cheek. “I did

not know.”

“Know what?” Cipsis asked, starting to feel a little

overwhelmed.

“Look upon my face, Cipsis. What do you see?”

The youth shrugged. “I see strength…and ..uh…”

“A familiarity?” Ioras pressed him. “Like looking in a

mirror?”

Ioras nodded.

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“You never knew your father, because your father never

knew of you.”

Cipsis scowled. “How could you possibly know?”

Ioras shook the boy pulling him closer to his piercing gaze.

“Cipsis.” His gaze was stern. “I am your father.”

All mouths dropped open at the utterance of the words. The

resemblance between the two was uncanny and now that Ioras

had mentioned it, it did seem possible, but how? The Golden

Child was supposed to be pious and free from temptations.

“We all have our sins,” Ioras said as if reading their

thoughts. “Your mother was mine.”

He gripped Cipsis tightly, crushing him to his chest. Amidst

the party there was a silence until Morrigan broke the stillness.

“It is a tale I would love to hear,” she said.

Ioras grimaced. “It is a sad tale,” he said.

“With a happy ending,” Darius added with a grin. Rodni

smirked, crossing his arms over a massive chest.

“Come.” Ioras led Cipsis toward the fire. “Drink with me

while we plan our next course of action. Son.”

Cipsis was numb as he followed the legendary figure to the

warmth of the small fire.

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Chapter Twenty

Strange Bedfellows

The sword was persistent in its insistence that they creep

into the city. Being around so many paladins and priests made

the blade feel uneasy. Cannivone grinned at the sword’s

discomfort, but finally agreed. He had always wondered what the

town of Fialscathac was like.

Reluctantly, Luaithreach followed him, her agitation

growing. Her father had sent her upon a foolish mission and she

suffered the cold, the noise and stench of civilization, and the

annoying humans for no apparent reason other than to keep an

eye on the boy with the silver blade.

One hand stayed nervously on the hilt of her sword as they

made their way through winding streets of dirt and mud. In the

distance, towering over all the buildings in Fialscathac, the

temple’s tower could be seen, the pulsing blue metal glowing in

the sparse light.

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Luaithreach grimaced as the aura of Alinard’s power

stretched across her scaly skin, searing it with a gentle heat. The

aura knew she held darkness in her heart. How long until the boy

realized it as well?

Her gaze flitted to all sides as they made their way without

direction through streets crawling with beggars and cripples.

Orphaned children wearing filth like a cloak scrambled from

their path, but whether born from bashfulness or more nefarious

reasons, she could not tell. Her acute sense of smell caught the

underlying smell of sickness, death, and fouler smells: urine and

feces. Somewhere close by she also caught a whiff of blood. Her

mouth began to water.

“I just realized,” she said aloud. “I am hungry.”

Cannivone glanced back at her, his face sporting an annoyed

look.

“And what do you suggest?” the boy grumbled. “A crust of

bread from one of these beggars? I doubt they have that much to

spare.”

“I was merely telling you what I feel,” said the Daughter of

Dragons. “This place makes me feel uneasy.”

Cannivone nodded. “I have lived in far worse,” he said.

“Believe me.”

Somehow, she did believe him. For one so young, the boy

seemed hardened in a way that even some warriors never

became. The boy must have lived a life of turmoil, loss, and pain.

“Can we at least look for a place to drink?” Luaithreach

whined. “The road has been long. A mulled wine would hit the

spot.”

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Cannivone rolled his eyes. “Return to camp, then. There you

can eat to your heart’s desire.”

“Why are we entering the city, then?” she asked the boy.

Cannivone shrugged. “Something draws me here,” he said.

“We enter this cesspool on a whim?”

The boy turned on her, teeth showing in a snarl.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me like a puppy,” he snapped.

“Go back.”

Luaithreach let her warmest smile grace her lips. The effort

was immense. Normally any who spoke to her thus would be torn

apart with her bare hands and devoured over days, but her father

insisted this boy was important in the future of Domhan, so she

held her anger in check.

“I will cease the flapping of my tongue,” she cooed. “Lead

on.”

They passed the burnt husk of what appeared to once have

been a cobbler’s shop. A weather-beaten sign dangled by one

side swinging in the breeze with a creaking that echoed through

the quiet street.

“I smell food cooking.” Luaithreach said, breaking the eerie

silence. Her dark head lifted, her nostrils opening and closing as

she caught the scent upon the breeze that told her someone

nearby was roasting a succulent meal.

Cannivone lifted his head as if he too noticed the aroma.

Luaithreach followed, closely. Luaithreach couldn’t help but be

impressed with the way the boy strode purposefully through the

maze of dirt roads. It was as if he knew where he were going.

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Soon, they arrived at a rusted and crooked sewer grate.

Luaithreach’s brow lifted in curiosity.

“You have a hankering to wander about in the sewer?” she

asked.

Cannivone shrugged. “Not really. Something led me here.”

“Led you here?” the Daughter of Dragons was aghast.

“Does the city not stink enough that you have to go to the one

place that smells even worse?”

“That’s the curious part,” Cannivone said. “The smell

should be stronger if this leads to the sewer. All I smell is the

stench of filthy bodies and that meat roasting.”

Relief spread over Luaithreach’s face at the mention of the

smell. She had thought her mind was playing tricks on her, her

hunger forcing her to imagine things.

“What could possibly be down there?” she pondered aloud.

“Only one way to find out,” Cannivone exclaimed. “If you

are game.”

Before Luaithreach could even answer, Cannivone ducked

to pull at the grate. The sword was a tickle behind his eyes

pulsating with eagerness and anticipation. Bloodletter had led

him here. There was something the sword wanted.

“I wouldn’t enter that if I were you,” a voice said from

behind. The pair spun in surprise, hands falling to weapons. At

the entrance to the alley stood a tall, lanky woman with a shaved

head covered in tattoos. Two giant cats flanked her to each side.

“Shove off,” Cannivone growled. “This is none of your

affair.”

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“The aura you give off tells me differently,” the woman

argued. “Something dark is amongst you, I can feel it.”

“Piss off,” Luaithreach snarled. “Don’t spew your religious

psychobabble at me.”

Morrigan spread her hands in a sign that she meant no harm.

The two jagats growled and snarled in agitation. She knew that

they would protect her where Denosia may not.

“I followed the pull of the darkness,” Morrigan gasped. “It

led me to you.”

“Nonsense,” Luaithreach lied. “We came with the Golden

Child’s army.”

“Is that so?” Morrigan replied, crossing her arms over her

breasts. “And he allows his soldiers to sneak off alone in a city to

hide in the sewers?”

“We are not hiding,” Cannivone grumbled. “We are looking

for something.”

Morrigan laughed. “All you will find in there is shit I’m

afraid.”

“What’s it to you?” Luaithreach snarled. “Why should you

care what we find?”

Morrigan shrugged. “I don’t. Not really. I was just bored

and hungry. The dark aura distracted me.”

“What in the Hells are you talking about?” Luaithreach

groaned. “What dark aura.”

“The one inside the sword,” the Ratu replied, her fingers

slowly creeping to her shoulder where the hilt of her greatsword

was visible.

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“Grab the weapon at your own peril,” Luaithreach sneered.

“We did not ask for trouble.”

“Come with me to the temple of Alinard,” the Ratu said.

“Let them cleanse the blade of its evil.”

Cannivone blanched and shook his head, slowly.

“Looks like you got your answer, Ratu.” Luaithreach

reached for her own sword.

“A shame,” Morrigan sighed. “I despise violence.”

“Yeah?” Luaithreach said with a grin. “I revel in it.”

“To the darkness, then,” the Ratu snorted, “and whatever

fate the Gods ordain.”

She followed the pair into the inky blackness, her jagats

keeping close to her thighs.

Gearalt, King of Anglea twisted the frozen flower in his

fingers, a look of disdain planted on his lips. The slight upturn of

his lip gave him a feral appearance. His stomach twisted as he

looked at the thing of beauty crackling in his hand.

Once he had felt a sense of joy at the sight of the flowers

and plants that filled the garden. His father had, at great expense

to the kingdom, hired a group of wizards to cast spells upon the

garden to keep the vegetation blooming year round.

The wizards had abandoned the kingdom when Uilleam

died and with them went the magic. Once proud roses and tuilips,

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plandalamh and poipin withered in the frigid air, some freezing

whole as if preserved for eternity. Though still beautiful, the

marigold flaked apart as he twisted it, bringing a small smile to

the King’s lips.

“So fragile is life,” he pondered. “That cold can rob it of its

vitality.”

“Sire?” Cwchmwri’s guttural baritone sped across the

courtyard from where he and Cunnartach stood with watchful

gaze. “You have need of something?”

Gearalt sneered. “All I am in need of you cannot give me.

Unless,” he added, wryly, “there is a wet hole between those

legs.”

The capallach recoiled in stunned disbelief. Such disrespect.

But, being King afforded one such luxuries.

“Sorry, sire. I thought you said something.”

“Each utterance is not a word breathed to you,” the brash

ruler snapped. The capallach bristled and held his tongue. Soon

there will be a reckoning. Remember your vow.

Gearalt seemed to not be affected by the air that turned their

breath to mist and froze the water into fragile hangings that

glistened in the torchlight. Cunnartach fidgeted, hopping from

one foot to the other to bring warmth and circulation back into

his legs, numb as they were from the cold. The guards exchanged

a glance, both understanding at that moment what the other was

feeling.

The King smiled as he snapped the marigold as if it were a

drinking vessel made of the finest crystal. He let the thousands of

shards fall at his feet. Instantly, warmth spread through his belly

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as if a huge burden had been lifted. His eyes flashed yellow,

briefly and he grinned.

“How easily life is crushed by my hand,” he said. “None

may stand before the armies of Gearalt with Myala and Cadjal at

my side.”

Inside his chest there stirred a sentience, spreading warmth

through him, giving strength to his limbs. he stood in the stinging

wind and turned to his guardians.

“Remove the plants,” he growled. “All of them. Let all

know that as easily as I can grant life, I can take it away.”

“But, sire…” Cunnartach began, but his words were halted

by a burning glare from the king.

“Do it,” Gearalt hissed, “or be branded a traitor.”

The guards exchanged a puzzled and frightful look before

nodding.

“As you wish,” they replied in unison.

Brennec Ban, mannach guide to Ioras cursed beneath his

breath. It was true. The King had lost his wits. From his perch

concealed in the thick frozen branches of a creeper vine, he

watched the guards hacking away at all manner of growth that

filled the walled off garden.

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In happier times, Brennec remembered the garden was quite

beautiful. he enjoyed browsing the vast collection of rare and

sometimes deadly plants. Uilleam had taken pride in his garden;

his son seemed to have no regard. Sadness overtook him,

clutched his chest with a thick fist of despair.

It was a shame to destroy such beauty, he thought.

Climbing the ivy covered walls had taken little effort on his

part, his sirite blood givin him an inhuman agility. He was

anxious to revisit the garden, but he never expected to see the

garden in such a state. What sort of foulness clouded the young

King’s mind? he pondered.

He choked back a cry of despair as he saw two dark cloaked

figures approaching the two guards. Wind whipped at the

threadbare coverings revealing three-toed feet with ebon claws.

A glint of red flashing eyes burned from deep beneath the hoods.

One of the dark figures spoke with a thick accent.

“We finish this. You must go ready selves for war.”

War. Brennec shuddered. Who was Gearalt waging war

against? Where was Ioras and his army? The king had much to

answer for.

He spied the young regent sitting at one of the granite

benches that dotted the interior of the gardens. he wore a thin

shirt with ruffled sleeves and simple breeches, yet seemed to not

be bothered by the cold. Brennec shivered despite the thick furs

he wore over his white leathers and boldly stepped from his

concealment.

“King Gearalt,” he spoke loudly. “What is this madness?”

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Gearalt jumped to his feet, startled. The two guards reached

for weapons, while the dark cloaked creatures moved to stand

between the mannach and the king.

“How in the Gods’ names did you get in here?” Gearalt

asked with a scowl. The dark creatures began to chant in a foul

tongue.

“Do not try your dark magic on me,” Brennec warned . “I

have sirite blood in my veins.”

Gearalt smiled, a spiteful upturn of his lips and chuckled.

“Though they outlive us,” he said softly, “they too succumb

to Marbhan’s touch.”

“What is wrong with you?” the mannach said in desperation.

“Sire!” Gearalt shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “You

will address me by my title, you dagger eared fuck.”

Brennec grimaced. “After all the years of service to your

father,” Brennec began, but was cut off by a shouting Gearalt.

“Bugger my father.” The boy king spat with ire. “I tire of

everyone telling me what my dead father did or did not do. I rule

this kingdom. Me..” He thumped his chest with a slender

fingered hand. “..and it seems nobody can get that through their

thick skulls.”

“But..” Brennec tried to answer.

“To question the King is paramount to treason,” Gearalt

continued. “Arrest this fool as a trespasser and a traitor.”

Cunnartach and Cwchmwri stepped forward with reaching

hands, muscles bulging as they moved. Brennec kept his gaze

upon the dark cloaked figures instead, however, as his gloved

hand fell to the hilt of his sword. The guards stopped.

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“This is not the way of things,” Brennec stated.

“I say it is,” the King said. “And he who wears the

crown….” His words trailed off.

“What have you done with Ioras?” the mannach asked,

slowly stepping back toward the particularly sharp barbs of a

thorn bush.

“He ran,” Gearalt sneered. “Like a coward.”

“Liar,” Brennec called out. “The Golden Child knows no

fear.”

Gearalt let the slightest trace of a smile pull at his lips.

“You think you know what lies inside his heart?” he said.

“No man is pure and just. He knows when he has been defeated.”

“Ioras will fight you until his final breath,” Brennec said

adamantly.

Gearalt smiled, wryly. “Then why has he run like a dog with

tail between his legs? Like a coward.”

Brennec stood in shocked amazement at the apathy in the

boy’s words. With one fluid moment, he pulled his blade free

from the jeweled scabbard at his hip. Defiantly, he swept the

cloak from his shoulder and gripped the leather wrapped hilt.

“Then I will stand for him.”

“You will die,” Gearalt growled.

“So be it,” Brennec sighed. “There is not much left worth

living for with you on the throne.”

Gearalt’s face turned red as if he were burned.

“Kill him,” the King said.

The two dark clad figures wiggled their elongated fingers

sending a wave of power towards Brennec, but years of

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experience and finely honed instincts kept the rays from striking

him.

He rolled toward the thick brambles, coming to his feet,

sword in his gloved hands. A snarl split his chin as he rushed

forward toward his attackers. From behind, he spied the two

guards, standing in indecisiveness, exchanging a curious glance.

He reached the figures in a moment, sword slashing through

the air at a diagonal angle. The creatures hissed and ducked

beneath the blade and stepped back.

“Hurts it we will,” one said. Clawed hands pulled the hood

back revealing a face from a nightmare. It had large eyes of deep

cerulean and slavering, elongated jaws filled with serrated teeth.

Brennec stumbled as the implications struck him.

“Diabhols,” he gasped. “You cavort with diabhols?”

Gearalt sighed. “We don’t always get to pick our friends or

allies,” he said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes we take what the

Gods give us.”

“No Gods sent you these abominations,” Brennec growled.

“The seal of The Hells must be broken.”

He ducked beneath another swipe from a razor sharp claw.

He felt the closeness of the attack as the breeze kissed his cheek.

Meanwhile, the other diabhol began waving its talons in an

intricate pattern, attempting a spell.

Brennec knew time was against him. He was outnumbered

and defenseless against the magic of the diabhols. His only hope

lie in his speed and agility, but very soon even those would fail

him.

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The burning ray shot from the diabhol’s hand barely missed

the mannach as he twisted from its path. A claw scraped across

his leather cuirass leaving a deep furrow, shockingly dark against

the white armor. A backhand slash of his blade elicited a squeal

of pain and a spray of dark ichor that fountained into the crisp

air. Brennec caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye of a

taloned hand tumbling toward the cobblestones and smiled.

“Am I going to have to dispatch of this one myself?” the

King growled, reaching to his side where a small dagger was

strapped. The King looked at his guards and fumed.

“Well?” he screamed. “Are you going to kill this bastard or

are you just going to stand there?”

“It isn’t too late,” Brennec gasped, his words spoken

towards the guards. “Join me and forsake this fool’s quest for the

destruction of his kingdom.”

Brennec again had to dodge a sweeping claw that caught in

his cloak, tearing a long strip of fabric.

Cunnartach grabbed his spear in both hands and stood

motionless. Cwchmwri gnawed at his horse-lips in agitation, eyes

flitting back and forth as the wounded diabhol rose from the

ground already growing a new hand.

“Help me,” Brennec pleaded. “In the name of all the Gods

of righteousness.”

“Those Gods are dead,” Gearalt said, walking toward

Brennec as if he had all the time in the world. And he supposed

he did. What was the hurry? Brennec knew he would eventually

wear down. Then, he knew death was imminent.

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“I beseech you,” the mannach cried. “What would Epona

do?” he parried the descending talon of a diabhol, but the other

caught him across the cheek. He spun, violently and tumbled to

the earth, blood spilling from a huge gash on his cheek.

The diabhols approached, chattering in their foul language, a

sound like a casket being dragged over gravel. Brennec rose to

his knees and placed a hand to his face. The glove came away

smeared with crimson.

“So be it,” he murmured and tried to stand. Gearalt

chuckled in the background, his footsteps coming closer.

Suddenly the diabhols screamed in unison as spear points

erupted from their chests in a splatter of ichor. A look of

bewilderment came to their elongated snouts as the blades were

retracted, pulled free by their wielders.

“There has been enough death,” Cwchmwri said in his

baritone. “This is wrong.”

Gearalt was livid. He cursed and spat his ire at the two

guards.

“Everywhere I turn there is treason and betrayal,” he cried.

“No,” Cunnartach shook his head. “The only betrayal was of

yourself.” The tattooed man seemed sad as he shook the ichor

from his spear blade. The diabhols collapsed and fell in a small

gout of dust and were no more.

“You will regret this,” Gearalt said, shaking his dagger at

them. Cwchmwri bent to aid the wounded mannach to his feet.

Brennec was unstable and staggered. Blood poured from the deep

wound on his cheek.

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“We have many regrets, Cwchmwri and I,” Cunnartach said

with a shake of his head. “This is not among them.”

Together, the man and the capallach retrieved Brennec’s

dropped blade and hoisted him between them. they walked

toward the garden gates without looking back.

“My army will come for you,” shouted Gearalt,” and you

will pray for a swift death. I promise. There is no place to hide

from my wrath.”

“Ignore the pontificating buffoon,” Cwchmwri said softly.

“It is time we were made accountable for our bad judgment.”

“Where…?” Brennec began to question, but Cunnartach cut

him off with a single word.

“Fialscathac.”

“Your lives are forfeit if he finds you, “Brennec warned. “all

of ours are.”

“Then we must hope he does not find us,” Cwchmwri said,

his lips curling in what passed as a smile.

Manech MacMal rode from the town at a swift gallop,

taking in a gasp of air at the sight of the bedraggled forces spread

out before him. Once a mighty army the forces of the Golden

Child looked decimated, weary, and out of sorts.

There seemed to be no order to the tangled collection of

tents and the haphazard mounds where fires blazed to keep the

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huddled bodies warm. The smoke painted the sky in a charcoal

smudge.

Manech groaned as the cold seeped into his aged bones.

Every joint screamed at him. Retirement may be the wisest

choice I have made in some time.

His arrival in the camp was preceded by a swirl of muddy

snow and exalted cries from the former fennid who swarmed

around a large bonfire. Red, green, and yellow branch soldiers

grouped together in utter dejection. Manech pulled his borrowed

mount to a stop.

“Who is in charge of the Fennid?” he called to one he

recognized, Tindell Whelan, one of his red branch warriors who

had a bandage wrapped around his left forearm.

The Fennid snapped to attention immediately at the sight of

his leader.

“You are, sir.”

Manech shook his head. “I retired. Who replaced me?”

Tindell shrugged. “Nobody,” he said. “Meilseoir MacOdran

is the closest to a Rigfennid we have since you…left your post.”

Manech grimaced. So that was the story then? He had

abandoned his men. The news that his second in command had

taken the temporary mantle of leadership gave him a hint of

hope.

“Where can I find him?” the former Rigfennid asked.

Tindell shrugged again. “Last we saw him he was sharing a

bottle of ale with Emir NiMatholuc.” He pointed to a ragged tent

fluttering in the wind, a red pennant with crossed swords upon it

in gray flapping above its entrance.

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Manech nodded quickly and swung his leg over the rump of

the mount. His body groaned in protest and he gritted his teeth

against the ache. He landed on the frozen ground with a jarring

impact that set his teeth clattering together.

“Find him,” Manech said. “Bring him to me.”

“At once, sir.” Tindell was always eager to please; to do all

he could to work his way up through the ranks. Since the battle in

Talantas, they had lost a few fennid and had done nothing to

replace them. The fennid were supposed to consist of three

branches. Each branch consisted of three nines of soldiers all

overlooked by the Rigfennid. In his absence, there seemed to be

no order.

Shortly, Tindell returned, leading a stout man with red

braids wound tightly around his head. Clumsy fingers worked to

tie the laces on his trousers. He stopped abruptly at the sight of

his mentor and leader.

“It really is you,” he said, surprise showing upon a face like

weathered leather. Brown eyes, shot with tiny red veins, a sure

sign of too much alcohol, peered nervously around before

settling to stare at Manech’s chin.

“Why have the men not been training?” Manech asked. “Is

this the state of the great Fennid since I left them?”

“We have had no time, sir.” Meilseoir stammered. “Much

has happened since you relinquished your title.”

Manech frowned. “I assumed I was leaving them in capable

hands, Meilseoir. Many years we battled together. Is this what

you have become? A man who forsakes his duties, forgets his

vows?”

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Meilsoir scoffed. “My vow was to a king now dead to

protect his interests in a kingdom that has fallen to shit.”

Manech’s face reddened in rage. “A vow before Eochaid is

a vow that must be upheld until death. Regardless of our

circumstances. Are you telling me the kingdom is not worth

protecting anymore? That all we fought for is tossed away like

garbage? What use are the Fennid if we do not protect the

common folk?”

“The King has betrayed his own country,” the Fennid said.

“He has shown no honor and even went so far as to accuse the

Golden Child of treason. I owe no loyalty to Gearalt.”

“Who do you owe loyalty to?” Manech growled.

“Yourself?”

Meilseoir looked away, casting his gaze to the icy ground.

“I have always been loyal to you, sir,” he said. The words

were touched with sorrow. “I would lay down my life for you or

the Golden Child. That is why we gather in his encampment.”

Manech sighed. “Part of the blame lies with me. I

abandoned my post without warning. Without giving orders or

expectations.”

“War comes,” the fennid replied. “Whether we are prepared

for it or not. The king has allied himself with diabhols. He has

made it his personal quest to destroy Ioras.”

Manech placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“We must aid the Golden Child in any way we can, then.

My sword will be ready to shed blood in His name.” Manech

spoke the words with conviction, adding “What do you need

from me?”

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“Return to your rightful position as our Rigfennid.”

Meiseoir said. “Lead us to victory or glorious death.”

Manech smiled. “I have lived many years. I have survived

countless battles. If I am to die, let it be with a sword in my hand,

bathing in the blood of Gearalt’s men.”

“So you will return?”

Manech nodded. How could he deny his men such a

request?

Mabsant sighed as he made his way back through the maze

of alleys that carved their way through the belly of Talantas.

Many a greedy eye fell upon him clad as he was in richly

embroidered robes, golden rings adorning his fingers. But just

one glance at the seal of office hanging around his portly neck

stopped any would be attackers in their tracks. Already the King

was proving to be volatile and attacking a respected member of

his council would not go over well.

This fact protected the obese Mabsant as he hobbled across

the cobblestones, sweat glistening upon his forehead more than

the thick oaken cane he leaned upon. The advisor was a large,

ponderous man, but dreadfully slow, invoking no fear in the

myriad of thieves and bandits that made the streets of Talantas

their home. The King’s guards, however, especially with the

recent changes, the bringing in of strange and fearful beasts,

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caused even the bravest brigand to think twice about any force of

hand against the members of the king’s retinue.

Mabsant wasn’t completely helpless. Though a coward at

heart, abhorring and avoiding violence at all costs, he did have an

impressive collection of cantrips that could dissuade most

attackers from doing him any physical harm.

Mabsant’s mind was a muddled mess. If the information he

had received from Skrubb, at the cost of one thousand gold coins

no less, was accurate, the one’s he sought were not easily found.

Outlaws and raiders, they were frequently on the move to a void

the king’s prosecution. They weren’t evil, necessarily, but lived a

life just outside the letter of the law.

How was he to manage to find this wizard Obnoctin and his

men much less convince them to join the cause? Mabsant

couldn’t help but wonder if it would be easier to run from his

responsibilities, making his way in the wilderness, but he realized

he would never survive. Court life had made him soft, weak.

Especially around the middle. He sighed.

It bothered the tiny bit of morals he had remaining to have

to resort to collaboration with such undesirables.

“Dire times,” he grumbled, “sometimes calls for strange

bedfellows.” Skrubb had spoken these words at their parting. The

truth of the words now coiled in his stomach.

The only remaining question: was who to send on such a

journey? Skrubb had suggested it be someone he could trust

implicitly. With a soft sigh of resignation he turned down another

alley. He knew just who to hire for such a quest.

He only hoped he was willing.

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Chapter Twenty One

Ominous Tidings

Ratto sidestepped another foul smelling puddle, eyes alert to

his surroundings. Below the streets of Fialscathac a warren of

tunnels spread out like a net throughout the town connecting

many places to each other beneath musty cellars. Moisture

dripped in muddy splatters from above as the earth soaked up the

semi-solid snow and deposited it in the tunnels.

The thieves used the tunnels for decades for their illicit

activities. Ratto had stumbled upon the tunnels one day quite by

accident and had used them to his advantage. Never an official

member of the guild, he lived in their dank depths for weeks,

avoiding the wrath of the previous guildmaster. When Pantania

had taken over, he was mostly forgotten until his chance

encounter with the young Sigov in the temple.

The fact that the warrens connected to the temple cellars by

way of narrow vents was his secret, accessible only in his rat

form. He could never have known the dark purpose for the

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winding tunnels, nor would he care. He only knew that because

of them, he had found a secret entrance into the lower dungeons

of the temple, which he had used frequently. Opportunity knocks

very seldom in one’s life and must be taken advantage of.

He had left Ghia behind, dry and warm in the ruined tanner

shop to do some exploring and ease his mind. His cloak was

covered in a thick layer of dark mud. He grumbled to himself and

made to remove the garment for a quick cleaning when he heard

a sound.

It was a slight sound, a whisper of leather on stone. And was

that a soft growl? Ratto reached for the short blade at his side. He

knew francagach, the disease infested rat men, frequented the

underground tunnels. Many times he had encountered them,

using his cloak’s magic to escape without confrontation.

Already he was preparing for the activation of the cloak’s

magic. His form began to shimmer and waver, his already tiny

body shrinking and changing as the rat form took over.

His claws scrabbled across the dirt as he headed toward the

shadows as voices came to his ears. They spoke in the common

tongue, not the squeaking language of the rat folk. he squatted on

his haunches in the dark and watched with his tiny eyes.

A young human boy came into view, a shiny silver sword in

his fist. Following closely behind was a dark skinned woman

with violet eyes. She seemed nervous as her gaze flitted back and

forth in the shadows. Two huge cats, the nemesis of all rats,

slithered around the legs of a tall, bald woman in leather armor.

Tattoos covered her bald skull and she carried a rune etched

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greatsword. Great power flowed from her like a wave. Ratto

wedged his portly body into a hole and sniffed the air.

“Why are you still following us?” the dark woman asked,

clearly perturbed.

“I would be lax in my duties to Denosia if I did not

investigate the darkness that flows from that foul blade,” the bald

woman answered.

“Don’t worry, Luaithreach,” the boy said indicating the dark

woman. “She can follow if she likes. We aren’t on a secret

mission or anything.”

“She makes me nervous,” Luaithreach answered. “We can’t

trust every stranger, Cannivone.”

The boy sighed in reply. “Nor can they trust us, I’m afraid.”

“I have a name you know,” the bald woman growled. “And

stop talking like I’m not here.”

“Yes,” Luaithreach said, rolling her eyes. “Morrigan of the

Ratus. So you have said numerous times. How could I ever forget

your name?”

“We have names to differentiate ourselves,” Morrigan

replied. “How would you like to be called the Dark One?”

Luaithreach grinned. “I am not ashamed of my heritage. I

come from a strong lineage.”

“Nor should you be,” Morrigan agreed, “but, you were

given a name to be used as was I.”

As if in answer, the two cats mewled, the sound echoing

through the tunnels. Ratto wedged his rat body further back into

the small hole hoping to avoid detection. He wouldn’t stand a

chance against the two huge cats.

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“Roki and Loki smell something,” Morrigan said, indicating

the way the cats sniffed the air, tails twitching, wildly.

“They smell shit,” Luaithreach said. “Just as we do.”

Morrigan shook her head. “No there is something else down

here.”

“Rat folk,” hissed Luaithreach, her sword in her hand in a

breath.

Cannivone shrugged. “I sense nothing. Only rats and

spiders.”

“It could be rats,” Morrigan agreed. “A morsel for my pets.”

“You can stay and have lunch,” the dark woman grumbled,

trying to ignore her rumbling belly. “I follow the boy.”

“Even to your death?”

Luaithreach chuckled low in her throat. “I am not quite so

easy to kill,” she said.

“Everything dies,” Cannivone added. Especially those who

meet me. He kept the thought from his lips, but he felt the sword

as it emitted a sense of happiness across the boy, as if it enjoyed

his pessimism.

“Denosia will guide my steps,” Morrigan uttered and

scowled as Luaithreach chuckled.

“Again with the Denosia crap.” Luaithreach’s eyes shone

with humor. “May as well trust in the rats to lead you out of

here.”

“Why are we here?” Morrigan asked.

“You followed us,” Luaithreach griped. “As for why me and

the boy are here…” She shrugged.

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“I told you,” Cannivone exclaimed. “Something draws me

here.”

Strange yearnings, lad.” Morrigan smiled at the boy warmly.

The itching between his eyes betrayed the sword’s

irritability. He made to turn toward the strange woman, when

something moved in the corner of his eye.

“Call the cats off,” a shrilly voice called. “And the rat will

lead you from this place. I know the way.”

From the shadows stepped a bwbach, covered in filth. His

nose was pointed and he wore a small mustache above a sneering

lip.

‘You are no rat,” Cannivone said. “But you have the smell

upon you.”

The jagats growled and were silenced by a gentle hand from

Morrigan.

“And why exactly should we trust you?” Luaithreach

sneered. “A filthy bwbach who lurks in dark tunnels and smells

like vermin.”

“My name is Ratto,” he said. “I am as close to the beast as

you will find that is willing to guide you through these tunnels.

Long have they been my secret, but all secrets come to the fore

eventually.”

“Lead on,” Cannivone said, still unaware of what had led

him to the tunnels in the first place.

“The temple is near,” the sword whispered. “I can sense

it.”

Cannivone shook his head. “Where do the tunnels lead?” he

asked.

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Ratto grinned. “Anywhere you would wish to go.”

“Wherever you lead is fine” the boy said. “Someplace

warm and far from prying eyes.”

Ratto grunted and smiled. “I know of such a place.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Luaithreach grumbled, sarcastically.

Reluctantly and curiously, Morrigan followed, her cats

padding nervously at her side.

They left at sunrise, Neftet leading the way back to the

rickety boat, much to Gioffri’s obvious chagrin. Somehow, it

eased Neftet’s mind to see the albino suffering so. Assassins by

nature did not make friends and he was no exception. He had

never been close to any of his brotherhood and he still did not

understand why the albino had taken his side.

The bodies of the naithirin had wielded drinkable water in

membranous sacks, several pieces of flint, and a large ruby the

size of Gioffri’s hand, which now rode in the albino’s pouch.

Gioffri seemed to be overcoming his aversion to water, but

still sat silent and sullen in the bow of the tiny boat. One hand

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trailed idly in the water, the occasional fish coming to the surface

to investigate, nipping at him with puckered mouths. Gioffri

seemed amused by the creatures.

“If you are going to play with the fish,” Neftet grumbled, “at

least try and catch one.”

Gioffri cast him a scornful gaze. “How long until landfall?”

Neftet shrugged. “Another two, three bells. Not long.

Look.”

The albino cast his gaze where Neftet pointed. Through a

thick mist of coiling vapor, he could barely discern the dark line

of a distant shoreline.

“We will not be welcomed with open arms,” Gioffri said,

suddenly, fingers still trailing in the dark, cold water.

“Is this supposed to surprise me?” Neftet growled. “I offer a

compromise to Rhollo. He will either take it or I will slay him.”

“Not an easy task, my friend.” The albino reached for the

waterskin at his feet and took a long swig. “Rhollo has survived

many attempts at his life,”

Neftet nodded, solemnly. “As have we. Marbhan could have

taken me many times.”

Gioffri chuckled. “You think you have been chosen by the

God of death? Are you his hand now?”

“No.” Neftet’s stare bored into the albino with a deep

darkness, sending a shiver down Gioffri’s spine.

“I am but his messenger,” Neftet concluded.

“And the message you bring..?”

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“Death, Gioffri.” Neftet turned back to the task at hand,

tight muscles bunching in his shoulders as the rows dipped and

rose from the water. “His or mine.”

Cipsis sat at the fire, his quail mostly untouched. Everything

that had transpired over the last few weeks had been a blur.

Everything he thought he had known about his life was being

turned on its head. He looked up and caught the gaze of Ioras,

who smiled. My father. How can it be true? The Golden Child is

supposed to be pious. Free from sin. Isn’t that what the

Alinardians teach.

The look of joy upon Ioras’ face filled the boy with warmth.

Often he had wondered about his mysterious father. His mother

was not forthcoming with much information, only that she was

young and easily tempted by sin and that his father was destined

for greatness if he were still alive.

Though in his heart Cipsis rejoiced at finding his father,

there still existed sparks of resentment and anger that the man

hadn’t been around while he was a child. To teach him how to be

a man, to take care of his mother. To teach him how to fight.

Hours and weeks of practice against his friends using sharpened

hickory stakes had honed the skill he was innately born with.

“What do you think, son?” Ioras musical voice came to his

ears over the din of voices speaking over each other at the small

fire.

“Huh?” Cipsis hadn’t been paying attention.

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“I, too, am curious what the son of the Ioras has to say,”

Corp Salach the abhacan general grumbled. Cipsis looked

around, bewildered.

“Were you even paying attention?” the painted woman,

Noinion asked.

“No, ma’am.” Cipsis looked to the ground in shame.

“You ask us to trust in the opinion of a boy who cannot even

concentrate on the task at hand?” Corp growled. “You better

hope Alinard steps in to save us.”

“The boy has much to think on,” Ioras said, calmly. “I am

sure it all has been a shock to him. If you trust me, you should

trust him. My blood runs through his veins.”

“And it will bleed just as red as the rest of us if he doesn’t

do his part,” Noinion said. “Again we ask the boy. Are you

willing to fight at your father’s side so that he may teach and

protect you?”

“Fight?” Cipsis murmured. “Why must life always be about

the fight?”

If you wish to hold onto what dismal spark of life is left in

the kingdom,” Corp said, “you will have to fight for it. Colm will

not retreat or stop until he lies moldering in the ground.”

“We should hasten that moment,” Noinion said.

“We have little left of our army,” Ioras reminded them. “By

order of the King.”

“More return every day,” Corp replied. “Tyranny finds few

friends.”

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“But he gathers a new army,” Noinion added. “He seeks an

alliance with Croi Dubh.” She used the nickname for Colm, an

ancient term meaning Black Heart.

“I will fight,” Cipsis said. “I have killed diabhols before.”

All three of the generals looked his way.

“We heard of your prowess in Talantas,” Corp said, “but

those were minor diabhols at best. The King now allies with

demon lords and if rumor is true, Cadjal.”

“They will die by my blade as the ones before them did.”

Cipsis swore. “I am not afraid.”

Noinion chuckled. “His father’s son, no doubt.”

Ioras grinned and clapped his son on the back.

“Let us get you a real sword,” Ioras told him. “One that has

been blessed by Alinard’s priests.”

“Does the blessing make them sharper?” Cipsis asked.

“No.”

“Then what is the point?” Cipsis scowled. He had never

taken much stock in religion or the Gods interfering in the lives

of mortals. Most of what he had seen could be explained away by

sleight of hand and trickery.

“You aren’t a believer?” Noinion asked.

Cipsis shook his head.

“It is time for him to witness a miracle,” Corp offered. “Call

for the healer as a witness for Alinard.”

“You are going to like her,” Corp said, a wide grin splitting

his beard. “A bit old for you, but pretty for a human.”

“Naomh was Highpriestess of the first church before she

retired her post to follow the Golden Child,” Noinion offered.

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“A medicis?” Cipsis asked.

Noinion shook her head.

“She is much more. The power of Alinard is strong within

her. I have seen her bring men back from near death.”

“Right,” Cipsis said in a tone that said he didn’t really

believe.

“Have you not often wondered about things that you have

seen?” Ioras asked. “How they came to pass?”

“Why should I?” Cipsis asked. “I have seen my mother

suffer, friends die. Are the Gods so selfish that they would allow

this?”

Ioras placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder.

“All things must die,” he said. “Otherwise the world would

be overcrowded in no time. For each person, the Gods have a

task. It may come at any time. Only Marbhan knows the will of

the other Gods. Death is the great neutralizer. It comes to us

whether we are rich or poor, old or young, pious or full of sin.”

“It isn’t fair,” Cipsis grumbled. “Do they not care about the

heartache they cause on earth.”

“Even Alinard must allow the passing of good people,”

Ioras said. “It is the circle of life. For each that is taken, he allows

another to be born.”

“And the grief of the families?”

“Alinard cries tears for every one of them. Silver tears from

his platinum face.”

“Platinum?” Corp asked.

“I have gazed upon the face of my father,” Ioras stated. “So

few have and lived. Soon I will be called to join him at his side.

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It is good to have a worthy successor to guide his followers on

Domhan.”

Cipsis paled. “You cannot mean…”

“Of course he means you, lad,” Corp chuckled. “You are

grandson to a God.”

“I can’t be,” Cipsis shook his head. “I am a mere boy. A

human.”

Noinion grinned with her filed teeth. “I have a feeling you

are so much more, boy.”

Cipsis gasped for air, his heart hammering in his chest. How

could this be? He had lived a life of squalor and turmoil. The

only one he had in his life was his mother. If he were the

grandson of a God. wouldn’t his life have been more luxurious?

“Where was my grandfather to aid me in my times of

need?” He scowled,

“He made you suffer to give you strength,” Ioras said. “As

he has done with me. Soon, there will be a final battle for the

souls of all humankind. You must be ready.”

“I am ready, ”Cipsis growled. “My quarrel with grandfather

can wait for another day. But we will have a talk, He and I.”

Corp laughed and said, “Well spoken, lad.”

“Where is this healer?” Cipsis asked . “And this sword? You

promised me a miracle.”

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Slowly, Mabsant climbed the hundreds of steps to his

chambers. Winded and sore, he reached the iron bound door and

removed his brass key. He went to place it in the lock, but the

door swung open with a loud squeak.

Surprised, and cautious he peered inside. Sitting upon a soft

chair sipping wine from a crystal decanter, was Fiad MacRohan

council member from Cel Cedad, his white robes with black trim

flowing from his frail frame in a puddle to the floor.

“Fiad,” Mabsant said. “How did you get in here?”

The shy and thin council member stood, abruptly.

“Ah, you return at last.”

“What are you doing in my chambers?” Mabsant asked,

looking around.

“I bring ominous tidings,” Fiad said. “About the An

Corran.”

“The Corran is no longer,” Mabsant reminded him. “We

disbanded it.”

“Yes,” Fiad said with a nod, “but we did not have the

authority.”

Mabsant paled. He watched the face of Fiad grow into a

wide smile as he calmly soothed the wrinkles from his robes.

“When I went to the king about it, he was livid,” Fiad said.

Mabsant felt like he had been struck in the stomach.

“What?” The obese advisor staggered backward at the shock

of the news.

“You didn’t think you could get away with treason, did

you?” The Cel Cedadian took another sip of the wine. “Good

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vintage by the way. When I take your place at the head of the

new council, I will enjoy going through your wine collection.”

“What have you done?” Mabsant asked and then realization

spread across his face. Someone had let Fiad in. He backed up

slowly to the open door.

“I did what needed to be done, “Fiad said. “What good is a

council if they do not support their rightful ruler?”

From behind, Mabsant could hear the heavy footsteps

heading his way. With his great girth there was no way he would

be able to run. His face fell.

“I was warned about a friend’s duplicity,” Mabsant sighed.

“I never imagined it would be you.”

Fiad smiled. “I have been quiet long enough through your

long winded prattling during the councils. Don’t worry. You will

not be alone. The others are being rounded up as we speak.”

“You have killed us all and destroyed the Kingdom,”

Mabsant said just as two strong arms grabbed his elbows. A

glance to each side showed him the faces of two tarbhacs their

bull mouths, pulled back to reveal large teeth.

Mabsant relaxed in their grip, eyes downcast .

“You betray me and the realm,” he muttered.

No!” Fiad shouted. “It is you who is the betrayer. Our job

was to council the King, not overthrow him.”

“There will be no kingdom left to rule when he is done,”

Mabsant replied. “You do not understand what you have done.”

“It is not our decision who sits upon the throne or how he

chooses to rule. You grew haughty and prideful.” Fiad flashed a

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cocky grin. “And haven’t we been taught that pride is a deadly

sin?”

“You cannot do this,” Mabsant pleaded. “Do you realize

what will happen?”

“Yes,” was Fiad’s response. “a new council will arise with

me at its head. We will not interfere with the king, merely advise

him. This is exactly what you should have done.”

“The other kingdoms will not take lightly to their council

members being rounded up and put to trial.”

“Who said anything about a trial?” Fiad said. “You are all to

be executed in twenty days’ time. A gathering of the citizens

will be announced to make it known what the penalty for treason

is. Make your peace with whatever God you pray to. And know

this, it was not personal.”

Mabsant didn’t resist as he was dragged away towards the

wooden door leading to the dungeons. His heels scraped against

the stone floor.

“This could mean war on the grandest scale,” he thought.

Ominous tidings, indeed.

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Chapter Twenty Two

Loose Ends

The portal appeared in the clearing with a flash of bright

light. Stepping from it, disheveled and staggering, Elioth nearly

fell. MacLugh caught the wizened wizard from behind and kept

him erect.

It was a simple thing to find the spell hidden amongst the

tomes and texts of the Great Library of Lorendium. Neither of

them knew the amount of energy it would leech from them to

cast it.

“I got you,” MacLugh said, grunting with the effort.

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“I’m fine,” grumbled Elioth. “Do not hold me like I am a

child.”

“You wound me,” MacLugh said, placing a hand over his

heart. “You are like the father I never wanted. Or grandfather.”

Elioth growled. “Grandfather is it? Why I oughta…”

“Look,” MacLugh said, pointing to the great cluster of mud

and wattle dwellings. “We have arrived.”

Elioth looked upon the village in disgust.

“This cannot be Calandrium,” he said. “This cannot be the

resting place of the great wizard Ondrex.”

“Let us ask someone,” MacLugh offered. Just then, a

centaur appeared, spear held in its mighty fists, followed closely

by another pair, one female. All were bare on the upper torsos

and each had unique markings on their equine bodies. Elioth

looked away from the female’s bare breasts, but MacLugh

merely grinned.

“Who are you?” the lead centaur asked. “What brings you

near Calandrium.”

“Question answered,” MacLugh said from the side of his

mouth. Elioth shushed him and raised his hands in supplication.

“I am the Crystal Wizard, Elioth. This is my companion,

MacLugh. We seek knowledge that is said to be in the Tome of

Oghma.”

The centaurs exchanged a glance, never lowering their

spears.

“Humans are not allowed to set foot in Calandrium,” the

female said. “It is forbidden.”

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MacLugh looked around. Surrounding them on all sides was

thick forest, oaks, dogwoods, fir, and aspen as far as the eye

could see. From behind the centaurs a few onlookers had stopped

out of curiosity to gaze at the humans who had wandered so close

to the village.

“Go back from where you came,” the lead centaur ordered.

“You are not welcome here.”

Elioth took in a hissing breath in agitation. “Is not the

wizard Ondrex buried within?” he asked.

“Aye,” the female said. “And it was he that brought

destruction down upon our kind. Humans and most especially

wizards have been forbidden since.”

“We must get the book,” Elioth grumbled. “It is of dire

importance.”

“To the human world?” the leader replied. “What do we

care about that?”

“Your king cared enough to send a delegate to the An

Corran.” MacLugh offered.

The centaur spat. “Cnychwyr has returned with news of

madness and war. We want no part of it.”

“Who is the leader of this village?” Elioth snorted.

“I am chieftain,” the leader said. “I am called Nycwor.”

“And your companions?” MacLugh asked with an affable

smile upon his lips.

“The other stud is Draryn,” Nycwor said. “The mare is

Chanys. They are my captains.”

“If I could suggest a compromise,” the burly wizard said.

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“We do not negotiate with humans,” Nycwor stated. “Leave

or be taken prisoner.”

“See here,” Elioth began, but MacLugh calmed him with a

firm hand upon the shoulder.

“Cysgu'n dda,” he muttered, tossing a handful of dust into

the air. The particles rode the wind directly into the centaurs’

faces. Instantly, they began to cough and sputter. Then, like great

trees in the forest, they fell to the earth and began to snore.

“Always liked that spell,” MacLugh said. “Now let’s go find

this tomb, get the book, and get the Hells out of here, by Banba’s

sickle.”

“Just like that, eh?” Elioth said with a sneer. “And who will

guide us to the grave, hmmm?”

“I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. I assume you knew

the location of Ondrex’s tomb.”

“Assumptions lead to the skewing of fact and confusing of

minds,” said the Crystal Wizard. “Something you would do well

to avoid in the future.”

“I will do my best,” MacLugh said with a smile.

The young centaurs had galloped off at the sight of the

chieftain falling and they yelled at the top of their lungs,

“Intruders! We are attacked.”

“Cac! May Banba shrivel your cock,” Elioth cursed at his

companion. “Are you always such a fool?”

“Nope,” MacLugh grinned. “Just on the second day of every

moon.”

Elioth rolled his eyes and began to mutter another spell.

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“Gwydr,” he said and a shell of crystal appeared above

them, surrounding them in its protective walls.

“Neat trick,” MacLugh said with admiration. “I must borrow

that one.”

“You can borrow my foot up your ass if you don’t be quiet

and let me think.”

Slowly, the pair made their way toward the center of the

village, centaurs moving from their path.. MacLugh made a

mental note to look through Elioth’s spell book one night when

the old wizard was sleeping. The spell was too hard to resist.

Toric was bored. The drink and food at the Coin’s Edge had

grown stale to his tongue and the company, several ogres, a half-

orc, and three dirty abhac were not to his liking. So, with a huge

sigh, he grabbed his meager possessions and walked out the

scarred door.

The streets of Fialscathac were swarming with refugees;

filthy haggard people, some still dressed in the livery of the royal

court. He spied many ex-fennid amongst the mob. A few priests,

mistletoe wrapped about the crowns of their heads showing them

to be followers of Eochaid, mingled around the crowd

distributing crusts of hard bread, snow apples, and hard cheese as

well as a minor healing where needed. Near a fountain in the

market place a paladin bearing the symbol of Diancecht slumped

against the wall of a rickety stall, wine sloshing from the skin in

his lap.

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The bwbach shook his head. It was hard to believe one of

the mighty paladins, the soldiers of the gods, could have been

brought to such a state. Though he took little stock in religion, he

knew that faith gave people hope and strength in dire times.

When a paladin could be brought so low, he knew things were at

their most dire.

His feet brought him rapidly across the frozen ground, the

thick pads tapping like leather across the road. He wrapped his

cloak tightly around himself and headed for the temple of

Alinard, rising above the town, its blue stone cross shining like a

beacon.

A crowd gathered on the temple’s grounds, makeshift

shelters being built in the tower’s shadow. Hope brought the

folks here and faith kept them believing that Alinard would guide

them through the despair. Toric knew better. He had never had a

single prayer answered. The Gods had abandoned the citizens of

Domhan decades ago. It was too late to rekindle their favor.

He did not want to temper their faith with his pessimism, so

he kept his head down and marched for the door of the cellar.

Somewhere in the dark depths the brotherhood kept all vintages

of fine wine and he was determined to find the very best to warm

his bones. And the thrill of the theft was just what he needed to

break the monotony and boredom he had found himself

surrounded by.

He stopped before the hastily repaired wooden door and

smiled. No need to even use the power of the tattoo with the door

in such disrepair. Not even a guard could be found at the entrance

to the cellar. His night would prove to be fruitful after all.

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Swiftly, he entered the dark, musty cellar his nose sniffing

the air like a beast. he could sense an odor in the air that

reminded him of stagnant water and filth. The smell usually

emanated from the rats and other vermin who made the dark

tunnels their home. He pulled his small blade and waited in the

darkness.

“A girl?” Morrigan gasped. They had followed the strange

bwbach through the labyrinth of tunnels to the warm husk of a

building where a makeshift camp had been built. A small girl lay

amongst the gathered grains and piles of sacks breathing heavily,

a doll clutched to her chest.

“She sleeps,” Ratto said. “Quiet.”

“A human girl,” Luaithreach hissed as if the word left a

bitter taste on her tongue. “What is going on?”

Ratto shrugged. “She is quite remarkable,” he answered.

“Her talents grow at a rapid pace and she seems to be able to

look deep into a man’s soul.”

There was something about the doll that eased Luaithreach’s

troubled mind.

“We will share your fire,” Cannivone replied,” and then be

on our way.”

“Do you have food?” Ratto asked, crossing his small arms

and scowling. “We do not have enough for so many plus two

large cats.”

Luaithreach smiled, sweetly.

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Gerald L. Black

“I am sure with your skills, you could acquire some,” she

said. She was glad to be out of the biting wind and her mood had

improved dramatically despite. She turned to Morrigan and

sneered.

“You still follow us like a puppy in the dark. Why?”

Morrigan shrugged. Her cats found a warm corner near the

heat of the small blaze and curled up together.

“Denosia leads me to my purpose,” she said. “It must be

near.”

Luaithreach chuckled. “If your purpose is to starve or be

slain in the dark, then you are right.”

Morrigan narrowed her eyes at the blasphemy. “Denosia has

a purpose for all his Ratu. He will reveal it to me at the proper

time. I have faith.”

“A handful of faith and a handful of shit,” the dark woman

said. “Neither fills your belly or can kill your enemies.”

“True,” Morrigan replied. “That is what I have this for.” She

patted the hilt of her greatsword. The blade seemed to pulse in

the darkness like a beacon.

“I have a different tool in mind if it comes to that,” the

Daughter of Dragons muttered. “Two of them, actually.”

“What tools?” Morrigan asked.

“My feet,” Luaithreach said with a grin. “And my brain.

One to get me far away from the slicing blades of foolish humans

and the other to give me the wisdom to realize when it is time.”

“Death in service to Denosia is honorable,” Morrigan said.

“All Ratu would gladly lay down their lives for Him.”

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Luaithreach smiled, grimly. “The fact that He would expect

you to is exactly the reason I follow no gods other than Mesz.”

“Mesz?” Morrigan was puzzled. “Never heard of such a

God.”

“I know of him,” Cannivone said before the dark skinned

woman could answer. “He was instrumental in the battle for

Talantas. It is said he brought the dragons to fight the diabhols.”

“Sounds like Mesz,” Luaithreach agreed.

“But he is the sovereign of dragons,” Ratto said. “Why

would you follow him?”

Luaithreach let a wide smile grace her dark face. “I have

become close to his teachings. Besides, what difference does it

make which god I prefer to give my worship to?”

“It doesn’t,” Cannivone said, flatly. “Either way you will

just be opening yourself up for disappointment.” The sword had

been un-customarily quiet, but he could feel its presence

wiggling its way between his eyes like a worm. The boy

crouched in the hay and dirt that covered the floor and rubbed his

hands together over the small fire.

“What is it about you,” Morrigan asked him, “that calls to

me? That whispers in my veins that you bear watching?”

“Maybe it is my magnetic personality,” he offered.

Luaithreach snarled and stepped up to the tattooed woman.

“Touch him,” she warned, “and it will be the last action you

make.”

“I do not wish harm to come upon the boy,” Morrigan

retorted. “There is something inside him that beckons to my very

nature. Like he has been possessed.”

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“Nonsense,” Luaithreach growled. “More superstitious rot.

The boy has a good heart. I have sensed it.”

“Excuse me,” Ratto interjected. “If you are quite finished I

would like to go hunt for food now. Anyone care to join me?”

Luaithreach jumped to her feet.

“I think I would prefer your company to that of this

Denosian.”

“Let us make haste then,” the bwbach said. “Before the

sunlight fades.”

“We are going into tunnels, shithead,” she said.

The bwbach smiled. “Not this time,” he replied.

“Where do we go?” Morrigan asked.

“To a certain cellar,” Ratto smiled again. “To acquire a

special vintage of wine. Then up to the pantry which is fully

stocked. I assure you.”

Something in Luaithreach’s head warned her to be careful,

but she pushed it aside. I am the daughter of Mesz. What do I

need to be fearful of?

“Where is this pantry?” she asked.

“In Alinard’s temple, of course.” Ratto grinned.

“Wake the girl,” Cannivone said.

Sithic sat in complete silence, the ancient oak wrapping him

in its gnarled limbs. The Coill Cnamh was well known for its

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ancient trees and multitude of ancient bones left aside from

countless battles between the Sirite Lúbtar, an ancient and

malevolent race, and those of the wood dwelling creatures. The

Forest of Bones it was called and the ghosts of the dead

wandered the thick trees searching for bodies that had long ago

turned to dust.

Sithic closed his eyes and listened to the whispers of the

trees. There was peace in his woods-just as he liked it. All around

he could sense the creatures of the forest as they foraged through

the underbrush or hunted overhead. He could hear the flapping of

wings in the clod filled sky.

When the hawk lit upon his shoulder, he was slightly

surprised. Most creatures avoided him as they would any two-

legged creature. The bird was large for its kind with three distinct

feathers near its head. Then, it began to screech.

Sithic’s eyes widened as the bird’s incessant yapping

formed words in his mind.

“Very interesting,” he muttered. “It seems it is time to test

the limits of the Gods after all. I must pay my friend Mesz

another visit. And the Pantheon be damned.”

Sithic spoke to the oak and it spread its limbs, releasing him

from their secure embrace. The hawk flapped its wings, eagerly

and let out another piercing cry.

“Come, Kisabuk,” the LeafLord said. “If what you say is

true, the ranger is in peril. I owe her much.”

The hawk seemed to calm and settle onto the sirite’s

muscular shoulder.

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“The Gods will be none too pleased,” Sithic sighed. “But to

save the world….”

He left the rest unsaid.

It was morning when the first attack came. Ioras was

summoned from his tent, Cipsis at his side. A line of shambling

creatures approached from the south, sunlight glinting off

weapons. Before the army came a foul odor. The smell of death

and decay.

Frantic, Ioras gathered what forces remained. The clear call

of the trumpet rallied them to formation.

Corp Salach, abhac general scowled as he saw the

approaching collection of undead and fachan. They were sorely

outnumbered and in no shape to fight against forces that would

not tire.

Noinion Bui placed a warm hand on his shoulder and gave

him a small smile. She too could sense the fear in the air. Many

would die, she knew. May the Gods see them through.

“Send a runner to the city,” Ioras cried. “Have them place

the defenses.”

“Not the army we were expecting,” Naomh Iobairt, priest of

Alinard said.

“No,” Ioras winced. “It is not.”

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Cipsis looked at his father, briefly and frowned. A hand

went to the shiny new sword he had been given, the one he called

Lopper.

“The bwbach Fennel spoke of such an army devastating

Belton,” he said.

“Then we are beset on all sides,” Ioras grunted. “May

Alinard give us strength.”

Draiocht Intinn, wizard of the Golden Child’s army raised

his staff up high and muttered words of power. Clouds scuttled

across the sky, blocking out the sun. Lightning flashed inside the

clouds with loud rumbles.

“Let them come,” the wizard growled. “Let them face the

power of Elymas.”

“And Alinard,” Naomh added, fingering the platinum cross

at his waist.

“And the Golden Child,” Duille Or, the sirite general said,

stringing his yew bow. “And his son.”

“I am sorry you were dragged into this,” Ioras told Cipsis,

but the boy just shrugged.

“I have seen my share of death, already,” the boy said. He

sighed and buckled the sword to his hip.

“Remember no matter what happens this day,” Ioras said. “I

am content and happy to be fighting at your side. My son.” His

smile was warm, but it did nothing to ease the boy’s mind.

They snatched up weapons and rode to face the coming

horde.

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Gerald L. Black

From his perch atop Nuzzgo’s humped back, G’narish

watched the approaching horde. From the south they came, a

swarming black mass across the ground. The moaning voices of

zombies, the clattering of skeletal bones, and the strange cries of

the fachan split the air.

With a sigh, the bwbach reached into his tiny pouch and

deftly removed a small whistle, carved from bone in intricate

designs of birds. He pushed aside the leather mask he wore and

placed the whistle to his thin lips, but he did not blow. Not yet.

Something stayed his hand. He knew the magic in the

whistle would be useful one time only. Selfishly he had guarded

the magic, waiting for the right time to use its power.

When he had found the whistle amongst the scattered bodies

of an unlucky, or careless group of adventurers he knew he had

found something special. The diviner had told him of the

whistle’s true nature. he had also been warned of its curse. It was

this as much as the item’s rarity that had kept him from utilizing

the thing’s power up to that moment.

G’narish turned the item in his hands, admiring the detailed

carvings- the uncannily human-like bird creatures displayed in its

ivory surface. He knew the carvings portrayed the mythical

branach, a race of humanoid bird folk rumored to live atop the

highest peaks of the mountains, far from prying eyes. Though he

had never seen such a creature, he could not bring himself to

doubt their existence. He had never laid eyes upon a God either,

but they had shown their presence often enough.

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According to the diviner, Awci, the whistle would summon

a flock of the bird folk to the aid of the wielder one time only

before crumbling into dust. Created by the bird goddess

Rhiannon, the whistle was given to the hero Emawrod during the

last Hell wars when the abhac Dwain, using a huge axe given to

him by Alinard, had closed the portals connecting the worlds,

sacrificing himself for the good of the realms. The whistle was

meant to be used as a last resort by the race of humankind to

save their kind from extinction.

Rhiannon was willing to sacrifice her most precious

creation, the branach in order to save Domhan from the Hellish

hordes. Thanks to Dwain and a handful of heroes, the whistle had

never been needed. As centuries passed it became lost in time,

passed from hand to hand and forgotten. Now, it was in the hands

of a bwbach with an identity crisis.

G’narish watched as the Golden Child maneuvered his

forces into battle lines outside the city’s small palisade walls.

Badly outnumbered, the forces of Ioras faced a grim, bloody end

at the hands of the mob.

An alarm rang through the town of Fialscathac and citizens

and soldiers rushed to find their places in hopes of surviving the

coming battle.

The dark army approached slowly, the undead moving with

steady, deliberate gait. A seemingly unending line of fachan took

up the rear. Each held a weapon in their single fist, sharp edges

glittering in wan light.

On the other side a scattered assortment of fennid, known by

their colored cloaks, gathered around a single man. Green,

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Gerald L. Black

yellow, and red united under a single tattered banner with a gold

dragon displayed on red. G’narish was miles from the action, but

he could feel the tension in the air. He could smell death as it

silently crossed the plains.

With a final longing gaze at the whistle, he placed it to his

lips and blew.

A shrill whistle carried on the winds calling to Civvac Cthal,

king of the branach. Ancient prophecy spoke of the day when

Rhiannon would call her kind to aid the other races. Though most

deemed it a laughable myth, Civvac had held out hope that one

day his kind would be able to exist once more among the

humans, the abhac, and the sirite. Leave their lives of solitude,

hiding out in the desolate mountaintops avoiding all others. He

wished for the branach to take their place amongst them.

For centuries they had waited for the call of their goddess.

King after king listened to the winds to no avail. Still, with a

resolve and absolute conviction, King Civvac did his duty for his

folk. At last, it had paid off.

The goddess had answered. The cry burrowed deep into his

soul as if Rhiannon had reached into his heart and placed an

ember there, igniting his soul.

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Civvac stretched his arms, spreading the wings that were

attached from claw to armpit and let the current carry him

through the sky.

The voice inside his head had been clear. He must aid the

Golden One in his battle against the most ancient of foes,

Dubhaca; the little black one.

Throughout history no diabhol had done more damage or

shown more malice towards the races of Domhan than Dubhaca.

Sheltered in their lofty abodes, the branach had stayed secluded

in their neutrality until the time came to act. Until Rhiannon gave

them purpose. She had given them that and more. On their wings

they would carry the very salvation of Domhan.

Civvac let out a piercing call to all his warriors. An army

gathered to the south around a settlement called Fialscathac, a

human town. It was there the goddess would lead them to their

long awaited glory.

Soon, the sky was filled with bird men sporting plumage of

varying shades.

Gearalt was bored. How his father had managed to stay

focused as these fools twittered on endlessly was beyond him.

Always they spewed the same worthless words from their

mouths. The An Corran, the paladins, the fennid, even the foul

goblin Gaspuc who stood before the throne now-all spoke of the

same things.

Was the realm not his to do with as he chose? Why should

he care what the citizens thought of his laws? Wasn’t it by his

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divine mercy that he let them use his land to farm their crops and

feed their families? He was entitled to his share as ruler of the

land.

He sloshed the wine in his cup and stared at the liquid. It

looked like blood. Something stirred in his breast; anger,

resentment. The darkness inside his heart seethed at the thought

that even the An Corran had betrayed him.

He paid no attention to what the goblin said. His thoughts

were on other things. They had searched the realm for Cannivone

to no avail. The new army had been arriving over the last week,

filling his barracks and enforcing his laws in Talantas. Already

the coffers overflowed.

Colm Sadach now rested in a guest room in the royal halls.

His seven generals resided in the barracks, able to rest from the

energy draining trek through the portal. Soon, they would attack

the forces of Ioras and wipe them from the face of Yrth. Gearalt

smiled, his eyes glowing yellow.

With a look of annoyance, his thoughts wandered to the

council members locked away in the dungeons. He glanced to the

side of the dais where Fiad stood haughtily, a small smile upon

his face.

He would not stand for betrayal and treason. The executions

would begin twenty days’ time, he decided. Let those who

commit treason, suffer the consequences. There were already too

many loose ends. Let them be tied.

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Chapter Twenty Two

Scars

In the darkness they could barely make out faint outlines of

those ahead. Each placed a hand on the one before them.

Cannivone had his palm atop the bwbach’s head. He could feel

Luaithreach’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly out of

nervousness or fear. Or possibly excitement. Cannivone couldn’t

begin to guess what dwelled within her mind.

He knew the bwbach could see in the darkness. He only

hoped they wouldn’t be led into a trap. He had to put his trust in

one of the most notorious races on Domhan. Because of their

small size, many bwbachs took up thievery and with that

profession came an inherent lack of morality. Not to say

bwbachs were evil. They just had a skewed moral compass.

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Gerald L. Black

“I do not like this,” the sword whispered.

Cannivone grunted in reply. he felt another squeeze on his

shoulder. He ignored the voice of Bloodletter, concentrating fully

on the path Ratto was leading.

“Kill them,” the sword whined. “Let us fulfill our own

destiny.”

Suddenly the bwbach stopped. It took all they had not to

stumble into each other. The jagats mewed softly in agitation.

“The tunnels narrow considerably ahead,” Ratto said. “But

there is a secret panel that leads to the cellars of the temple. I

found it purely by accident when I was….”

“We don’t care,” growled Luaithreach. “Just get us to where

we are going.”

Ratto grunted..

“The thanks I get,” he muttered. “Try and help and all I get

is rudeness and malicious…..” the words faded beneath his

breath.

The young girl Ghia, doll clutched in her arms stepped

forward and placed a hand on Ratto’s arm.

“I am thankful for your help,” she said. “It was very kind of

you to help strangers.”

“Where we are going,” queried Morrigan, “there is light to

see by, yes?”

Ratto smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. “There are

torches,” was the reply.

“It will have to do,” Cannivone said. He rubbed his temples,

the beginnings of a headache starting to emerge. “I just want to

get out of these damned tunnels.”

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Luaithreach laughed. “You are the one that led us into the

tunnels to begin with,” she said.

Cannivone grunted in reply. Why? He asked the sword.

“Within the tunnels I made a very lucrative living when I

was alive. Many dangers lurk here, but many an ally as well.”

“It matters little,” Morrigan said. “Something wanted us

down here. I too was led by a force I cannot explain. It led me to

the young boy.”

“Wonders never cease,” the dark woman mumbled.

“Here we are,” Ratto said. They heard a few scrapes against

the dirt and stone and felt a slight breeze caressing their faces.

Loki growled and leapt forward, nearly knocking Ratto to the

ground.

“Stupid cat,” the bwbach said.

Roki followed her sister through a small doorway now

opened before them. Together, the party stepped through.

The jagats stood up ahead in the faint glow from a small

torch that lay sputtering on the floor. They circled a small figure

standing on the dusty wooden floor. The flash of steel glinted in

the firelight.

“Roki. Loki.” Morrigan called her pets. “Stand down.”

“Are these yours?” the figure asked, pointing his blade at

the jagats. It was then they realized it was a bwbach dressed in

travel leathers and covered in filth. Nearby sat an opened bottle

of wine.

“They will not harm you, ”Morrigan promised.

“You are right in saying that,” the bwbach said. “Where did

you come from?”

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Gerald L. Black

“Who are you?” Cannivone asked.

“Toric Tusslegut, ”the bwbach replied with a sarcastic bow.

“What brings you sneaking through the temple cellars?”

“Our business,” Luaithreach said with a sneer, “and not

yours.”

“Fair enough,” Toric said with a shrug. “Off you go then. I

was merely wetting my throat before heading on my way.”

“On your way where?” Morrigan asked. “You defile the

temple of Alinard?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Toric said, “but this time I

seek one who was placed here for protection.”

“What for?” Morrigan asked.

“My business,” the bwbach replied with a wide grin. “Not

yours.” The daughter of dragons frowned.

“We seek only food and warmth,” Cannivone said. “We

have a young girl with us.” He indicated where Ghia cowered

behind them.

Toric pointed with his sword across the chamber. “Stairs to

the upper temple are that way.” He swept the blade across in

another direction. “The doorway out to the street is that way.”

“We seek the pantry,” Ratto said. “I know my way.”

“Then you are either brave or foolish,” Toric replied. “And I

don’t care which. I wish only to check upon the status of my

friend and I will be on my way.”

“Why do you hide in the cellars?” Morrigan asked. “Why

don’t you check on her properly?”

Toric sighed. “I have not endeared myself to the

Alinardians,” he said. “They would not welcome me here.”

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“How do you expect to find this girl, then?” Luaithreach

asked.

“I have my ways,” was the reply.

“I will scout ahead,” Ratto said. He said a word filled with

power and his body began to tremble and distort, shrinking into

the cloak around his shoulders. Soon, a rat stared at them with

blinking eyes.

Like a shot, it ran to a hole in the wall.

“Interesting,” Toric said with a smile. “You will excuse me I

hope. There are questions I must ask that one.” Beneath his tunic

came a strange glow and suddenly the bwbach dissipated into a

mist and flowed into the same hole the rat had scurried through.

“Fucking bwbachs, “ Luaithreach said.

“To the temple or outside?” Morrigan asked, a hand upon

the scruff of each jagat’s neck.

Neither,” Cannivone replied. “We wait.” A flare lit the

chamber as he lit a torch.

Darius stood with his bodyguards, dressed in ceremonial

plate armor of Cel-Cedadian design. Alinard’s cross was etched

in the breastplate and at each shoulder. The damned stuff was

heavy and made the priest sweat. His skin was beginning to itch

incessantly.

Rodni and Tongael stood to each side, axes in hand. The

streets of Fialscathac were filled with armed citizens. though

their weapons were not manufactured for war. Pitchforks, small

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hammers, sharpened sticks, clubs, and pokers were abundant.

There were a small number of bows and slings in the hands of

hunters and supplied by the local fletcher, a man named Bodyd,

who was nowhere to be found. He had run off with a handful of

women and children to hide in the forest.

Not everyone was brave enough to fight against a horde of

the undying. The priest could not blame the man for his

cowardice. He was proud of the ones who stayed behind, eager to

protect their homes from the horde of foul creatures

Darius spared a glance behind him at the wide open doors of

the temple. Various acolytes shuffled about, gathering weapons,

polishing armor, their fingers twisting thongs of prayer beads.

Lips moved silently in prayer.

There was no sign of the girl, Perinia. She had gone to the

chapel for one last prayer before joining the priests in the main

hall. She should have returned by now. Maybe she had stopped in

the kitchens for a quick bite, he pondered.

Perinia stood in the chapel gazing at the weathered frescoes,

the carvings and statues in dire need of repair. Her gaze lingered

on a particular statue of a bearded man in simple robes who

appeared to be shaping the form of mankind in his hands.

“Alinard,” she muttered. “See my family and friend safe

from the tyranny and oppression of fools.”

She placed a bundle of flowers at the statue’s feet and left

the chamber. Absentmindedly, she scratched the scar on her left

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cheek, a grim reminder of the cruelty of men who possess power

over others.

What gives them power? she wondered. The Gods?

Bloodlines? Mindless people who act like sheep following

blindly? Priests and rulers are much alike in that regard, feeding

their followers with empty promises that do nothing to fill no

purses or bellies other than their own.

“People are fools,” she decided. She smoothed the wrinkles

from the simple white tunic trimmed with blue at the hem and

sleeves she was given to wear while in the temple.

“We must retain a modicum of tradition,” Darius had told

her. All priests wore such garb when praying in the chapel.

Perinia didn’t see why it mattered what clothes a person wore.

Would Alinard not listen to a prayer unless one was wearing this

garb? Would he ignore all prayers given outside the chapel? Did

he only hear the pleas of his holy priests?

She had never questioned her beliefs. Always she had held

on to the teachings of her parents that Alinard gave hope in all

things. Her recent weeks had caused her to have severe problems

with faith.

She had been left to suffer, abandoned in a dark hole.

Alinard had not rescued her. Toric had. Now she was abandoned

again in a temple with questionable dealings. Surrounded by

wizened old men who leered at her when she passed by.

The old saying was: “Men will always be flawed. Alinard

left them that way to be shaped by life.”

Life seemed to be “shaping” her alright. She should be

rather well shaped by now, she reckoned.

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Her father once told her when she was crying over the

unfairness of having to clean the royal toilets: Complaining does

nothing but lead to despair. Life is not always puppy dogs and

rainbows tied up in ribbons. Life is a turd. When life hands you a

shovel full of shit, it dumps it on your head. Character; strength

comes from how you continue to dig yourself out.

She realized at that moment just how much she missed her

mother and father. Though they were merely servants at Castle

Dubh, they were royalty in her eyes. She wiped away a small tear

that rolled down her cheek as she headed toward her chambers.

She was startled when the voice called out from behind her.

“It does a heart good to see you are well.”

She turned and was confronted by one of the younger

priests, a short man a few years older than herself with oily

tresses of polished copper. He smiled and stepped toward her.

“Brother,” she managed to croak.

“Please,” the priest said. “Not so formal. Call me Nalias.”

“Nalias,” She tried the name on her tongue. “I am headed to

my chambers. May Alinard bless you.”

“Wait a moment,” the priest said, his gaze wandering across

her figure. She immediately felt her skin crawl.

“I should not, broth…Nalias.”

The priest scowled. “We have been most hospitable,” he

said. “You cannot spare a moment to speak with a brother?”

“Sorry,” Perinia grumbled. “I do not wish to be rude, but…”

“Yes it is rude.” Nalias’ frown deepened. “We give you

shelter in Alinard’s home. We feed you. Yet, you give us nothing

in return. Only….temptation.”

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“Temptation?” Perinia did not like the way the conversation

was headed. “I meant nothing.”

“Such are the words of all of Antius’ succubi,” the priest

growled. “We may be priests of Alinard, but we are still men.”

He caressed her cheek with his index finger, tracing the scar.

“These scars do nothing to detract from your loveliness, my

dear.”

Perinia swallowed. “Thank you Nalias.”

“Alinard has filled the hearts of man with certain needs,” the

priest said. “We are not immune. He would forgive me if I were

to stumble.”

“Do not do this, Nalias,” Perinia pleaded. “Let me return to

my room, please.”

“Long has it been since I have been tempted so,” Nalias

said. His hands began to move lower, down Perinia’s neck, her

shoulders.

With her hands, she removed the offending appendages

from her body. Suddenly, Nalias’ face contorted in anger. his

hands flew to her throat.

“You think you are too good for a priest of Alinard?” he

snarled. His fingers tightened around her throat. She gasped for

air as her hands pounded the man’s chest. Dazzling pricks of

light began to appear before her eyes.

Violently, the priest tossed her to the ground face first and

fell atop her. She cried out, her throat raw. She could feel his

hands like claws pulling at the hem of her tunic.

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“Too long,” he whispered in her ear. “Too long away from

the pleasures of a woman. Show me how thankful you are for

Alinard’s hospitality.”

The hem of her tunic began to raise. His weight upon her

was crushing. She shivered as she felt his hand upon her bare

buttocks, caressing her. His tongue scraped along the scar of one

cheek. She cried out, tears pouring from her eyes.

“No,” she cried. “Help me.” Her voice echoed through the

corridor. Angrily, Nalias pressed her face into the floor, cutting

off her cries.

“You will thank me.” he grunted as his hand fumbled for the

hem of his own tunic. Perinia turned her head. The stone floor

was cool upon her cheek. She could feel the man’s member

stiffening against the skin of her ass. His other hand still pressed

on the back of her neck.

“The next question,” Nalias hissed in her ear. “Do I take you

like a girl or like one of the page boys?”

Perinia cried out, but her words were muffled. Tears flowed

from her ice blue eyes as her mind began to turn in upon itself. A

blurred figure appeared in her vision.

She felt his fingers slide into her and he squealed. “Still a

virgin. How wonderful.”

Her gaze began to clear and she stared into the wide eye of

the biggest rat she had ever seen. There was a strange

intelligence in its eyes as it looked upon her face then shifted its

gaze toward the priest, fumbling with his member atop her.

Suddenly, the priest grunted. She felt something warm

splash on her bare flesh and the pressure atop her was released.

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Perinia rolled over and scrabbled against the wall covering

herself and pulling her knees tightly to her chest.

The priest lay in a widening pool of blood, his throat now an

open wound. Over him stood Toric, the bwbach who had rescued

her from the King’s dungeons. The rat suddenly shifted and grew

becoming another bwbach. She stared in shock.

Toric smiled and wiped his blade on the priest’s tunic. He

placed the blade back in his leg sheath and crossed his arms.

“It seems I come at an opportune time again,” he said.

Perinia couldn’t hold in the tears.

“Toric,” she gasped as she embraced him with a tight hug.

Ratto looked on sheepishly.

“I came to check on you, girl,” Toric said his face creasing

in anger. “And a good thing I did, too. Is this the hospitality of

the famous Church of Alinard? We will have a discussion the

Highpriest and I.”

“Why and how did you follow me?” Ratto asked, confusion

screwing his face into a tight ball.

Toric glared at him.

“Do you think that you are the only one who has survived

on more than just his wits and boyish good looks?” Toric

snorted. “Oh wait. That is just me.”

“My cloak has aided me,” Ratto said, humbly. “But you

wear no such thing.”

Toric pushed Perinia away and pulled up the leather tunic he

wore revealing the bottom portion of a strange marking.

“Many coins and many hours were spent getting this mark,”

he said. “It has served me well.”

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Ratto beamed. “A magical sigil tattoo like the barbarians of

Gandwy wear?”

“Similar,” Toric replied. “But much more potent. It does

more than protect me from a mage’s spells or warn me of evil

intent.”

“Apparently.”

“Now,” Toric said, casting a gaze toward where Perinia

stood, silently sobbing. “Where do we find this High Priest? We

need to have words.”

Elioth stopped before the ivy covered tomb. Its markings

were simple carved in Centaurian glyphs of protection. It had to

be the tomb of Ondrex. Who else would the centaurs need

protection from?

“I believe we have found the resting place of the tome,” the

Crystal Wizard said with a beaming smile.

“There appears to be no door,” MacLugh grunted. “How are

we supposed to enter?”

“They had to put him inside somehow,” Elioth snapped.

“Maybe,” MacLugh replied with a shrug, “they built it up

around him.”

“Get serious,” Elioth scoffed. “Are you ever serious?”

“Only when needed.” Elioth was not pleased with the

response.

“We need to find a way in,” the Crystal Wizard said. “A

secret door. A lever. Something.”

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“Maybe they left no way in. Or out, as the case may be.”

“It is not a grave, MacLugh,” Elioth was getting irritable.

“It’s a tomb. There is always a way inside.”

“I cannot find anything,” the portly wizard replied.

“Then we shall have to make our own,” Elioth said, starting

the gestures for a spell.

“Back away from the tomb and make no gestures that could

be mistaken for magic,” a voice said. The pair turned to see a

pack of centaurs wearing angry expressions.

“Shit,” growled Maclugh. “Should I put them to sleep?”

Elioth eyed the group, noticing the nocked arrows, arms

cocked with javelins in hand. he shook his head.

“You would be dead before you could finish uttering it,” the

Crystal Wizard sighed. He raised his arms in supplication.

“Bind them,” the largest of the centaurs said. “Throw them

in the prison. We all knew humans couldn’t be trusted and this is

an example of why.”

“We have harmed no one,” MacLugh tried to reason with

them.

“You trespassed even after having been given warning. You

used magic against one of the fear capall. That transgression

alone was once punishable with death.”

“What is the punishment now?” Elioth prodded. “We must

recover the tome of Ondrex.”

“I hope you are a patient human, then.” the centaurs all

chuckled at the cryptic answer.

“What does that mean?” Elioth frowned.

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“You will be in prison for twenty years or until you die. By

orders of the chieftain.”

“No.” MacLugh cried in terror. “I will not be locked away

like a beast.”

“Be at ease,” Elioth said from the side of his mouth. “I have

a plan. We will be free by this time tomorrow.”

“Famous last words,” MacLugh mumbled. The centaurs

circled them. relieving them of all weapons, staves, belongings

and ushered them away, curses pouring from MacLugh’s lips.

The city and the Temple of Alinard would be protected to

the end, Ioras swore, raising a weary head towards the sky. To

his left stood the young boy Cipsis, a longsword clutched tightly

in his fist. He wore a look of sheer determination, so out of place

on one so young as to be alarming. Strong was he in Alinard’s

love, though and Ioras beamed with pride at his newly found son.

Together, they stood like golden beacons in the sunlight, the

rays reflecting from their armor in rays of calming light. All who

gazed upon them were instantly cleansed of all doubts and fear. It

was this power that kept the forces from breaking ranks.

Draiocht and Noinion stood directly behind the Golden

Child, the wizard’s staff glowing with a bright blue nimbus. With

them stood the Rifennid Manech MacMal, defiance creased into

his brow. The fennid and an assortment of paladins spread out

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around them. To each flank were archers: sirite and corani. A

legion of heavily armored abhac stood at the forefront armed

with axes and hammers and yelling insults at the approaching

mob. Yor Granitespire stood amongst them.

The bwbach Fennel and his two daughters stood to the side,

javelins thrust in the snow at their feet. Sheer terror clouded their

eyes as they watched the wall of the unclean approaching them

again.

“That is it,” Fennel muttered. “If we survive, we are moving

back to Bwbachod where it is peaceful.”

Harmoni laughed. “Peaceful? With the mad King Ouain

Beag on the throne?”

‘We will pay our taxes and he will leave us be,” Meladi

added. “Though there are no schools of Oghma in Bwbachod.”

“The music career must wait I’m afraid,” he told his

daughters. “Let’s see if we can live through the day first.’

“I intend to,” Harmoni said. “No stinking corpse will defeat

me.”

“If that was all we had to worry about,” her sister added, “I

would have more confidence. These corpses walk. And when

they fall, they rise back up to fight again. How can we defeat

them?”

“We must do what I swore I would never do,” Fennel said,

grudgingly.

“What, papa?”

“Put my faith in the humans and their God.”

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Gerald L. Black

Kimber stood a few rows back, her hand wrapped around

the scruff of Bailey’s thick neck. The wardog growled low in her

throat at the imminent war. It was what she had been trained for

and with a show of fangs, she drooled onto the frozen dirt.

Tavish and Hennesi were nearby. Kimber could just make

out the pair as they stood hand in hand as if sharing one last

private moment before going to Marbhan’s dark embrace..

They watched as a sirite named Brethil was cut down by the

sword of a fachan, the creature’s eye blazing beneath the thick

brow. Ioras grimaced as blood sprayed into the frigid air. The

copper taint filled the air adding to the stench of piss, feces, and

mud.

Ioras and Cipsis rushed forward, swords raised in defiance.

Behind them thousands of armored men and women let out a

valiant cry as they rushed toward death.

Kimber took a deep breath and fingered her bow. Her

swords she thrust in the dirt at her feet, ready at a moment’s

notice.

The ranger couldn’t help but wonder how the half-ogre

Lughdo had fared and whether Neftet had finally reached his

goal, gaining his freedom at last from the wicked Rhollo. Sadly,

she looked to the sky where Hennesi’s gaze lingered. There were

no answers raining down upon them. Her free hand fell to the

fletching of a long arrow in the quiver at her side.

“Everyone must die,” she said quietly. “Now is as good a

time as any.” Bailey looked up at her and whined. The undead

moved forward.

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The bell in the guard tower began to chime, echoing through

the streets and deep into Cannivone’s muddled brain. He cursed

aloud and placed hands over his ears which did little to block the

noise of the bell or the snickering of the blade.

“We are in this now,” the blade said. “I will have all the

blood I need soon.”

“What in the Nine Hells is happening out there?”

Luaithreach asked.

“War,” Cannivone said.

“There is a taint in the air,” Morrigan said. “It cannot go

unimpeded.”

“Wait long enough,” the boy said. “And it will come to you.

It always does.”

From behind them they heard the girl Ghia laugh. All heads

turned toward her and chills ran up their collective spines when

they saw her having a conversation with the doll.

“Ghambi says this will be your chance to make amends.

Give the sword to Luaithreach.” She was looking at Cannivone.

The others looked at him, quizzically, but he merely sighed

and nodded.

“I have a better idea,” he said and headed for the stairs

toward the surface.

“What the…?” Morrigan started. “Is the boy mad?”

Luaithreach shrugged and smiled.

“No madder than you or I,” she said. “I would guess.”

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“If there is to be war,” the Ratu said. “Wouldn’t it be safer

down here?”

“Safe is boring,” the Daughter of Dragons said and ran to

catch up to the boy. Her words echoed back into the cellar.

“I need to get that sword.”

Onvalay gripped his mace and muttered a prayer to Bach

Bychan. It had all come down to this; waiting. Waiting for the

attack, waiting to fight, waiting to die. He knew they were sorely

outnumbered and the town of wooden buildings was not well

defended. The wall was a short affair of sharpened logs with a

narrow gate that never closed. A sitting duck, as the saying went.

The abhac did not fear death, he only hoped he would sell

his life a little less cheaply. His gaze went over his shoulder and

behind to the tall temple tower, the glowing cross of strange blue

metal. This is what they have faith in?

The abhac priest chuckled. He would show them that Bach

Bychan still had strength in his arms. The abhac gripped the haft

of his hammer and widened his stance awaiting the first skeleton

who stepped into his path. Around him he could smell the fear,

see the wide and tear filled eyes of the simple townsfolk who

gathered with their makeshift weapons to defend their homes.

Many races were represented including, to the abhac’s

surprise, a small contingent of goblins. Their sickly orange and

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yellow faces were set in grim lines, bat ears twitching, nervously.

The creatures’ mouths were so wide when they opened them to

chatter, it was as if their face was on a hinge.

Onvalay had never liked the foul creatures. His race was in

constant battle with the little monsters. But he would forego his

prejudices for the sake of the realm and all that was right for the

time being.

His thoughts were interrupted by the eerie sound of clacking

bones. The militia gave a collective rush of breath and waited for

their orders to come from Corp Leisg, Ioras’ abhac general. many

would die, Onvalay knew. He hoped that many undead would

join them in the dirt.

Ioras’ arm was tired. Blood covered his armor in a sticky

coat. Several scratches stung upon his arms where a blade or

claw had struck. Beside him, the boy Cipsis grunted with every

swing of his dented sword. Piles of corpses fell at their feet, but

for every one slain three would replace them.

Across the way, Corp Salach, the abhac general roared to

Bach Bychan and cursed through his braided beard of flowing

red. His hammer smashed skulls, shattered bones. When an ally

fell, Naomh Iobairt rushed amongst them, her healing hand

working quickly to staunch the blood that flowed like wine. The

Golden Child smiled at the whirling form of Noinion Bui, her

naked, tattooed form slashing and kicking at her foes like a beast.

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Gerald L. Black

The sirite forces, led by Duille Or, his golden hair flapping

in the breeze, his clear, musical voice shouting commands as

they sky filled with brightly fletched arrows, massed at the base

of the wooden walls, a dark stain against the pale oak.

Another fachan fell at Cipsis’ feet, emitting the foul stench

of rot. The boy wiped his blade clean and swiveled his head

about, searching for another foe. Ioras’ breast swelled with pride.

He is his father’s son.

For every fachan that fell, two more took its place and soon

the pair were surrounded by a mass of nightmarish creatures.

Skeletons and the animated corpses of the fallen pressed around

them like a smothering blanket.

Though the army of Ioras killed by the thousands, the dead

would simply rise again and continue the fight. Already a large

number had gotten past their defenses and entered the city. He

could only hope the militia and the church’s knights could stop

them.

The fachan were particularly hard to kill, their hides tough

as stone and their single arm possessing the strength of two men.

Sadly, Ioras noted the prone, bleeding bodies of many of his

followers. Blood soaked the ground and the moans of the dying

sang a haunting lullaby across the plains.

Looking to his left he watched the woman, Kimber as she

fought off two fachan at once, a blade in each hand. Her dog,

Bailey had a zombie on the ground worrying at its neck like a

scrap of meat.

They were outnumbered and fighting a battle they would be

hard pressed to win. Watching the dead rise again was

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disheartening, but even worse was the smell. The stench of

rotting flesh permeated the clear air, choking them where they

fought.

Ioras had witnessed several fennid fall beneath the stomping

feet of the fachan. He could see the figure of Manech MacMal,

braid flowing behind him, greatsword carving a path through

fachan and zombie alike. A pile of bodies lay at his feet.

Of the beautiful Arquel, he could not see. He hoped she was

well. the last he saw she was surrounded by a trio of skeletons

with gleaming eyes and silver circlets above their brows.

Kimber spun from the club of one fachan and Ioras was

pleased to see her red blade hack deep into the other’s chest with

a spray of crimson. Her off hand blade spun in her fist and drove

deep into the fachan’s chest bringing a cry of pain and rage.

Bailey had finished with the zombie and leapt toward

another foe, jaws slavering, bits of decaying flesh hanging from

her jowls. Something bumped him from behind and he spun,

sword raised, To his relief it was Cipsis.

“It is time to use our special skill,” he said. Cipsis glared at

him like he had grown a second head.

“You can do ‘the change’, right?”

Cipsis shook his head. The look upon his face was one of

complete confusion.

“The change?” the boy asked.

“Alinard has blessed us with the power of the dragon,” Ioras

explained. “You have it in your blood as I do. Tap into your inner

strength and become the dragon.”

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Gerald L. Black

Cipsis watched in shock and fascination as the man’s face

began to stretch and contort. Skin split and bones creaked as

Ioras began his transformation.

Awestruck, Cipsis could barely move. From the corner of

his eye he saw the hint of a club coming his way and moved

aside at the last second.

“Join me,” Ioras groaned through teeth clenched in pain.

“My son.”

Cipsis staggered backward as he faced a swarm of skeletons

and fachan all armed with deadly weapons. Around him he saw

many fall, friend and foe. The ground was becoming choked with

the dead. A chill worked its way down his spine as a corpse rose

from the ground, the lower part of its face dangling by mere

tendons and in jerky movements advanced upon him.

He took note at the way the weapons seemed to bounce

harmlessly from Ioras’ changing form. Those that got close

enough to strike were quickly beaten down by Noinion Bui,

Naomh Iobairt, and a suddenly visible Arquel, who though

bleeding from several small wounds struck the enemy like a

viper.

Cipsis cried out as a blade nicked his forehead bringing a

sting and a cascade of warm blood. Anger grew in his breast as

he spied the fachan arm back to deliver another blow.

Ioras roared as the wings split from his back with a tearing

sound and he rose to his full glory before the massed creatures.

Cipsis dispatched the distracted fachan with a quick stroke and

felt a tremor begin deep in his core. Pain shot through his frame

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and he fell to his knees. As his body began to stretch, he

screamed.

Manech MacMal panted and grunted with exertion. He, too

wielded a greatsword, but he was not as young as he once was.

Pain shot through his shoulders and lower back. A knee

threatened to give out beneath him. Sweat dipped from the long

braid that cascaded down his back. This would be his final battle,

he decided-live or die.

“Damn you, Gearalt,” he cursed as his sword cleaved a

fachan in two from shoulder to groin. The two halves fell into the

mud to spew foul smelling blood. Coughing and gagging, the

Rifennid fell back, eyes watering, lungs stinging.

“Here is a prize worth taking,” a rough voice exclaimed.

“Your head will look lovely upon my belt.”

Manech gazed through blurry eyes at the speaker. Though

no details were visible, he knew it was a man, though a tall one.

The man wore all black and carried a huge scythe that dripped

with blood.

“Already many of you have fallen,” the man sneered.

“Trophies for my collection.”

“You will not enter the city,” the Rifennid growled, gripping

his greatsword in two aching hands, his shoulders popping from

the weight.

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Ruthangad smiled behind his cloak and pointed the scythe at

the aging warrior.

“Take him,” he whispered and the Fachans rushed forward.

Manech wore a smile. Several of the brutish creatures

leaped for him and he knocked them aside with great swings of

the blade. An arm fell to writhe at his feet; a head flew from

sloped shoulders to roll in the dirt. Ruthangad cursed as the

Rifennid cut through his forces like chaff. His face reddened in

rage. His grip tightened on the shaft of his scythe.

“It appears I must finish the task alone,” he said, softly as he

walked forward

Manech welcomed the attack. He could finish this once and

for all. Either he killed the bastard or he died trying. Either way,

the war was over for him.

Ruthangad strode forward with purpose. Fading light

reflected from the sharp blade of his sickle as he held it low

across his abdomen in a two handed grip.

“You are too late,” Ruthangad said, with a mocking tone.

“Already my forces of mhallact enter the city. You have lost.”

“They will enter,” Manech exclaimed, “but they will not

leave. Alinard will destroy them all.”

Ruthangad chuckled low in his throat at the brave words.

“The famous last words of a dying fool,” he said. He swung

his sickle in great arcs which Manech easily parried aside with

his huge blade. A fachan stepped toward the dueling pair, but a

well-placed arrow struck it in the forehead and it fell to the

ground, writhing in its death throes.

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Manech was sweating, his breath coming heavy in the

exertion of raising the heavy blade and forcing the sickle aside.

Around him could be heard the cries of the dying, the grunting of

the one’s still fighting, the clash of steel on steel.

He gritted his teeth and pushed his hips forward. The force

of his blade connecting with the haft of the sickle, pushed the

haft up and back into Ruthangad’s smiling face, crushing the

killer’s nose with a spray of blood. Ruthangad stumbled

backward, stunned.

Manech pressed his advantage, his blade coming down and

across in wide slashes. The sickle was always there to block, but

Ruthangad was losing ground. The Rifennid could feel his arm

tiring and knew he had to end the fight quickly.

He ducked beneath a sweep of the sickle and pushed the

point of the blade forward. The tip barely missed penetrating

Ruthangad’s groin as the killer spun away, nimbly. It managed to

tear a deep cut in the man’s black leathers leaving a crimson line

on his thigh.

Ruthangad gasped. “Die, followers of the prissy god.”

The dark clad man began to mutter an incantation as he

backed away, limping significantly.

“You are a necromancer,” Manech spat as if the word was

poison.

“I am so much more,” came the reply. From the ground,

hands reached up formed from the very stone beneath their feet.

Manech stumbled back, but was held fast by one ankle in a grip

of stone.

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“May Alinard send you to Hell,” the Rifennid screamed,

spittle flying.

“Been there,” Ruthangad replied with a smug smile. “A

little warm this time of year.”

Manech struggled against the grip, but it was futile.

Ruthangad swept the sickle in a wide sweep. Trapped as he was,

Manech could only watch as the blade came toward him. He felt

the impact as the long blade entered his stomach, knocking the

air from his lungs. There was a flash of searing pain and he could

taste blood in his mouth.

Ruthangad smiled from the other end of the scythe, teeth

filed sharp as daggers.

“Say hello to Alinard for me,” he said.

“You first, you bastard,” Manech managed to gurgle.

Ruthangad’s eyes widened as the greatsword took him in the

chest, skewering him like a pig at a royal feast. The two men

stared at each other across their weapons, mortal wounds

reddening the ground beneath. The stone hands disappeared and

the two men fell to the earth, dying.

Hennesi crouched beside a the smoldering body of a young

girl, her fury etched deep into her face. Tavish placed a gentle

hand upon her shoulder, but she shook it off.

“Do not try and appease me,” she growled. “What has been

done here isn’t right.”

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“I can no argue wi’ ye,” the bard replied. “But there be

naught that can be done for the now.”

They were stationed near the gates of the palisade wall.

Civilians should have been nowhere near it. Most had made their

way from the city or deep into hiding. Fear was rampant

throughout the city. The oncoming horde of evil did nothing to

assuage the feelings.

Hennesi stood, lifted her greatsword and rolled her

shoulders, feeling the muscles loosening.

“If death is what they desire,” she said, coldly. “I will give

them more than they bargained for.”

“That’s me girl,” Tavish replied, softly, his own sword held

in a fist. Hennesi noticed the lute on his back was severely

damaged and felt a sudden pang of sympathy.

“Your lute, Tavish…,” she began, but he stopped her with a

shake of his curls.

“Mention it not,” he said. “ ‘Tis an old thing and I tire of it.”

Hennesi nodded, but she knew he was merely putting on a

brave face for her sake. For all of the bard’s faults, she could not

find any in his warm heart.

“Let us show these bastards what death really means,”

Hennesi stated. “Marbhan, get out of the way.”

“ “Tis a new side of you, lass.” Tavish smiled. “Methinks I

be likin’ it. Ye be rather sexy when yer angry.”

“Let us carve our way through the bastards,” she countered.

“After ye, me lady.”

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Kimber saw Manech fall and cursed. She was hard pressed

to get to his side as she was surrounded on all sides by a swarm

of fachan. Her arms were tired. Gore dripped from her in big

clods of flesh and blood. She could not kill them all.

Ruthangad’s fall had severed the tether of magic and the

undead fell to the ground to lie still.. A cry of jubilation rang

through the air and it gave the warriors hope. They attacked the

fachan with renewed vigor. Soon the one-eyed, one legged, one

armed beasts began to fall back.

Hope rose anew in the forces of Ioras. When two gold

dragons rose amongst them, seemingly from nowhere, the hope

grew exponentially. The bastion of all that was righteous and

good, the gold dragons were one step below gods and the people

showered them with adoration and praise.

At that moment the corpses rose again to the dismay of the

Kingsmen. Bewildered, Kimber looked around for the new

source of necromantic power.

“He had an ally,” she muttered. “The bastard had an ally.”

She took the arm off a slowly rising zombie with her red sword,

blocked the cutlass swing of another with her second, crouched

and took the leg from a particularly stout fachan below the knee.

The sky began to darken. With horror the Kingsmen saw

the sky fill with Foladin.

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“Retreat to the walls,” the ranger called. “Find shelter

beneath whatever covering you can.”

Screams rent the air as the creatures’ blood fell from the

sky. Flesh dissolved and sloughed from bones wherever it

touched. She spied the slender form of Draiocht Intinn as he

raised his staff skywards, guiding a bolt of lightning toward the

Foladin in the forefront of the attack. The smell of charred flesh

filled the air.

The towering figure of a giant clad in the furs of bear and

wolf appeared behind the army, hands moving in intricate

gestures. Long hair of russet brown flowed from beneath the

giant’s skullcap. He waded through the masses, tossing men

aside like toys with the small tree he carried as a club.

“The other necromancer,” Kimber hissed. “He is mine.”

A small drop of acidic blood seared her wrist, reminding her

of the danger. She watched as it ate away a coin sized circle of

flesh.

“We all bear our scars,” she murmured. “Bailey. Back to the

city, girl.”

Her dog, loyal to a fault, joined her in retreat.

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Chapter Twenty Three

Descent Into Darkness

Mabsant sat in the dark corner and sobbed. Every tear stung

the open cut below his eye where he had been kicked by the toe

of an ogre’s thick soled boot. He could hear the muttered

mumblings of his cell mates, but could not see even right before

his eyes.

“Fucking bastard,” he heard a voice growl. “How dare he

imprison his council. Who does he think really runs the realm?”

A woman’s voice cut in, calmly, and Mabsant recognized it

as his fellow conspirator Atheala.

“The boy has overstepped,” she said. “Already the people

turn from him. Soon he will have rebellion. If we are to die we

can die knowing that at least our deaths brought along action.”

“I do not want to die,” a woman’s voice cried. “I am too

young and too pretty to die.”

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Mabsant rolled his tear filled eyes and tried to bury himself

deeper into his despair when a voice called his name.

“Mabsant,” the voice repeated. “I know you are in here. It is

I, Duach.”

The ambassador from Cruithnia. The King was going to

have war on his hands from all sides. With his army abandoning

him he would be hard pressed to hold the throne for long. That

gave Mabsant a little consolation.

“Mabsant?” the voice said again. “Speak you fool. Are you

well?”

Finally he found his voice, though it cracked when he spoke.

“I’m here,” he croaked. “And well enough I guess.”

“Good,” Duach said. “Now listen. We have a plan for

escape. Are you with us or do you wish to be left behind?”

Mabsant was stunned. How could they have a plan to escape

from the dungeons?

How…?” he began.

“The girl Perinia escaped,” came a reply to his left. “As did

the bwbach Toric. They wish to keep it a secret, but we know.”

The words gave him hope. There was a way out of the cells?

His thoughts raced as he opened his mouth to speak. Fear caused

his heart to hammer in his chest.

“I’m in,” he wheezed.

“Good,” Duach said and Mabsant felt a hand in his.

“Now get off your fat ass, stop blubbering, and let’s get this

figured out.”

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Gerald L. Black

Fiad MacRohan sat smugly upon the gilded chair provided

for him by the king. He held a goblet of fine Cel Cedadian wine

in one hand and a pipe, filled with the finest tabac from Srath in

the other. Two scantily clad and lithe women massaged his

shoulders and thighs and fed him peaches from a small silver

bowl.

He smacked his lips and smiled. Who knew betrayal would

taste so sweet?

Part of him felt a twinge of guilt for turning his back on the

council, but his sense of honor felt vindicated for doing the “right

thing” for throne. The oaths he took were all that were important

to him.

The woman at his feet moved her hands from his thighs to

his crotch and began massaging his growing member. He looked

into her doe-like brown eyes and grinned.

“And the finest peach of all…” he said. He reached for the

woman with a lascivious grin on his face. Suddenly, he felt the

coldness of steel on his neck.

“What is the meaning of this?” he managed to croak, the

movement of his throat coming dangerously close to being cut by

the blade. The woman stood to her feet and laughed at his

helplessness.

“You are a fool,” she said. “Just as the King said.”

Her form wavered and twisted and changed into a gray

skinned, androgynous being with deep dark eyes.

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“These human men,” the other said from behind where she

still held the dagger to his throat. “They are so easily led astray

by their lusts and desires.”

Fiad’s eyes roll downward and he could see the dead gray

skin of his captor, taloned fingers gripping the jeweled hilt.

“Please,” he groaned. “What is happening?”

The creature grinned at him, then began to waver again,

features blurring. Then, with horror, he stared into the likeness of

his own face. It was like looking into a mirror.

“You betrayed your council,” his twin said. “If you cannot

be trusted with your own, how can the King trust your loyalty?”

“But….,” he stammered, eyes growing wide. “I did it for the

good of the realm.”

“And the realm thanks you,” his twin replied. “Dutiful

servant. Fool.”

At those words, the other doppelganger dragged the dagger

across his throat, cutting through tendons and flesh with a

spewing of gore.

Fiad MacRohan's last thoughts were on how he really

messed up this time.

Gearalt, or in actuality, the creature residing within his shell,

rolled over toward the two sleeping sirite chained to his bed. He

inhaled deeply, taking in their sweet scent. He had had them

bathed and rubbed with cinnamon oil to mask the cloying stench

of their kind.

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The little demon still laughed at how easy the boy was to

control. The anger and bitterness had left his heart and soul wide

open. After his release from that cursed sword, Dubhaca had

found a place to call his own, free from the painful sting of silver

and the influence of the damned church of Alinard.

He was pleased with himself. Already he had set his plan

into motion. The temple of Alinard lay in smoking ruins. Colm

Sadach would soon sit atop the throne as his puppet. Fialscathac

was being besieged by a contingent of fachan and undead led by

Ruthangad and the frost giant named, Heoric.

Soon, the world would tremble with Dubhaca on the throne.

He would see his dream of genocide against the other races come

to fruition. His plan to disband the council had even gone

according to plan. He loved when a plan came together.

The thought of all that death and destruction caused the

human body he inhabited to become aroused. With a wicked

smile, he rolled toward the smaller of the sirite to sate his lust.

Lughdo and Chard stared across the cavern, eerily lit by

glowing crystals of purple and blue. Dark figures moved in the

distance around a huge altar of marble. Stuck a fingers length

deep into its surface was a large axe with dual blades that

spanned the length of Lughdo’s fully outstretched arms. A

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pulsing ball of glowing blue metal was affixed to the top of the

axe.

The figures hissed and chattered into a seething mass of

blackness. Behind the altar sat a creature from nightmare. Two

ape-like heads were affixed onto serpentine necks twice

Lughdo’s size. Even sitting cross legged as the diabhol was, he

towered three times the height of the half-ogre. A barbed whip

lay coiled in the monstrosity’s lap, taloned fingers wrapped

around its handle of human skin.

Even from this great distance, Lughdo could feel the pull of

the weapon as if calling for him. Strong he was becoming in

Alinard’s power and the metal pulled at him like a magnet.

“Cliodhna’s breasts,” the satyr cursed. “Dwain’s axe.”

“Me want it,” the half-ogre said, raising his chin and jutting

his lower tusks out.

“Then you are a fool,” the satyr grumbled. “Strong though

you are, Arjak can utilize the powers of the Nine Hells and

summon all demons to his side.”

“Then me slay them all in Alinards name,” Lughdo snarled.

“Foolish ogre-kin,” Chard hissed beneath his breath. “We

are two. They are many. It would be foolish to die so

meaninglessly.”

“Me need axe to kill beasties,” Lughdo said, a pout framing

his tusked face.

“You already carry the biggest axe I have ever seen.”

“It no glow pretty like this axe.” Lughdo seemed

mesmerized, transfixed by the weapon.

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From the shadowed comfort of the tunnel, the pair watched

as the gigantic demon began to chant in the language of the

demons, a language known to drive men mad upon hearing the

words. Chard placed his hands over his tapered ears and winced.

“This is madness,” he cried. “We cannot overcome so

many.”

Lughdo gave the satyr a piercing gaze. “With pretty axe me

can.”

“I wonder,” Chard said, his voice rising in volume over the

chanting that echoed in the cavernous chamber. “How did an

abhac wield a weapon of such size? It is larger than he was.”

Lughdo shrugged. “How you know how big him was?”

Chard glared. “I am a bard. We all learn the legends as they

are passed down through generations. He was an abhac. They

grow no more than thirteen hands tall. The axe must be that large

in width alone.”

Lughdo grinned. “Good size for me.”

Chard paled. “You aren’t planning on going in there to

retrieve it, are you?” When Lughdo didn’t reply, the satyr

groaned.

“It is suicide, Lughdo,” Chard growled. “You will not fulfill

any destiny if you foolishly throw your life away.”

“Me feel axe calling to me,” the half-ogre sighed. “Cannot

resist.”

Chard scowled.

“You hear the vile magic of the demon lord,” he said. “That

is what you hear.

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“No,” Lughdo replied with a small shake of his bulbous

head. “Me hear the voice of Alinard. Him call me. Him protect

me.”

“Of all the stone headed nonsense,” Chard said. he grimaced

as the droning chant penetrated his tightly pressed hands,

reverberating in his ears.

Lughdo stepped forward out of the darkness, surrounded on

all sides by the vile underlings of the demonlord. The diabhols

were so enthralled by their master, so caught up in the chanting,

they failed to notice the towering figure heading toward the

strangely glowing axe, eyes glazed; transfixed on the one

purpose-the final goal.

The half-ogre sidestepped a wavering gelatinous blob with a

wide tooth filled maw and stepped across the wide chamber. As

he stepped toward the weapon, his newly acquired tattoo began

to glow, encasing his body in a hazy cocoon. The axe responded

in kind.

Chard stared in awe as he watched the events unfold before

him. Lughdo acted as if he were wading through water, his steps

sure and slow upon the scarred earth. The huge axe he carried

hung loose and forgotten at his side as his eyes stared at the

prize-the glowing blue axe embedded in the stone.

“Lughdo,” the satyr hissed. “What are you doing?”

The half-ogre ignored his companion’s sibilant cry either

too enamored or bewitched by the weapon’s pull. Chard cursed

the foulest expletive he could muster and unfolded his tiny hand

crossbow.

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Lughdo set a determined course toward the glowing

weapon. Slowly, the creatures in the cavern began to notice his

presence, emitting hisses and cries of anger.

The giant diabhol upon the throne swiveled one of its

baboon heads toward where the half-ogre approached and opened

its fang filled mouth to speak.

“Kill the invader,” the demon lord cried. “Let its blood open

the doorway.”

The demons moved as one, claws flashing and teeth

gnashing. Acidic drool burned the floor where it fell. Tentacles

and poison tipped stingers hovered above him. Flaming breath

and that more noxious spewed from open mouths as the

abominations surged toward the stranger in their midst. The

strange tattoo upon Lughdo’s shoulder glowed and the creatures

hissed in pain.

The demon Lord Arjax growled in anger at the display.

“Your God has little power here,” he stated, rising to his full

magnificent height and dragging two huge spears from a case at

the side of the throne. The razor tips dripped with venom.

Lughdo merely smiled, his stride never faltering. A blue

nimbus surrounded him as he made his way closer to the weapon

his own axe dragging at his side, seemingly forgotten.

“Dammit, Lughdo,” Chard cried. “You got yourself

surrounded.” He released the trigger letting the quarrel fly. The

small feathered shaft could not penetrate the thick hide of the

diabhail nathrach it struck. The demon turned a snake-like head

toward Chard’s dark little corner and roared.

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A demon with the body of a large ape and a head similar to

that of a mosquito leapt toward Lughdo, but was thrown back by

the magical barrier surrounding the half-ogre like a cloak of light.

The creature snarled and placed a taloned hand over the still

smoking wound.

Arjax’s eyes widened. all four of them and he cursed in

diabhollic, the dark language of the Unclean. Hefting his spears

he waded into the swarm of diabhols.

Chard was trembling in fear. It was difficult to steady his

aim as the diabhail nathrach rose and turned toward him.

“Cernunnos,” he cried. “Aid me. Have I not been a loyal

servant?” The God of forests and the beasts within rarely

answered prayers, but Chard figured he had little to lose.

The demon was nearly upon him. He looked back upon his

life with the recollection of the dying. All the things he had seen;

had done. Soon they would be ending.

The diabhols swarmed upon Lughdo, but were held at bay

by the aura. None could touch him, it seemed. The power of

Alinard was mighty indeed. Arjax roared in anger at the futility

of his minions.

“I will squash this bug myself,” he growled. “And finish the

ritual of opening.” He stepped across the cavern with huge

strides. Beneath his feet many diabhols were smashed into

nothing but a smear on the rocky ground. Arjax cared little for

the fate of his minions. The Hells were full of abominations.

Chard began to panic, reaching for the slim sword he carried

at his side. The blade was of fine Srathian steel and had a well-

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honed edge that could cut through a man like through butter,

found lying forgotten in the disheveled lair of a troll.

How would it fare against a demon? Though he never gave

the idea any thought, he was about to find an answer to the query.

Or die trying. His hands gripped the hilt and he took a deep

breath.

The snake head snapped toward him, fangs clashing

together and spewing venom. The satyr ducked beneath the

snapping jaws and skittered away, goat hooves echoing through

the tunnel, barely audible above the din of the diabhols in the

vast cavern.

Chard risked a glance at his companion and watched as the

half-ogre reached for the glowing haft of the huge axe. The

sudden movement from the corner of his eye warned him of

another attack, which he barely avoided. With shaking hands, he

swung the tiny blade, feeling it impact and the diabhol let out a

squeal of pain. Chard stared in astonishment as the sword scored

a deep gash in the leathery hide. Ichor welled to the surface.

Lughdo gripped the axe and was rewarded with a rush of

power shooting through his limbs, his very blood pulsing with a

new energy. The nimbus increased in radiance to a blinding light.

Most of the diabhols had to turn away as if staring at a small sun.

Even the great Arjax was affected in a small way, turning his two

heads away from the brilliance.

Lughdo took the opportunity to raise the axe over his head.

With a roar to Alinard, he brought it down in a wide arc. The

blades met little resistance as they cut through diabhols like

water. Limbs fell to the earth, soiling the stone with dark ichor.

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Arjax roared his defiance and pressed forward, intending to

destroy the offending minion of the creator. The demon lord

tossed aside his own minions like toys, leaving them stunned and

bleeding in heaps along his path.

Meanwhile Chard was leaping and rolling, avoiding the

deadly fangs of the snake headed demon. His breath came ragged

and heavy. Battle was not his strength if he were to be honest.

His talents lie in other areas such as drinking, music, and

pleasing women.. Visions of lying in the arms of a dryad

assailed his mind at that moment. he ducked beneath another

strike of the demon, the stench of its foul breath dreadfully close

to his neck.

A quick thrust with the sword was met with resistance, but

he felt it penetrate the diabhol’s thick scaly hide. The creature

cried out in pain and anger, splattering venom onto Chard’s skin.

It burned where it landed, causing the satyr to hop about in a

little dance of discomfort, patting his body with small hands.

The sound of his cries drew the attention of the gargantuan

Arjax, who swiveled a baboon head toward him and smiled,

evilly.

“We shall make this one suffer by eating its friend,” he

chortled. The massive body turned away from the battle going on

in front of him. Diabhol bodies fell in pieces, but he ignored

them, his attention now upon new prey.

“Chard,” Lughdo cried between strikes of the axe. “Go.

Run. Tell world Lughdo closed portal.”

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“Crazy half-ogre,” the satyr grunted, backing away from the

wounded snake demon. “You got the axe. Let’s get the Hells out

of here.”

“Alinard show me purpose,” the half-ogre argued with a

small shake of his head. “Nasties will fall to blade of Lughdo.”

Chard backed away slowly as the tide of demons turned his

way. Fear widened his eyes and his tapered ears twitched,

nervously at the approach of the swarm.

“I wasn’t prepared to die today,” the satyr said. He raised

his sword with trembling hands and swallowed the stone that had

appeared in his throat.

Lughdo narrowed his piggish eyes and grunted. A lowered

shoulder sent a furry demon sprawling and Lughdo stepped over

it without a second glance.

A swing of the glowing axe sent a boar’s head spinning with

a spray of ichor. The creature’s tawny fur covered body fell to

the earth and began to melt away. To truly kill a diabhol it must

be slain on its own plane. Death on the material plane was only

temporary, a respite of a mere ten years until the beast regained

its strength again. Unless it was slain with specially blessed

weapons, weapons created specifically for the purpose. Such

were things of legend. And legends were in short supply.

Before the snake demon could react it was struck by the

hurled body of a ram headed creature, tossed aside by Lughdo as

if it were a sack of feathers. Both diabhols fell in a heap. Arjax

snarled and turned one head toward the half-ogre to give him a

wilting stare. The other remained fixed on the satyr.

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“Tell them of Lughdo’s glory,” the half-ogre said. Before

the demons could recover, Chard shoved the point of his sword

through both creatures, effectively pinning them together. They

howled in anguish and began to dissipate.

Arjax made slow progress through the throng of his minions

and his way was further impeded by the defiant Lughdo who

stood with axe raised, blue nimbus surrounding him.

“Come,” he told the demon lord. “Die in name of Alinard.”

Chard was near the entrance and stood in shocked disbelief

as the demons swarmed around Lughdo.

“We can still escape,” Chard cried.

Lughdo shook his head and turned to the satyr with a

crooked grin.

“Me close portal,” he said.

“Do not sell your life so cheaply,” Chard called, backing

away toward the cavern’s mouth. He still held the blade in a tight

fist. Burning ichor trailed onto his flesh leaving small red marks

where it landed.

Lughdo turned to face the hulking Arjax, turned his head

back toward the satyr and smiled.

“Alinard protects me,” he said. He swung the axe with all

his strength against a pillar of stone. The blade sheared through it

as if through wheat. Stones rained down in a great torrent as the

cavern began to tremble.

“What have you done?” Chard cried over the noise. His

view of the half-ogre was soon obscured by a rain of stone as the

ceiling collapsed in a loud rumble, effectively blocking the

portal.

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Chard cowered against the wall of the tunnel until the dust

cleared, the stones ceased shifting. He looked through splayed

fingers across his face at the jumble of stones where the cavern

used to be.

“Brave fool,” he muttered, tears welling in his eyes. “Your

bravery will not be forgotten. As bard of the fear coill, I will

write a tale telling of your descent into darkness.

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Chapter Twenty Four

One Last Defiance

Darius was appalled at the sheer number of forces arrayed

against him.

“This is but a fraction of Colm’s army,” he told Rodni who

replied with a grunt.

Nervous fingers tapped the hafts of weapons as they awaited

the army of undead. A cheer broke out when the zombies and

skeletons fell to the earth to a man, but the jubilation was quickly

quelled when they rose again, moments later.

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Rodni and Tongael stepped in front of the Highpriest, back

to back, double bladed axes held before them.

“We cannot defeat so many,” Onvalay grumbled.

“Then die with the honor of your Gods,” Darius suggested,

his voice booming across the wide area before the temple.

The undead were mere paces away when a strange woman

with a tattooed skull rushed forward followed by two huge green

and brown striped cats. She plowed into the undead with a

recklessness and ferocity the priest had never witnessed all the

while shouting the name of Denosia as she slashed and chopped

her way amongst them. The undead seemed to cringe at her

presence and it forced a smile onto Darius’ lips.

“The power of the gods, united together,” he shouted, “will

see us to victory.”

An inhuman wail erupted from the throats of the undead.

Where the woman’s blade struck dead flesh and desiccated bone,

it crumbled into dust. This gave the defenders a new energy. Like

a wave, they rushed forward.

Amongst the mob, Darius noticed a woman with dark scaled

skin darting amongst the combatants with a small sword, striking

like a snake and then spinning away like a phantom. In the

shadows of the temple’s stout walls stood a little girl clutching a

doll to her chest. She seemed to be alone and this worried the

priest.

“Fennel,” he called. “Escort that girl to the safety of the

temple. I’m sure Perinia wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her.”

The abhac priest nodded once and rushed toward the

shadowed wall. As he approached, a young boy stepped from the

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shelter of an ornate statue of Alinard carved to depict him with

lightning bolts held in each fist. The boy clutched a silver sword

in his fist and had a wild look in his eyes.

“Girl!” Onvalay cried. “Come with me to shelter. It isn’t

safe to be out here.”

The young girl either didn’t hear or had ignored the call of

the abhac. She stood stoically by the wall, staring at the coming

battle. The boy stepped between the abhac and the girl,

defensively.

“Get her to safety,” the priest said and the boy scowled.

“There is no safety,” the boy groaned. The sword seemed to

tremble in his hands. Onvalay felt a cold chill tickling the back of

his neck as the lad lifted the blade, which seemed to glow,

faintly. The abhac swore the blade ran red with blood.

Uneasy in the blade’s presence, Onvalay took a step

backward. It was then Darius recognized the boy.

“Cannivone,” he cried. “Thank Alinard you are well.”

This seemed to snap the boy out of his catatonic state. He

lowered his sword and stepped toward the familiar priest. The

small girl, still clutching the doll, followed.

“Was it something I said?” Onvalay murmured. He fell into

step behind the boy.

The scaled woman stopped in her tracks and moved toward

the boy. Rodni and Tongael stepped to intervene.

“She is a companion of mine,” Cannivone told them, but

their tension did not ease.

Darius gestured behind him toward the open doors of the

temple.

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“Get to safety, lad,” he said. “It is good to see you well and

there is much we need to catch up on, but as you can see we are a

little busy at the moment.”

“I stand with you,” the boy stated and was joined by the

dark skinned woman.

Onvalay escorted the young girl toward the temple. They

were a few paces from the door when the undead attacked.

Cannivone still faced the door where Onvalay led the young

girl. From behind came the shouts of those confronted by the

undead army. His heart fell to his stomach when he saw her enter

the temple’s main hall.

Led by two bwbach, tears smearing her scarred cheeks,

there was no denying whom he beheld. Her tears began a fire of

rage burning inside his belly and he screamed her name. He

would not see her harmed again. The scars on her cheeks seemed

to glow in his sight.

“Perinia.” He cried in anguish. The sword pushed for

control.

He knew little more as a haze covered his eyes. Pain coursed

through his limbs as they twisted, painfully, his anger choking

out all humanity. He could hear the sword chuckling in his head.

It sounded like it was miles away.

The priest, Darius and his two bodyguards were too caught

up in their battle to notice what transpired behind them. They did

not notice the boy being consumed by the riastarthe, the warp

frenzy.

One eye threatened to push from Cannivone’s skull. His jaw

cracked and became unhinged, drool hanging in a wet line. The

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sword took control of him and he gave in without a fight. They

had hurt Perinia and he would make them pay.

On spindled limbs, he made his way toward the open temple

doors as the priests inside called for their High Priest to get to

safety. Several stood at each door prepared to close them as soon

as all were inside. Ghia entered the hall with wide eyes,

marveling at the ornate beauty of the furnishings. Onvalay was

one step behind.

The widening eyes of the priests gave the abhac pause. He

turned to face a monster. What was once the boy Cannivone was

now a twisted mass of flesh barely resembling humanity. The

back was bent and hunched, one leg turned nearly backward. In a

meaty fist, the monstrosity held a silver sword with dragon claw

hilt.

Onvalay gripped his mace, sweat slicking his palms.

“Stop in Bach Bychan’s name,” the priest called, a hand

held up in warning. He thought to call upon the power of his god

to stop this demonic entity that had appeared behind him, but it

seemed to be failing.

“I will send you back to hell,” he growled. The abhac

stepped forward, chest puffed, haughtily. Mumbled words caused

his fist to glow a pale green. He could not know that what he

faced was once a boy. Had he known the futility of his anti-

demon spell, he may have tried a different tactic. As it was, he

reached to touch the “demon” and lost his arm at the elbow as the

silver sword sliced cleanly through.

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Onvalay did not cry out. He merely stared in shock as blood

sprayed into the frigid air. The sword seemed to hum as it

greedily absorbed every drop from its pristine blade.

“Close the door,” one of the priests cried. Onvalay fell to his

knees. His mace fell useless at his side. Cannivone raised the

blade for the final blow, but something held his arm back; a voice

cutting through his subconscious. He stumbled toward the

yawning door of the temple toward the melodious voice, chasing

the light that stayed just beyond his grasp.

“Cannivone,” the voice said. “I know you are in there.”

He raised the sword again; felt it radiating with power. His

arm began to tremble.

“Fight it,” the voice said. “Take back control.”

Cannivone groaned against the pressure in his head. Strange

lights danced before his eyes.

“Don’t let the sword take you from me again, not after being

separated so long.” the voice said. He recognized it. Perinia. He

cried out in anguish.

“You have to return to me Cannivone,” she sobbed. “I miss

my friend. I have been lost without you.”

Had she really said the words? The sword pushed harder

trying to regain control of the vessel it had so easily manipulated.

The boy’s will was strong. Like a puppet master, the sword

willed the boy to raise his arm, the sword held aloft for the

killing blow. Cannivone could barely make out the kneeling

figure before him.

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“It isn’t you,” Perinia sobbed. “It’s that damned sword.

Don’t give in. I cannot lose you. I need you. I love you,

Cannivone.”

The words hit him like a hammer in the chest. The sword

hissed in defiance, but the boy fought back, willed himself back

in control; pushing the offending presence from his head. With a

strangled cry, he pushed the voice aside. His body untwisted and

returned to normal with an audible crack.

Cannivone stared at the sword then turned his gaze toward

the abhac, kneeling before him clutching a severed arm against

his chest, but unable to staunch the flow of blood, despite his

muttered prayers.

Onvalay fell on his face in a pool of blood. Cannivone

looked in horror at the havoc he had wrought. The blood was still

warm on his hands; his face. With a cry of utter anguish, he

tossed the blade aside and fell to his knees. They could hear it

clatter across the stone floor of the temple into a dark corner

where it lay forgotten.

Rough hands grabbed his elbows and he let them drag him

toward the temple and the angelic voice of his beloved Perinia.

Ioras and Cipsis took to the sky, wings rippling in the wind.

The sky was filling with more Foladi. Ioras roared his defiance

and swept toward the demonic creatures. Cipsis spun away

toward the temple, his roving eye searching for a target.

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Cipsis had never known such freedom; such power. He

sailed the currents feeling invincible in his serpentine body

covered in glistening scales of shining gold. How had he not

known of such things before?

Had his mother known? Was it kept a secret? And why had

she not told him of his father? Things would have been different

had he known he possessed such power.

“Stay focused,” Ioras said in his head. “I will take care of

the foladi here. You must protect the temple.”

Cipsis roared and sped off in the direction of the temple

where its tower pierced the blackening clouds, the cross glowing

like a blue beacon, as if beckoning to him.

His way was blocked by two Foladi that appeared from the

thickening clouds. Where he was lithe and agile in the air, the

Foladi were bulky and cumbersome. They turned very slowly

and were no match as the young gold dragon circled around them

in ever tightening spirals.

The gold dragon’s maneuvers were dizzying to the Foladi

who were unable to keep up with Cipsis’ speed. Cipsis drew a

deep breath and emitted a cone of searing flame at the nearest of

the Foladi, enjoying the way the leathery flesh sizzled and

burned. The acid spewing creature fell from the sky and Cipsis

trained his attention on the second.

The Foladi tried to escape by plummeting toward the

ground. In its fear the acid leaked from its flesh in greater

torrents and Cipsis could hear the screams of those below. They

were well over the city now and spared a glance at those fighting

below.

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Two hugely muscled, dark skinned men circled the figure of

Darius who held aloft his silver holy symbol and shouted to the

heavens. Both men were facing away from the priest. Protecting

him, the dragon noted.

Figures scurried for the shelter of whatever they could find

as long as it had a roof. The tumbling figure of the ranger,

Kimber could be seen diving beneath a ramshackle feeding pen,

her dog howling at the offending rain.

A strange, bald woman with glowing tattoos swung a runic

greatsword in wide arcs lopping of arms and heads from the

undead that surrounded her. Two cats leapt amongst the zombies

tearing at them with great claws until one was struck by a gob of

acid. With a scream of pain, the cat fell to earth, writhing in

agony. He could hear the woman’s anguished cry as she went to

the cat’s aid.

Another circle brought the dragon around to face the Foladi

again. It was heading toward the tower, acid dripping in long thin

sheets of molten liquid. Determined to stop the foul beast, Cipsis

beat the air with his wings and sped through the air.

The sky was on fire. Everywhere the drops touched, they

burned. Darius cast a prayer heavenward and was surrounded by

a glowing sphere that engulfed his two guards as well keeping

them safe from the acid blood. One of the foladi fell from the

sky, smoking to crash to the earth amongst a crowd of scattering

townsfolk. many were crushed beneath the great weight.

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The two warriors chopped at the undead that approached,

twirling on the balls of their feet, axes cleaving through dead

flesh with loud thwacks. A pile of limbs lay at their feet, but still

the undead kept coming.

Rodni sidestepped one skeleton using its momentum to bat

it aside with an elbow then buried the blade of his axe into the

forehead of a drooling zombie, splitting it from crown to

sternum. His axe was stuck in the creature’s ribs and he struggled

to free it. From the corner of his eye he saw a hand full of filthy

fingernails raking at his face and winced, preparing himself for

the blow that never landed, because Tongael was there

decapitating it with a hefty swing of his own axe.

They gave each other a quick nod and returned to the

slaughter.

“We should retreat to the temple,” Darius cried. “My

protection spell will not last much longer and the acid still rains

down upon us.”

The two guards nodded and together the trio began making

their way towards the temple doors. Darius stumbled over a body

and glanced down. He spied the body of Onvalay, face down in a

pool of blood, one arm missing and he muttered a prayer for the

protection of the abhac’s soul.

From his right came a tattooed woman bearing a greatsword.

Tears ran down her cheeks, smearing the ash and dirt into a

macabre makeup. A green and yellow striped cat ran at her heels.

The woman bled from several small cuts, but more worrisome

was the smoking hole in her thigh.

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“Shelter yourself in the temple,” Darius called, but the

woman merely sneered. He noticed as she neared the undead,

they backed away as if in pain, her tattoo flaring to life with a

strange glowing light.

“A Ratu,” the priest whispered in awe and smiled. The

diabhol killers were at last joining the fight. He continued his

back-pedaling trying to avoid any more corpses that may lie in

his path. The guards cut down any undead that neared, their axes

shimmering blades of destruction.

The Ratu woman tore through the zombies like one

possessed. Blood, bits of brain, chips of bone all covered her

leathers in a gory wash. Beside her the jungle cat growled and

leapt toward another skeleton, scattering its bones across the

cobblestones. Another torrent of acid fell from the sky and struck

them with a hissing of burning flesh.

The woman screamed and clutched her head. the jagat fell, a

smoking hole through its spine. Darius cursed and ran from the

protection of his guards.

Rodni glanced away, anxiously at the High Priest as he ran

from them. With a curse, he rushed after him, shouting in anger.

The cleric knelt beside the strange woman. The acid had just

begun to eat away at her flesh and Darius’ sphere of protection

was beginning to wane.

“Keep going toward the temple,” Rodni shouted back at the

other guard. “I will aid the High priest.”

He knelt and helped the priest lift the limp form of the

woman, greatsword still clutched in her tight fist, though she was

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unconscious, her heartbeat slowly fading. Rodni strapped his axe

to his broad back blades down and hefted her over his shoulder.

“Go,” he yelled as the undead horde began to close in again.

He balanced the woman’s weight on his shoulder and they took

off at a sprint as the sphere surrounding them faded away.

Toric and Ratto stood aside, watching the chaos through the

open door of the temple. They had watched the young boy fall

into madness, brought from its grip by the girl’s words of love.

They prepared to change form at a moment’s notice. it was not

their war and they would not die over some foolish squabble.

The boy lay weak and weary, the sword cast aside in the

dark corners of the temple’s main hall, forgotten. A priest

kneeled next to the boy praying to Alinard for the power to heal

his bent and broken body; an unfortunate result of the riastarthe.

Perinia caressed Cannivone’s hair, gently repeating over and

over the same words.

“Don’t die. Don’t die….”

If will alone could save a man, Toric knew the boy was in

good hands. But the all too clear reality was that faith and will

never change anything. You still needed the aid of others and

sometimes, much to his reluctant admission, the Gods.

“If anyone can heal the boy,” Ratto said, “the priests of

Alinard can. Their healing prowess rivals that of even the church

of Diancecht.”

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Perinia cried out in relief when Cannivone’s eyes fluttered

open. He gazed at the beautiful face staring down at him and

smiled.

“I have gone to heaven, then?” he said.

Perinia shook her head fighting back the tears. “You are in

the temple of Alinard.”

The boy grinned. “You are my Asharii guardian,” he stated

and closed his eyes.

“Priest,” she cried and the cleric bent back over the boy. A

few moments later, he looked up with a smile of his own.

“He is fine,” the cleric said. “Only resting.”

The relief on their faces was palpable.

The bwbachs watched as the High Priest and one of the dark

skinned guards dragged in a wounded woman, a garish wound

upon her head. They deposited her on the stone floor and Darius

immediately started to pray. He recognized the woman as the

paladin Memyb.

“When you are finished, priest,” Toric growled, a scowl

upon his boyish face, “we need to speak about how your kind

treat guests in the temple.”

Rodni stepped forward, arms crossed and biceps bulging.

“Do not speak to the High Priest in that tone,” he bellowed.

“Step down, Rodni,” Darius said. “I will listen to what the

bwbach has to say.”

“When the battle is over,” Ratto suggested and they all

agreed with a nod.

The boom of the closing doors echoed in the eerie silence.

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Ioras soared above the battlefield. Wading through the

dwindling horde was a huge Frost Giant, red braids and beard

whipping in the wind. The giant held aloft a huge club and roared

words of power. Ioras narrowed his body like an arrow and sped

toward the earth as if shot from a giant bow.

The giant saw him and roared in defiance, the club raised

toward the sky. Undeterred, the dragon continued his straight

course toward the necromancer. Soft tendrils of steam flowed

from the dragon’s nostrils. Ioras could feel his beard- like tendrils

wavering on his jaw as he prepared to let loose his flaming

breath.

The giant was undaunted, standing with legs widespread and

grinning through his disheveled beard. Ioras hoped his son had

made it to the temple, or all was for naught.

Ioras landed before the giant, wings spread wide. In his

current aspect he towered over even the Frost Giant, but that did

not mean he was the stronger of the two. the giant possessed not

only great strength and cunning, but dark spells granted from

Cromm Cruaich, God of the Pile.

Already the necromancer was muttering arcane words

through his lice- ridden beard. Ioras snapped his jaws toward the

giant, hoping to disrupt whatever spell he was casting. The ploy

worked as the energy blinked out like a snuffed candle. The

necromancer roared in defiance and swung his weapon at Ioras’

head.

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The dragon staggered beneath the blow of the giant club.

His head exploded with light. A roar of pain erupted from his

mouth followed by the searing flame of his breath weapon. His

body began to contort, returning to human form.

As he fell into a deep blackness, his only relief was at the

sound of the giant screaming in utter agony.

Kimber crawled from her hiding place and took off at

quick trot, eyes cast skyward where the gold dragon was

attacking the foladi, knocking them from the sky one at a time.

The streets of Fialscathac was littered with corpses. Fachan,

foladin, zombie, human, corani, bwbach and the widespread

smattering of bones lie mingled on the icy ground. Fire spread in

smoking furrows across the ground.

There were very few of the acid leaking creatures left flying

and already the remaining militia were climbing out of whatever

hole they hid in and returning to the fray.

Bailey was making quick work of another zombie and the

loud crunching of bones resounded through the air. Kimber’s

gaze swept across the city streets where the carnage was

immense. The view was disheartening..

The sky darkened and filled with flying creatures, appearing

much like birds, but with a man-like qualities . Friend or foe?

She wondered. The answer was quick to come as the bird

creatures began attacking the foladi with long, hooked talons.

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Kimber silently thanked the gods, though many of the branach

fell from the sky in a flutter of ruined feathers.

It was with great relief that she witnessed the fall of the

undead, once again stopped in their tracks. foladi were being

overwhelmed by the sheer number of the bird men. In the sky

above, a golden scaled dragon tumbled in a spiral descent,

wrapped in the clutches of a foladin.

It was with rising horror that she realized they were heading

straight for the high tower of the temple, two bodies wrapped in a

deadly embrace. Acid sprayed from the foladi. The dragon’s

thick scales repelled it like rain from an oiled cloak.

She was suddenly distracted by a fachan. From its mouth

full of sharp teeth it emitted strange grunts and squeaks. Its speed

was remarkable for a creature with but single limbs. It took all of

Kimber’s agility to evade the down swept blow of the axe.

She rolled to her feet, swords spinning in front of her. A

strange, black scaled woman appeared at her side wielding a

straight edged blade.

“You must be the ranger my father always talks about,” the

woman said. “I know by the blades within your hair.”

“Your father…?” Kimber stammered as she swung at the

fachan, but it leapt away at the last moment avoiding her blades.

“A helping hand,” the woman said. “ From Mesz.”

Kimber grinned. That crafty sirite, she thought. Sending his

own daughter to aid them. Not that she wasn’t thankful, but for

all the bellyaching Mesz did, one would think he didn’t care

about the fate of the other races. And shouldn’t this “helping

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hand” be helping? Apparently, he had a heart inside his dark

chest after all, though his motives still remained unclear.

“Tell him thanks,” the ranger grunted between blows that

fell harmlessly to the fachan’s sides. “When this is over.”

“It won’t be over,” the woman said, “until the sword is

destroyed.”

“We would have to find the blade first,” Kimber exclaimed

as her red bladed sword found an opening and slid through the

fachan’s burly chest. Its eye widened and went glassy. With her

foot, Kimber pushed the corpse from her blade.

“I know where the blade is,” the dark scaled woman said.

Kimber gave a last look at the dead fachan and glanced

around for Bailey, but the dog was nowhere to be seen.

“Take the blade to the temple,” Kimber said, her gaze

drifting back to the oncoming fachan horde. “Darius will know

what to do.”

“I hope you live,” Luaithreach said. “My father would be

pleased with that outcome.”

“Coincidentally,” Kimber muttered. “So would I.”

The dark skinned woman gave small nod and rushed back

the way she came, surrounded by the droplets that hissed against

her skin. She soon disappeared in the acidic rain beneath the

shadows of the foladi.

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The dragon and the foladin, caught together in an

unbreakable grip, swerved toward the temple. Eyes moved

skyward as the gargantuan creatures tumbled out of control. With

a resounding crack, they slammed into the tower atop which the

glowing cross was placed. In a flurry of falling debris, the temple

shuddered and began to crumble. Snapped from its base, the

cross fell.

All eyes looked on in horror as the symbol of Alinard

landed on the ground with a resounding thud and plunged deep in

the soil amidst a spray of icy snow. Luaithreach was unaware of

the huge cross until the last second. She looked up at the glowing

blue stone and opened her mouth to scream. The weight of the

stone flattened her like a bug before she could utter a single

sound.

Rubble fell across the entrance to the temple. The screams

of priests echoed amidst the settling dust. Many were trapped

beneath the wreckage, their groans filling the air.

Darius rushed to the aid of a stricken priest whose legs were

trapped beneath tons of rubble. Toric and Ratto had changed

form the instant the ceiling collapsed and were now maneuvering

through the many drainage pipes leading to the sewers. Rodni

and Tongael frantically dug at the earth and stone that blocked

the temple entrance. Perinia sat alone in a corner, Cannivone’s

still comatose head upon her lap.

“What has happened?” she cried.

“The temple has fallen,” Darius said. “The power of Alinard

has failed.”

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“It cannot be,” growled Rodni in between handfuls of

rubble. “His power is infinite.”

“No power is infinite.” Darius sighed. “Even the Gods are

slaves to the powers of chaos.”

“Then what is the use of the teachings?” Tongael fumed.

“The promises made by the church to lure us to the worship of

this God? We were in no worse state worshipping our old gods.”

“How many prayers did they answer?” Darius snapped.

“When your people died of disease and starvation did your gods

stop the spread? Was it not the temple that saved your people

from becoming a mere memory?”

Tongael hissed. “Are we in better hands now? The cities are

falling. The temple is a ruin. The king is a vile tyrant.”

Rodni placed a reassuring hand on his friend’s wide

shoulder.

“I believe in this Alinard,” he said. “I have sworn my life to

Him. Have faith, for with faith we can move mountains.”

“Hopefully it will help us move rubble as well,” Tongael

grumbled. None could argue that point.

The last foladin fell from the sky with a sickening splat,

nothing more than a pile of mortified flesh. A cheer went up from

the survivors. Harmoni wiped blood from her forehead and let

out a sigh of relief. At her side, Meladi grinned. They exchanged

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a knowing glance and watched the remaining fachan as they

retreated from the destruction.

“Cowards,” Harmoni taunted. “Not so big without your acid

bloods, are you?”

From the wreckage of a granary crawled the battered form

of Morrigan, bruises covering her cheeks. Blood caked the side

of her face and she dragged her greatsword behind her like a

crippled limb. Acid had ravaged one side of her beautiful face.

Naomh rushed forward, a healing prayer already at her lips.

“Gone,” she cried. “Both of my pets are gone.” Tears

streaked the filth on her face. She collapsed, spent. Naomh laid

glowing hands upon her, Alinard’s power seething through the

Ratu’s body like blood.

A group of paladins appeared from around a corner their

once pristine armor dented and blood spattered. Arquel led them,

copper hair blowing in the wind, a dejected look upon her face.

Carried on a litter amidst them was the body of Ioras. His breath

was shallow, but Harmoni was glad to see he still lived. Beside

him, looking forlorn, were Corp Salach and Noinion Bui.

Overhead the branach settled onto rooftops awaiting orders

from their leader, Civvac who stood away from the pack, wary of

the humans. Though they had been called to aid the land walkers,

he still did not trust them. He knew what violence lived in their

hearts, what prejudice. Those who were different were cast aside

like rubbish, ridiculed and persecuted.

Kimber gave the bird man a quick nod of thanks and smiled.

She gave Bailey a warm pat on her wide head.

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Tavish arrived with Hennesi in tow. Neither seemed to be

harmed, though Hennesi bore many scratches. The bard seemed

flustered and out of breath.

“I be too old for this shite,” he gasped.

“Have we won?” Hennesi called. “I see no more enemies.”

“A minor victory,” Arquel replied. “Though the Golden

Child lies wounded.”

“And the Temple has fallen,” added Kimber. “So the

victory, such as it is, came at high cost. Luckily for us the

branach came to our aid.”

“Then we must thank Rhiannon as well,” Hennesi

acknowledged.

Arquel looked horrified. “Gather all survivors in the

marketplace,” she said. “We must assess the number of

survivors. The real army of Gearalt will come and we must be

ready for one last defiance.”

All were in agreement.

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Chapter Twenty Five

Payment Is Due

It took days to dig the survivor’s out, but when they did they

were relieved to find Darius among them. Kimber was also

relived to see the boy, Cannivone, but hours of searching had not

revealed the sword. Kimber remembered the last words of the

scaled woman and a sudden sadness overcame her.

The boy was huddled in a corner with Perinia, his head in

his hands, muttering over and over about sins he had committed.

Perinia’s soft hands caressed his head, soothingly.

Fennel was elected temporary mayor and his first order of

business was to appoint a crew for rebuilding the temple. It had

stood as a beacon of faith and hope for years and the power in

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those things alone were immeasurable. Cannivone was placed in

charge of the temple’s rebirth, though he argued that he was not

worthy.

“Worth is not always in our deeds,” the bwbach told him.

“but in the way we recover from them.”

Reluctantly, he agreed to the task. Tavish, Hennesi, and

Kimber would join Arquel in a journey to their old friend

Apthlosareus’ fortress, dragging the unconscious forms of Ioras,

Cipsis, and Morrigan. There they would gather a new army,

restore the paladins and fennid; forge a rebellion against the cruel

king.

Amongst the dead, littering the streets they found the body

of Luiathreach. As she was brought to the temple, Cannivone

was distraught. She had been as a friend to him and helped him

keep the manipulations of the sword at bay. Without her

companionship he may have succumbed. He would miss her.

In a flash of light, Mesz appeared, his face twisted in fury.

“The ineptitude of the Pantheon has cost me a daughter,” he

roared. “It is time to end the reign of the old gods and make way

for the new.”

Kimber approached the dark sirite, cautiously.

“What do you intend to do?” she asked.

“Bring down a king,” he growled. “And end the

machinations of The Little Black One.”

He walked across the rubble strewn hall toward the cracked

remains of what appeared to be a doll. Mesz squatted to retrieve

the object, his hands caressing the smooth surface of its face. His

face twisted again in anger and he growled deep in his throat.

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Gerald L. Black

“Gods be damned,” he cried as he tossed the doll to shatter

upon the stone. Then, in an instant he was gone.

Gru Pointieers has seen his share of death and destruction in

his four hundred summers. Already he had remodeled the Coin’s

Edge several times, seemingly always the target of a rogue

wizard or the unlucky recipient of a wrathful warrior. It was

getting expensive and, truth be told, he was tired of it.

As he locked the doors behind him, secured by chains as

thick as his arms, he sighed in deep regret. He would miss the

tavern he had built from the piles of coin he had saved during his

many years of adventuring. But his mind was made up. It was

time to seek the aid of an old friend. Together they would find

and destroy this sword that seemed to be causing all the trouble.

He hitched the buckle of his rucksack tighter to his shoulder,

checked the quarrel of arrows on his back one last time and

headed out the gates of the city, still akimbo and smoking from

the battle. Corpses still lined the streets and covered the icy

plains outside, but he made his way through the orchard of death

and headed west toward Sithia. It was time to call upon old

friends who owed him favors.

The time of the sentient sword had come to an end, he

vowed.

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The Golden Child

The landscape fell away from them at a steady pace.

Several days in, the rocky trail leading deep into the Sliabh

Cruinn brought the pair to the banks of Lough Dorcha located in

the center of the circle of tall mountains. The setting sun cast the

huge lake with a copper tint and Gioffri stopped to admire the

landscape.

“What are you doing?” Neftet growled.

“There is much beauty in this world if you take the time to

look,” the albino said.

“There is at that,” murmured Neftet Grimm, his thoughts

immediately wandering back to the deadly and beautiful ranger

who had bewitched his heart from their very first meeting.

“Even amidst such ugliness as death and blood,” Gioffri

reflected, “one can find things of beauty.”

“Get to your point,” Neftet growled.

“I just think we can stop and admire the beauty along the

way. Drink it in before rushing to our certain deaths.” The albino

sighed.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Neftet grumbled, vehemently.

“No,” Gioffri replied, shaking his head. “But I come

anyway. We will see this through to the end, you and I.”

At that, Neftet was silent. He stood gazing over the

crystalline waters of Lough Ruadh, watching the light glitter

from the waves in tiny flashes. He could just see the small island

with the towering parapets of the stronghold built upon it, fading

in and out of the mist like shadows.

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Gerald L. Black

A myriad of colors assailed his eyes. It is beautiful here, he

thought. I should stay in this quiet place in solitude and wait for

them to find me. There are worse places to die.

“Why the glum face, friend?” Gioffri’s voice broke his

thoughts into fragments of ghostlike images.

Neftet turned and gave his companion a slight smile, merely

a tugging upward of his facial hair. There was a sadness in the

dark eyes.

“We shall camp here for the night,” Neftet decided. “We

will find a boat or passage across the lake in the morning.”

Gioffri smiled in that irritating way he had. Like a snake,

lulling you into a false sense of security.

“There’s a plan,” Gioffri said. He set his blade against a

large boulder and flopped down to the muddy earth.

The air still had a chill , so Neftet pulled his shadow cloak

closer to his body and listened to the whisper of the waves as

they caressed the shoreline. They seemed to whisper promises

of a future free from the yoke of the Fangs.

He woke to pain. Avegor remembered very little other than

the sensation of falling. His vision was blurry, his head clouded.

He shook his head to clear it and tried to raise a hand to his

aching temples. The rattle of chains told him he was restrained.

“What in Alinard’s name?” he wondered. How had he

become a prisoner? Was he dead? Was this his punishment for

failing then church; an eternity of torment chained and mind

addled?

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The Golden Child

His vision began to clear and he took in his surroundings.

Walls of buckskin rose above him to a simple point. A small fire

burned in the center of the dirt floor, smoke drifting up to vented

opening above. A metal rod as thick as his leg had been pounded

into the rocky earth and to it he was chained, iron manacles

chafing his wrists.

A figure sat, hunched before the opening of the tent, merely

a flap of leather sewn to the outside surface. It was a man, hunch

shouldered with a sloping forehead. His lower jaw was set too far

forward and his body was covered in coarse hair. A bone axe lay

in the earth at the man’s side.

“What is the meaning of this?” Avegor spat. “I am a paladin

of Alinard. I will not abide by this treatment.”

The man turned to face him with dark, hollow eyes and

grunted a reply. He rose on feet way too large for his thin, yet

well-toned body, covered only by a fur loincloth, and exited the

tent.

“I will have answers,” the paladin roared, pulling on his

chains in a futile attempt to free himself. He noticed his armor

had been removed. He still wore his thickly padded gambeson

and breeks. A splint of some dark wood had been tied to his

aching thigh and it pained him whenever he shifted. Spots of

blood stained the leggings where the skin had been torn.

A bandage was wrapped about his throat. The air was filled

with the sickly sweet smell of plandalamh, the healing plant and

he assumed the bandage had been soaked in the stuff. Why

would someone take him captive only to heal him he wondered?

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Gerald L. Black

He let out a breath and leaned back against the side of the

tent. Think clearly. Alinard will give you a way out of this,

Always have you been loyal to his ways. His thoughts rambled,

interrupted occasionally by a jolt of pain coursing down his calf.

Within moments, the brutish guard returned accompanied by

the largest man Avegor had ever seen. The man shared the same

ape-like features of his counterpart, but where the guard was reed

thin, this man was a hulk of taut muscle, his fur thicker and a

deep reddish brown. Eyes of dark blue cast a gaze upon the

captive paladin and the man smiled showing off his full

complement of rotting teeth.

“He wakes,” the man said. “At last.”

“You speak the common tongue?” Avegor asked. The man

nodded in reply and leaned down close to the paladin.

“I apologize for the chains,” the man said. “It was for your

own protection.” He pulled out a set of iron keys and in moments

the manacles were removed.

Avegor rubbed the raw and chafed flesh of his wrists and

scowled.

“Why am I prisoner here?” he asked.

The brute looked at him with the slight tilt of his head.

“Prisoner?” The man chuckled. “You are not a prisoner. We

saved you from your fall and nursed you back to health. Your leg

is broken.”

“Why am I chained like an animal?”

“We needed you to remain still,” the man answered. “The

leg has not fully set yet.”

“Who are you?” Avegor demanded.

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The Golden Child

“I’m sorry,” the man seemed apologetic. “I am Hjod,

chieftain of the Druians.

Avegor was shocked. the Druians were a mythical race of

people thought to be created by the mating of a human and a yeti.

Also known as squatches, they were notorious hunters of

horseflesh, a delicacy in their society.

“It cannot be,” the paladin muttered. “Arrows took my horse

from beneath me and I fell.”

“Yes,” Hjod nodded. “Sorry about that. Normally we would

not hunt a capall with rider attached, but hunger sometimes

makes our hunters desperate.”

“Hunters?” Avegor pondered. “You killed my horse?”

The brute nodded, a frown upon his face. “Haren did.” He

nodded his head toward the man who had been guarding him.

“We did not recover it from the fall into the frozen water yet. A

search party is arriving even now. He has been punished and was

forced to watch over your recovery.”

“How long have I been out?” Avegor asked.

“Four passings of Lugh,” was the answer. Avegor cursed.

“Four days?” He fell back and winced as pain shot through

his leg. Hjod answered with a vigorous nod.

“How is it that you speak my language?” the paladin

wondered.

Hjod laughed. “You are not the first of your kind to

encounter the Druians.”

“The only to live to tell of it, surely,” Avegor muttered.

“Not so,” the Druian responded. “The Climbing Cellar is

filled with your kind.”

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Gerald L. Black

“The Climbing Cellar?” This was all becoming too much

for the paladin’s aching head. He had to be dreaming. That’s it!

He was delusional from a fever induced coma. It had to be.

“Food will be brought to you,” Hjod said. “Rest and recover

your strength. You will need it for the Trials.”

“What trials?” Avegor was suddenly not so optimistic of his

survival.

“You must pass the trials or stay with us forever,” Hjod

replied. “It is our custom and the ways of the Great Yeti.”

I cannot stay,” Avegor roared. “I must find the Golden

Child.”

“The shining man who leads the army?” Hjod asked.

Avegor nodded, his breath growing rapid from excitement. “The

army has passed around the mountains and entered the large

assortment of dwellings on the other side.”

“The city? Talantas?”

“If the city is the place crowded with people that stinks of

sweat and urine. That billows with smoke and rots with the

dying, yes.”

“That would be the place,” Avegor sighed. “When do these

trials begin?”

“As soon as your leg heals,” Hjod replied. “Rest and eat.

You will need your strength.” He ducked and left the tent.

Ghia stumbled through the tunnels guided by the voice. It

seemed to know where to go. When the voice first began to urge

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The Golden Child

her to pick up the heavy blade, she resisted, but the blade was so

pretty, the way it shone in the torchlight where it lay abandoned

on the floor.

“Turn right up here,” the voice said.

Ghia sighed. Her feet hurt. She was tired. The blade was a

heavy burden as she dragged it in the dirt behind her.

“Where are we going?” Ghia whined. “I’m tired.”

“We will rest soon, young one. First we must recover what

was taken from me.”

“It is dark down here,” the girl said.

“You know nothing of darkness,” the voice growled. “I

exist in a darkness so suffocating you could not even imagine”

“I want to go to sleep,” Ghia retorted. “I need to sleep.”

“Be at ease, girl.” The sword’s voice was soothing. “Soon

you can rest to your heart’s content. I will take care of you. You

are like the daughter I never had. We have much in common you

and I.”

The tunnels ran for miles beneath the city streets often

turning back along themselves in a confusing labyrinth. The

voice seemed to have a set path and soon Ghia came to a glowing

torch attached to the wall by an iron sconce. The fire’s glow

revealed a small door, edged in brass.

“Won’t the guild master be surprised at your return,” the

voice crooned. Ghia reached for the knob and turned. A sudden

strength filled her limbs and she lifted the sword as if it were

made of parchment.

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Gerald L. Black

Mesz appeared in the bole of Sithic’s great oak, his face a

mask of fury.

“It is time to draw together and stop this damned sword,” he

growled.

Sithic set his crystal decanter he had been holding on a

small table and gazed at the dark skinned sirite with curiosity.

“What has transpired?” the Leaflord asked.

“The sword has disappeared again.”

Sithic paled. What was it about that sword that kept it

continuously out of their grasp? It was as if the sword avoided

them, somehow. But that wasn’t possible. was it?

“What would you have of me?” Sithic asked.

“An alliance,” the Lord of Dragons said. “My dragons and

your forest creatures.”

“To what end?” Sithic narrowed his eyes.

“We must destroy a sword.”

“What of the Pantheon?” Sithic’s eyes filled with fear. “You

know what Eochaid has said.”

“The Gods can aid us or they can stay out of the way. If they

fail to act, Domhan is doomed. My time on Yrth is not yet

finished.”

“You would start a war between the Gods?”

“I will do whatever it takes to insure the survival of this

world,” Mesz said firmly. “It may not be a perfect world, man

killing man, destroying the forests and creatures within, but it is

my home. And yours. Is that not worth defending?”

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The Golden Child

Sithic had no retort for he knew the Lord of Dragons spoke

true. After a moment’s deliberation, he nodded and spoke.

“Count us as allies, then.”

“Tell the church of Alinard, the diabhols from the Hells, and

all those seeking to destroy this world it is time for recompense.

For all they have cost Mesz and the world, payment is due.”

Continued in Little Black One: Chronicles of the

Sentient Sword Vol. 3

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Gerald L. Black

Glossary of terms

Dramatis Personae:

Arquel: a female paladin of the Wyrmslayers

Atros: an assassin sent to kill Neftet

Avegor: High Defender , Order of the Crimson Keep

Bacach Ead: (baw-kawk edj): Knight of Envy

Bailey: a war dog

Banntrach Gradhach: (Bawn-trawk graw-vawk) Knight

of Lust

Bolan the Merciless: a mercenary

Brawth: (broth)a barbarian mercenary from Gandwy

Brennec Ban: mannach general

Breagadoir Santach: (bray-gaw-dor sawn-tawk) Knight

of Greed

Caeral: (keh-ril): A woman from Ioras' past

Carraig Laidir:(kerrig lie-djir) corani scout/messenger

Ceol Binn: (kyole bin):Bard to Ioras

Cipsis: (kip-sis): a young boy

Civvac Cthal: (Ki-vahk thawl): a Branach king

Colm Sadach:(kol-um saw-dawk) (aka Croi Dubh): a

sadistic ruler of Galis

Cormac MacOuian: (mack-ewain): paladin of Lugh

Corp Salach: Abhac general

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The Golden Child

Craosaire Ramhar: (kroe-share rawver) Knight of

Gluttony

Creel: a leanashe or vampire

Cunnartach Gra: (kew-nar-tawk graw) bodyguard

Darius: a priest

Deresor: a lich

Dien: (deen): court wizard

Draiocht Intinn: (Dray-awkt in-chinn)Ioras' wizard

Duille Or: (dwilla or) sirite general

Dunmharu Fuilteach:(doon-vaw-roo fwil-tawk) Knight

of Wrath

Estelion: King of the Sirite

Faeduin: (fay-dwin): Lomaldor's dead lover

Feachadan Dealg: (fay-ka-dawn jelg)bwbach general

Fiad macRohad: Council member

Gearalt; (gehr-awlt): the new King

Ghia:(jee-ah) young thief

Ghambi:(jawm-bee): an animated doll

Gioffri: (jee-off-ree) :an albino assassin who warns

Neftet

G'narish :(guh-naw-rish): a bwbach bandit who wears

a goblin mask

Gru Pointieers aka Gruverius: a sirite tavern owner

Gro Pointieers aka Grometrius: Gru's brother

Harmoni: a bwbach bard in training

Heathrose Longdartz: a bwbach minion of Mesz

Henessi: a woman warrior

Irala: a member of Mesz' court

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Gerald L. Black

Jezamiel: one of Mesz' servants

Joxeu:(jawk-soh) King of the Yrthlings

Luaithreach:(Lew-eye-trock): Mesz's daughter (means

Ashen)

Lughdo: (lew-doh)a half ogre

Mabsant: council speaker

Marbha Leisg: (marva lesg)Knight of Sloth

Meladi: a bwbach bard in training

Morrigan: A member of the Ratus (Raw-toos), a sect

of undead slayers

Mesz: (mez): a dark elf ,lord of the dracoliches

Naomh Iobairt:(nyev yo-bair) Ioras' priest, female

Neftet Grimm: an assassin

Noinion Bui: (nin-yen bwee) Ioras' general from

Cruithnia

Nuzzgo Gnarlface: an ettin bandit

Nycwor: Cheiftain of Calandrium

Ogdar Banhai: leader of the Ratus

Onvalay: an abhacan priest of Bach Bychan

Q'ilaqiqi: (kewill-ah-kee-kee): a sirite bard

Ratto: an ex adventurer and bwbach thief

Rhollo: assassin master

Rodni: a guard at the temple-Darius' protector

Ruthangad:( root-hawn-gawd) a killer in charge of the

assault on Belton

Sigov: new guild master

Shallot: Skrubb's daughter

Sharkoal: the newest of Mesz' dragons

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Skallion: Skrubb's son

Skrubb Skrapestone: A bwbach guild master

Tavish MacOugan: (mack-ewgun): A bard

Thalli Steinison the 40th: Abhac king

Thofric: a bwbach hero

Tidius: an asassin who attempts to kill Neftet

Tolmad: King of the Bwbach

Tongael: (tone-gail)- Darius' protector

Toric Tusslegut: a bwbach thief known for urinating on

temples

Uabhar Gortaithe:(ewvair gortayth) Knight of Pride

Urk: a fachan captain

Yor Granitespire: an abhac warrior and friend to

Morrigan.

Zawn: a Face Eater

Creatures/Races:

Abhac: (Ah-vok) dwarf

Asharii: (Aw-shaw-rye) Volcano dwellers (angels)

Branach: (Brawnawk): bird people

Bwbach: (boo-bach) halfling

Camallach: (Kaw-mawl-awch): camel men

Capallach: ( kaw-pull-awch): Horse headed folk

Corani: (koh-rah-nee) gnome

Diabhols: (Dee-ah-vole): devils/demons

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Gerald L. Black

Druians: a race of humanoid with sloped forehead

derived from yeti. They are horse eaters.

Ettin: a two headed brutish giant that is not very bright

Faceeaters: Tentacle headed creatures who attach

themselves to a face and suck out the brain

Fachan:(fawkan) stout and swift creatures with one

eye, one arm, and one leg

Foladin: pl. Foladi: A great flying beast that secretes

an acidic blood.

Francagach: (frawn-cah-gach) rat folk

Frost Giant: one of the stronger of the giant-kin,

thriving in cold climates

Jagat: A large striped jungle cat, gray and green in

color.

Labanach: (Law-baw-nawk): northern raiders from

lachlann

Leanashe: (lawnawsh): vampire

Mannach: (maw-nawk): half elves

Maskshred: a small rodent like creature with a black

mask covered in razor sharp spikes

Minion: pale humanoids created by Marbhan. They

come in two varieties: lesser and greater

Sirite: (She-ree-tay) elf

Snotgurgle: A giantish bulbous nosed, hairy creature

with deadly breath

Sronbheannach: (srone-vawn-awk): rhino men from

Srath

Tarbhac: (tar-vawk) bull man or minotaur

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The dark folk: Ogres, orcs, goblins, kobolds, giants

Places:

Abhacod: (Ah-vok-od): a dwarf kingdom

Ance: (Awnts): a country of refinement

An Corran: (Awn Koh-rawn): the crescent, a ruling

faction

Anglea: (Ain-glay-a): the main kingdom

Breenach: (bree-nock): a village in Abhacod

Bwbachod: (Boo-baw-kod): a halfling kingdom

Cel Cedad: (Kell-ka-dawd): A country

Coraniad: (Koh-raw-nee-ahd): a gnome kingdom

Cruithnia: (Kree-nee-a): a barbaric wilderness

Danois: (Dawn-eesh): a country of reavers

Domhan:(Dowan) a continent

Eilean-na Bhean: (eelawn-na-vawn): an isle kingdom

ruled by women

Eryth: (ereeth): a country

Fenia: (fen-ya): a northern country of ice and snow

Fialscathac: (Vee-ahl skaw-thock): Shady Veil, a town

Frost lands: a land of ice

Galis: (gaw-leesh): a dark kingdom

Gandwy: (gahn-dwi): a country known for its war dogs

and ale

Ghealsen: (gale-sen): an eastern country

Glacia: (glay-sha): a northern country known for fine

steel

Guntham: a country

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Gerald L. Black

Hessoc: (hes-sock): a country

Ice Wastes: an ice desert

Jardain: a country

Kinar: (Key-nar): a continent

Kuell: (kew-ell): a country

Lachlann: (lawk-lawn): a hostile kingdom

Medwyr: (med-weer): a country

Mrylain: (ma-ree-alw-een): a country

Nantherland; a kingdom, home of the Nanthers, an

insectoid, but some humans live there

Novia: (no-vie-a): a country

Okai: (oh-kie): an island

Plains of Pain: a desert of sand and ruins

Powis: (po-weesh): a country

Prionsia: (Prin-sha): a neighboring kingdom

Seldun: (Sell-doon): a neutral country

Sithia: (She-aw): an elf kingdom

Srath: (s-wrath); a country

Stanlyn: (stan-line): a country

Talantas: (Taw-lawn-tas) : Principal city

Tir-na Faiche: (Cheer-naw-feesha): a jungle kingdom

Toth Aran: (Toeth air-en): a country

Landmarks

Coill Ughrannach: (Kwill ewg-raw-nock): Gruesome

woods

Aibhainn Beag:(ah'wain baig) a small river in Stanlyn

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Aibhainn Mor: (ah'wain mor) A river that runs the

length of Stanlyn

Aibhainn Leon: (ah'wain lay-own) a river that connects

with the Mor

Aibhainn Folaidh: (ah'wain Foal-ah): Empty river

Srath Bui: (srath boo-ee): yellow stream

Sky Gutters: a mountain range in Danois

Abhainn Fuar: (Foo-ahr); cold river

Sliabh Cruinn: (Sleev Krinn): Round mountains

Camlodh: (Kam-Lothe): a town

Ogre Swamp: a vast swamp east of Guntham

Aibhainn Uisce:(ah'wain ish-ka) a river in southern

Anglea

Sliabh Ciaroc:(sleeve Cyarock) mountains that border

Guntham and Hessoc

Aibhainn Dorcha: (ah'wain dor-ah-ka) a dark watered

river that divides Toth aran from Kuell

Droichead: (Droe-kee): a town with a large stone

bridge. The name means bridge.

Aibhain Roint: (ah-wain Reent): the dividing river

Lough Ruadh: (loch rew-ah): Red lake

Sizemoor: (a village)

Lough Dorcha: (lock dork-ah) a large mountain top

lake in the Sliabh Cruinn

Cruineachann: (Krinn-ah-kawn): A mysterious, high ,

cloud shrouded mountain peak (means dome)

Cnoc Bui: (Crock-boo-ee): yellow hills

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Gerald L. Black

Feirm Ri: (fer-um ree): a town in bwbachod where the

king resides

Coill Bocht: (Kwill Bawkt): a sparse forest (needy or

poor)

Coill Aghrannach: (Kwill ah graw nawk): Tangled

woods

Deities:

Alinard: (Al-a-nard):new God, the creator

Antius: (ant-chuss): evil God, the destroyer

Arjak: a demon lord

Bach Bychan:(bach bie-kun) the main abhacan deity

Banba: (bawn-a-baw): Goddess of the earth,

agriculture

Bile: (bee-lay)Bwbach Goddess of war and bravery

Breas: (Bress): God of thieves

Bridghe: (Bree-dja): Goddess of poetry, fertility,

intelligence

Cadjal: a dead God, "Heartseeker"

Cernunnos: (ker-new-noess): God of hunting and

forests

Cliodhna: (Klee-ove-nah): Goddess of sex, beauty,

and fertility, family

Cobhthac: (kove-tawk): God of orcs, ogres, goblins,

the dark folk

Cromm Cruaich: (krom krew-ock): God of blood,

moon, and murder

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Cymeddi Cymenfoil: (Kie-meth-ee Kie-men-fill):

Goddess of valor in battle

Damiar: deity of the Dubh Clann(Brawth's folk)

Denosia the Purifier: Scourge of demons, eradicater of

the undead

Diancecht: (Die-an kecht): God of medicine, healing

Efnisien:(eff-nee-sen): God of strife and sadness

Elymas: (eh-lee-mas): goddess of magic

Eochaid: (yo-kee): Ancient God of Domhan

Epona: Goddess of horses, the capallach

Gad: God of luck

Gwydion: (Gwi-dee-un) Corani God of Science

Lugh: (Lew); God of the sun, light, heroism

Manannan: (man-a-nan) God of storms, weather, seas

Marbhan: (mar-vawn): God of death

Myala the Heartseeker: a lost Goddess

Suaidthe Suaraigne; (Sed-tha soo-warn-ya): Goddess

of war/Sower of the 7 sins (the Bitch of Evil)

Twrch Tua: (too-erch too-ah) Sirite God of magic

Miscellaneous:

Cac: an expletive used by Prionsians

Analil: Ioras' enchanted sword

Reaver: Kimber's red bladed sword

Bloodletter: the sentient sword

Treasure Seeker: Skrubb's short sword

Laoch: (hero): a magical sword of Alinard's metal,

Alinium.

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Gerald L. Black

Cosantóir: (defender): an axe that is imbued with

Alinard's power.

Gwydr:(gwee-deer): glass

Cysgu'n dda: (Kiss-gooun thaw): sleep well

548

549

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gerald L. Black began writing in high school at the urging

of many writing teachers. Starting with poetry and, for many

years, lyrics for the songs written by various bands for which he

was singer, he spent over twenty years creating a world based on

the Celtic languages, which was used for the role playing game

Dungeons and Dragons. Finally, at the urging of a most

supportive wife, he wrote his first novel, inspired by literary

heroes such as Conan, Elric, Kane, and Oron and based on his

own role playing campaigns. Although born durin an April

blizzard in Fort Collins, Colorado, he now resides in Phoenix,

Arizona with his wife and two dogs. In his spare time, he likes to

sing, listen to heavy metal, and read fantasy novels. He can be

reached at http://chroniclesofthesentientsword.com or

onfacebook.com /Chronicles-of-the-Sentient-Sword-Vol-1-

Pantania-the-Guild-mistress

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