A Desert Ocean 

 
Stephen Huff 
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Stephen Huff’s 
Chronicles of 
War 
Saga Second  
(November,1998-May, 2001) 

A Desert Ocean 

 
Stephen Huff 
2

 
A Desert 
Ocean 

A Desert Ocean 

 
Stephen Huff 
3
Contents 

 
# 
 
Chapter Title 

 

 
 
Saga Second - A Desert Ocean 

 
 
11 
 
All the King’s Gold 
 
468 
 12 
 
And a King to Sit His Throne  
519 
 
13 
 
To Sail Lady Luck 
 
616 
 14 
 
A Desert Ocean 
 
661 
 
15 
 
The Unreasoning Loathing  
667 
16  
A Rage of Raven’s Wings  
693 
 
17 
 
This Gift More Potent Than Dreams  
725 
18  
Angry Night 
 
733 
 19 
 
An Eyestone’s Reward 
 
763 
 
20 
 
Ten Thousand Steps 
 
789 

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11 

All the King’s Gold 

Epsilon was up and standing beside the door, sword in hand, before he was fully awake.  
A second rapping at the heavy wooden slab rendered his mind fully aware, and he suddenly 
recalled where he had slept the night before. 
Half Pint's squeaky base voice called out, "Master!  Master!  Are you awake.  The hour is 
already well past dawn!" 
"Well past dawn." repeated the Warfarer groggily, lowering his weapon.  “Why have you 
let me sleep so late." and he reached for the view window to verify that his man servant was 
alone. 
"Beg pardon, sire, but I have called twice previously this morning.  You did not awaken, 
though I knocked until my knuckles were bloody."  He glanced up when Epsilon opened the little 
window, and held forth a small but apparently heavy little pouch in one hand.  "I have brought 

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you change for your Empirical coin," then he presented a neatly tied bundle of clothing, "And 
your dress, freshly cleaned and darned." 
The Ritesman grunted and yawned.  Scratching himself obscenely, he unbolted the heavy 
door and pulled it wide.  "Why should you want to change my money for me." 
"You said you had business to conduct this morning," huffed the little man as he pushed 
inside.  "And I was horrified to think that you should go around overpaying the people of this 
town with your good gold." 
"By people, you mean people other than Half Pint, of course." 
"Of course, sire.  But you have been grossly generous, I think.  Too generous."  He laid 
Epsilon's garb across the bed and offered up the bag of coins.  "Here I have ten thousand shecks 
in various denominations.  It is a fair change for just one of your Empirical gold pieces." 
Reaching for his tunic, Epsilon queried, "Ten thousand, eh.  I had not realized my coins 
were so valuable.  It seems I have already made several men very wealthy during my short stay 
here." 
"Several men and at least one woman.  This," he said, holding up a scented scrap of paper, 
"Is from Selena.  I imagine it is a special invitation to a private performance."  The midget's brow 
rose and fell suggestively.  "If you know what I mean." 
"I think I do," he replied, accepting the paper.  Fluttering it open, he discovered it was 
exactly what Half Pint had guessed it might be.  "Do you think she will be disappointed when I fail 
to show." 
"Beyond human endurance, sir, I am sure." 

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The Warfarer grinned, abashed, and held up his baldric for examination.  Its many tears 
and tatters were sewn together with an expert's skill.  So fine were the new seams, that Epsilon 
could scarcely see them.  And his coat of arms was perfectly repaired on the front.  New strips of 
crimson cloth had been added where pieces had been torn free. 
"It is fine work!" he declared, pulling the baldric over his head.  "Remove fifty, no, one 
hundred shecks from the bag for your darning lady!" 
"But, sire," protested the midget. 
Epsilon cut him short with, "Blood!  You are right, citizen.  Make it two hundred." 
"But, sire, the typical fee is a tenth of that amount." 
"Really.  Then make it three!  Does she have children." 
"Children.  Er, uhm, yes, I believe she does.  Ten or twelve." 
"That many.  It must be hard to support so large a family on a darning lady's wages.  Give 
her an even thousand, Half Pint.  With my compliments." 
The slight man sighed in exasperation and counted out the coins.  "As you would have it, 
sire." 
"I take it you do not approve, my small friend.  And why not.  On such a glorious 
morning, would you deny small children candy.  Would you deny a mother the pleasure of seeing 
her children well fed.  Hmm.  If it makes you feel better, you may remove a thousand for 
yourself." 

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Half Pint paused counting to seriously consider the offer.  Ultimately he only shook his 
head and continued fingering the coins.  "No, sire, I could not take your money in such a manner. 
Your kindness shames me for my greedy spirit." 
"Good!" he thundered, fastening his cross braces and sword belt around the outside of his 
emblazoned baldric.   Next he added his black cloak, fixing it in place with the claspons he had 
purchased from Old Bob.  "What do you think of these, Half Pint.  Fetching, are they not." 
"Aye, sire, if a bit crusted with grime." 
"It is a grime of ages, and nothing to bring shame.  These brochettes belonged to one of 
those long slain heroes you were bemoaning last night.  Most likely, he lost them when he lost his 
life out there on the Rim, in vain defense of this city's walls.  Otherwise, they should have been 
lain in state with him." 
"If you say so, sire.  I know little of the history of this town, and less of the men that lived 
and died here three hundred years ago." 
"More is the pity, citizen.  More is the pity.  A man should know the history of his place in 
the world.  How else is he to know from whence he came or where he is bound." 
The halfling shrugged without replying. Epsilon straightened his fresh attire with an air of 
finality, and set to tidying his camp.  Once he had offered Helmcleaver water from the yet filled 
bathtub, he loaded the horse with its standard burdens, and they exited the tiny chamber to blink 
widely in the harsh light of a rising sun. 
To the east, they saw Earth's Rim and the Desert Ocean beyond.  It did not seem nearly so 
inviting in the blazing glow of a raging sun.  The expanse of it was utterly flat and broad beyond 

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the meager penetration of his mortal sight.  There were no high dunes of sand, merely slight, 
regular ripples that shifted one way and another on the winds, much like waves of water.  In the 
great, hazy distance, Epsilon spied a quartet of sharply angled, triangular sails.  A sandboat 
labored underneath them, running before a giant, rolling wall of sand that towered into the 
otherwise clear skies. 
Half Pint noticed his attentions, and informed, "The Ocean is turning out there.  Do you 
see the storm coming in." 
"Aye, and it is a strange storm indeed.  There are no angry thunder heads above it." 
"It is not a storm borne of the heavens, but of the desert, itself.  As I said, the Ocean is 
turning.  Vast gushers of noxious subterranean gases are boiling up out there, tossing the lighter 
dusts high into the sky and churning the heavier sand into a blinding, bone grinding frenzy.  It is 
this phenomenon that keeps the sands flat and sailable, but it is also the greatest scourge of all 
sailors everywhere.  Do you see that sandboat running before the gusts.  They are running for 
their very lives.  Once the storm overtakes their boat, only the gods may save it from disaster." 
Epsilon squinted his eyes to watch, dismayed.  "And I would go there..." he mumbled 
softly. 
"Beg pardon, sire.  What did you say." 
"Nothing, citizen.  Nothing it all."  The Ritesman guided his mount off the porch and into 
a small, litter strewn courtyard that had a roundabout at its center.  After entering and leaving that 
loop, the lane passed out of the yard beneath an arch of the Swooning Dragon's main building.  

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Pointing this out, Epsilon enquired, "Is that the way to the street.  And once in the street, which 
way to market." 
"Just follow the street along to the right.  A mile or so east of here, the way will branch.  
Take the left way, back toward the center of town.  Presently it will pass through a low wall 
constructed of bloodstone.  Within that wall you will find the marketplace, though it will not open 
for several hours, yet." 
"And what of the Fourth Precinct Treasury.  How would I arrive there from the main 
gates." 
"Once through the gates, bear directly left again, and follow that way around the inside of 
the bloodstone wall.  Just past a headless statue, turn right and climb the ridge.  The Treasury 
building sits at the summit on the, uh, the left side.  I think.  Or it may be the right." 
Epsilon waved off the small man's uncertainties and jumped into his high saddle.  "I will 
find it from there, citizen.  Thank you." 
Half Pint waddled after him as he spurred Helmcleaver forward.  "Will you be returning, 
sire.  Should I hold your quarters for the night." 
But the Warfarer offered no response.  With a clatter of steel shod hooves, he passed 
beneath the arch and disappeared into its shadows. 
The stallion seemed eager to be on its way, wherever they may be going.  It fairly burst 
out of the alleyway, into the avenue beyond.  A handful of children scattered, screaming, at first 
sight of the magnificent beast.  Helmcleaver reared and neighed joyfully, thrashing its fore limbs 

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playfully in the air.  By the time he came back down on all fours, the street was largely empty and 
the way to their right greatly cleared.  They started off at a blowing, stomping canter. 
"Aye," laughed Epsilon, drawing on his gauntlets, "It is good to yet be among the living.  
Prance if you will, but carefully so.  Those filthy cobbles appear slick and treacherous." 
His advice was not well taken, however, and the animal continued its uneven gait nearly to 
the first branch in the path.  The Warfarer heeled his reluctant steed around to the western way, 
and pulled on the reins until its canter was reduced to a sensible walk. 
"It may be a long day, mate.  You should save your strength.  Do you not recall that only 
last night we were driven before the illdross as hares before the hound." 
As they proceeded deeper into Oreset's interior, the buildings on either side of the street 
grew taller and taller, until they completely blocked the low light of sunrise.  In the shade, Epsilon 
passed alternate piles of refuse and human filth.  Disease ridden and pock marked whores 
propositioned him brazenly, adding their cackles to the echoes of misery that sounded all along 
the lane.  Signs of poverty and over population were everywhere to be seen here.  For here 
seemed to be plenty of nothing, save garbage, and even that miserable abundance was a resource 
to these unwholesome people.  Children rummaged amid the offal for scraps of food and useless, 
broken artifacts.  Hundreds of children.  All filthy, starving wretches.  They mobbed him as he 
passed, begging for change, for ought to eat, for simple, sweet mercy.  Epsilon thought of the 
shecks he had changed with Half Pint.  Enough to feed them all once, perhaps, if it were evenly 
distributed.  And he thought of emptying his purse by the handfuls, he thought of tossing the coins 
into the street.  Then he considered the mayhem which would inevitably ensue.  These children 

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might tear themselves to pieces in the frenzy to feed.  And those that survived were bound to be 
preyed upon by the thugs and miscreants he spied lurking in the shadows of doorways and alley 
entrances. 
No, this was not the sort of charity the situation required.  One day's meager rations 
would save none of this sordid lot.  A mere handful of coins could only serve the cause of 
damage, rather than that of redemption. 
So he turned away from their pale, excrement smeared faces, and kept his eyes focused 
sharply on the road ahead, the walls beside, and his wake behind.  He kept his gaze focused 
anywhere except upon those pathetic pools of need that were hungry orphans' eyes.  Something 
ought to be done, he knew, but he could not say just what.  And he had more pressing matters to 
consider. 
Not the least of which was the presence of a large group of men that had separated from 
the shadows to one side of the street.  They moved toward its center slowly, arms crossed upon 
their breasts, as if they were resolved to block his way. 
Epsilon reached for his helm and strapped it on quickly.  Then he hefted his buckler with 
his left, and cleared his cloak from the pommel of his sword with his right hand.  Helmcleaver 
continued on without slowing, guided as he was by his master's pressing knees. 
A line of forbidding figures stood across the street now, stretching from one side to the 
other, and still the stallion's pace did not slow.  Though the Oresetians' threat was real and clearly 
present, Epsilon did not draw his blade.  More than a call for confrontation, their maneuver 
seemed to be a test of his courage, a prod of his resolve.  Would he falter or turn to run.  Would 

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he stop and try to bargain for the right of way.  Or would he show weakness by offering to pay 
them away.  What would he do. 
In the end, he did nothing more than press on to the marketplace.  Their ranks parted 
without exchange of words as he passed, and the men returned to their individual cracks in the 
walls. 
Glancing back, he saw that the children had stopped following at last, apparently 
surrendering all hopes that they might find safety in his shade.  As ants caught in a sudden 
downpour, the mob dissolved at once, and its component members scurried back to the piles of 
refuse they each called home. 
Rounding the next bend, he was presented with a cleared space that abutted a wall built of 
blood red stones.  It was a low wall with a rough, uneven upper surface.  Once it had no doubt 
been much higher, but years of neglect and theft of its materials had left it no taller than a large 
man.  Judging by the smoothness of its outer face, Epsilon decided it had once been an interior 
defensive structure, possibly of an ancient fortress or royal palace.  Now it served no purpose 
greater than that of repulsing vagabonds and apple thieves. 
Arriving at the poorly constructed gateway, the Ritesman saw it was nothing more than a 
broad, collapsed portion of the barrier, which had been cleared and barred by a wooden 
construction that served as a gate.  He halted Helmcleaver before the barricade and waited 
patiently for the gatekeeper.  When one failed to immediately turn up, Epsilon spurred his horse 
high up on the ribs so it neighed gratingly. 

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Presently, a fat, slovenly man stepped into view, picking at something between the few of 
his front teeth that remained.  He was wearing rusted upper armor that was several sizes too 
small, and a pair of leathern breeches that were much stained and discolored at the crotch. 
The gatekeeper scratched his rump and farted and spat through a gap in his teeth, all at 
once.  "What do you want, outlander." 
"The Treasury of Precinct Four.  I have business there." 
"You do, eh.  And what of it.  As you can plainly see, the market is closed!  As is this 
gate." 
"Is it.  How unfortunate.  I suppose I shall have to bribe another gatekeeper further along 
the wall." 
“There are no other gates." 
"Then I shall have to bribe you."  And he reached for Half Pint's purse. 
The keeper's face bunched up angrily.  "Here, now.  You take an awful lot for granted, 
stranger." 
"Oh, I see.  You seem to be the sensitive type.  Honest through and through."  He 
appeared to pause and consider his dilemma seriously for a moment.  Then he reached inside the 
pouch for a handful of smaller coins, as if on inspiration.  "What if it were to suddenly rain coins 
out of the sky.  You would undoubtedly be so busy scooping up the windfall that a single rider 
might pass unnoticed at your back." 
But the gatekeeper shook his head dourly.  "I want no part of that, mate.  These old knees 
of mine do not like to bend or stoop.  If you have money to discard, you may discard it directly 

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into my waiting palm."  The sloppy man blew a wad of mucous from his left nostril by pinching 
off the right.  He wiped at his nose with the back of an unclean hand, and approached the gate.  
"But do not think it will pass you through this gate.  Only I, the keeper, can make that decision, 
and I have not yet made it." 
Epsilon spurred Helmcleaver forward to make the payment.  "That is as should be, for I 
have not yet paid to prompt your thoughts." 
The sloppy one only grunted and counted out the coins in his hand.  His brow rose higher 
and higher with greater and greater appreciation of the amount he had been offered.  The 
gatekeeper whistled softly when he was finished.  "There's more than I can count.  Must be a 
month's good eating here."  He glanced up suspiciously, his eyes squinted nearly shut.  "What's 
this all about, anyway.  What kind of skullduggery have you been up to.  And what's your 
business at the Treasury.  A man that pays so well for trifles must have little need for banks and 
bankers." 
"Yet just the opposite is true, m'sieur.  Men with money often have need of money 
changers.  In fact, you can aid me further than opening the gate by directing me on to the 
Treasury from this point." 
"I could.  And what if I should decide not to let you pass, after all." 
The Warfarer let his gaze and tone wax icy and lethal.  He leaned forward across his 
saddle horn and growled, "Then I should be forced to storm your flimsy defenses and lop off your 
stubborn, greedy pig's head for a trophy." 

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Flustered, the gatekeeper hastened to secure his fee and draw back the barricade.  "No call 
for that kind of talk, outlander.  No need for idle threats." 
"If you knew me at all, citizen, you would know that my words are never offered idly."  
He kicked the stallion forward angrily.  "You would do well to move that gate a bit faster, fat 
man, ere I wax irritated and take off your ear in spite." 
''I do not dawdle, m'sieur.  You must forgive an old man his squeaky knees." 
At last the gate was drawn aside, and the way was cleared.  Epsilon passed through the 
wall into a crossroads beyond.  He eyed the way directly left, that which Half Pint had indicated 
was the proper way.  And then each of the other ways in turn.  Of them all, the route straight 
ahead seemed to be the least wholesome of all.  It passed into a narrow alley crowded with tall 
buildings on either side, so much so that it seemed a ravine and was deep in shadow.  Any manner 
of death might be lurking in that forever darkness. 
So it was with obvious surprise that he received the gatekeeper's parting words.  The 
sloppy man spat and grumbled, "You will find the Treasury House of Precinct Four straight on 
from here."  He added a jowl jiggling nod to point out the dank, dark alleyway.  "Climb the hill 
and bear right.  You will find it at the summit... rich man."  This last was added softly, only after 
he thought Epsilon was well beyond earshot. 
Suddenly curious, the Warfarer let Helmcleaver narrowly approach the alley's gaping 
maw.  There he paused to listen intently.  Was that a hushed garble of whispers.  Or a slow sigh 
of wind.  The longer he monitored the distraction, the more certain he was that men waited just 
beyond the threshold of light, whispering plans of ambush back and forth.  Shuddering 

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involuntarily, he cast a quick, hot glance back over his shoulder at the gatekeeper, who was yet 
standing in the gateway, an anxious expression on his face. 
When Helmcleaver's head came about, and they trotted off to follow Half Pint's directions 
instead, the fat man grimaced dourly and cursed inaudibly.  Epsilon smiled to see the stupid one's 
frustration, and hurried on to tend his business, feeling for the comforting lump of Pandolyn's 
rolled parchment at his breast. 
It was there.  Upon contacting it, he found himself wondering what magical words it must 
contain.  What would happen when he presented it to Dellas, Dembar's Son.  As always, a 
sneaking, snide voice whispered of traps and intrigues, but Epsilon pushed these thoughts aside.  
For reasons he could not name, the Ritesman believed Pandolyn to be sincere in her objectives 
and honest in her employment of him.  He had no reason to doubt her descriptions of the 
document's functionality.  Still, he was curious as to how that functionality might operate.  How 
could a man cast a spell on himself, simply by reading what another had written.  Having no 
experience with the practice of magic, Epsilon eventually decided he could not guess how such 
things might work.  It was enough that it did not work on him, he considered, and left the debate 
there. 
At the headless statue (it seemed to be of an athletic youth), the Ritesman bore right and 
climbed a low rise.  The buildings lining this avenue were all multi-tiered warehouses.  Many were 
ancient and crumbling, fit to topple onto the cobbles at any moment.  Almost all were empty, save 
for skulking vagrants and rustling pigeons. 

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The stallion's footsteps sounded hollowly on the stones, and echoed long in absence of 
acoustical competition.  Thus preceded by the drum roll of his passage, Epsilon Three of the 
Martial Rite arrived unannounced at the changing house of Precinct Four in Oreset. 
It was a three story building constructed of marble and solid granite blocks, each 
elaborately carved.  A perfect rectangle, it lacked windows on its ground floor, and had an 
ornately adorned, leaden roof.  Where its few windows were bared to the outside world, thick 
iron bars had been fixed into place.  That several seemed to have been pried apart at some point in 
the past was testimony to their utility.  Presumably, a door stood at each end of the building, one 
in back and one in front.  No readily obvious signs stood on the walk or above it to specifically 
indicate this building was the precinct changing house.  But, as he neared closer still, Epsilon was 
able to read an inscription above the recessed doorway that had been originally engraved into the 
marble facade.  When translated into the common tongue, the words were; ROYAL 
GATHERING HOUSE OF SURPLUS HARVEST GOODS.  And below that in smaller type; 
HIS MAJESTY'S STORES, DISTRICT WEST. 
From this, he gathered the squat building had once served the dilapidated warehouses that 
clustered about it, which in turn had serviced all the kingdom's harvests from its western lands.  
During better times past, no doubt, these silos and depots had been filled to capacity with sun 
ripened grains and fruits and dried, smoked meats.  And now nothing of that gone glory remained. 
 Naught but spiders and spiders' webs prospered in those dark rooms. 
Epsilon dismounted at the top step of a semicircular descent, which led into the archway 
above the changing house's recessed, heavily reinforced doors.  Holding his mount's reins tightly 

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in his left fist, the Warfarer drew his long fencing dagger and used its heavy haft to rap upon the 
door.  He waited patiently for signs of an answer, then rapped again.  And again. 
As he raised his knife to knock a fourth time, a sliding window snapped open, and the 
wedge-shaped visage of a thin, studious man appeared in the light.  His eyes went wide at sight of 
the dagger, and the little door slammed shut immediately. 
Epsilon sheathed his dagger with a soft curse.  "Hold there, citizen!  I have business with 
Dembar's Son!  Honest business."  Receiving no response, he jingled his purses and added, "Will 
you at least fetch him to the door."  Still no response.  "Tell him I have Empirical gold!" 
The little window popped open, and that same wedge-shaped countenance reappeared.  
"Empirical gold, you say.  Empirical gold.  Show it, then!"  Epsilon fished around inside his own 
purse for one of his few remaining Empirical coins.  When he raised it to the light, that thin face 
rolled back so the nose all but jutted through the tiny opening.  Its nostrils flared, sniffling.  "Pass 
it through!" demanded the uncertain voice on the other side of the door. 
But the Ritesman palmed the gold instead, and removed it from the thin man's sight.  
"Fetch me down Dellas first." 
"Fetch me down Dellas!  Fetch me down Dellas!" cried the little man, mocking.  
"Everyone has business with Dembar's Son this day, yet he is an extremely busy man!  Too busy!  
No, he can not come down.  You must deal with me instead." 
Before the thin, pinched face could retract, Epsilon abruptly thrust his strong right arm 
through the tiny opening, his fist clenching savagely.  It met soft resistance, and the Ritesman 
recognized the feel of a supple, vulnerable throat.  He jerked it back against the door, slamming 

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the little man on the far side hard up against the wood grain.  This not only brought his subject 
closer, but reduced the exposed length of his arm to nothing, lessening the risk of injury.  All he 
could see of his prey was a bit of flushed cheek. 
Through gritted teeth, he growled, "Listen carefully, m'sieur.  I have had my fill of your 
kind.  As I said earlier, I have business with Dellas Dembar's Son.  You will now introduce us.  
Reach for and unfasten the bolt."  He heard the tell tale clicks and clatters of this action.  "Now 
slowly swing the door open as wide as it will go.  Very good."  Epsilon chocked the door open 
with his right boot and drew Helmcleaver in after him, all the time careful to keep the portal held 
firmly against his unknown host's soft, yielding body, which was in turn pinned against the wall 
beyond. 
It was not forced back against him, and neither was he met with a surprise counter attack 
from the shadows of the foyer.  Once he was fully installed within, Epsilon let go his hapless 
victim's throat, and the door rotated slowly shut. 
Cowered against the wall was a short, thin, bookish sort of man.  He seemed timid and 
weak, but quick of mind, much like a twittering house mouse.  His eyes darted rapidly back and 
forth, as though he were calculating and carrying numerals from place to place every moment of 
his life. 
"Who are you, citizen." demanded the Warfarer sternly. 
"Do not slay me, sir!  Take what you will, but leave me be!  I have done nothing to 
deserve a bloody death!" 
"Be that as it may, you shall certainly suffer one if I do not have an answer quickly." 

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"I am Dellas!  I am Dembar's Son!  What business have you with me, beyond robbery." 
Epsilon was taken aback.  "You are Dembar's Son.  Well, why did you not say so in the 
first place." 
"I am busy, as I said.  A busy, busy man.  I have no time for robbers!" 
"No time for robbers.  Man, if I was a robber you would have all the time in the world for 
me.  The rest of your life, perhaps."  Epsilon backed away to give the little man a bit more room 
to fidget.  In doing so, he moved beyond the foyer into the main room of the ground floor.  It was 
a single, large, cluttered room that comprised the entire building.  Skylights in the roof let in a 
multicolored light through ornately dyed panels, which shone straight down to the floor in a 
rainbow of colors.  All along the walls, the balconies were filled floor to ceiling, wall to wall with 
bins and shelves, which were in turn filled with all manner of stuffs, from yellowed scrolls of paper 
to great sheets of stretched parchment.  The Warfarer caught glimpses of maps and coats of arms 
and strange symbols painted on the surfaces of these last items, and wondered why a counting 
house should have need of such things.  Sarcastically, he added, "I see your rush.  There seems to 
be a glut of patrons this morning."  For the room was, in fact, quite empty of human beings. 
"Yes, indeed.  Patrons of one sort or another," came Dellas' enigmatic retort.  He eased 
away from the wall hesitantly, and skirted around Helmcleaver to exit the foyer well out of 
Epsilon's reach.  "Certainly I have no great need of highwaymen and their horses at the moment, 
so you will undoubtedly find yourself in lack of company here. Perhaps one of Oreset's many 
brothels and saloons would better serve your needs." 

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Epsilon frowned suddenly.  He did not like the little man's tone.  It was scathing and 
disrespectful.  And there was no slightest trace of fear in it, though the man seemed to be quite 
terrified.  "I am no highwayman, m'sieur.  As I said at the door, I have legitimate business with 
you.  It is unfortunate our acquaintance was so poorly met, but I would not have handled you so 
roughly had you confessed your identity without guile.  If a falcon squawks and flies like a duck, 
it should not be surprised when it is slain for a duck." 
Dellas laughed shrilly as he pressed by the Ritesman to enter more deeply into the 
building.  "And neither should the hunter be surprised when the false duck takes out his eye with 
its cruel talons!" 
Letting go Helmcleaver's reins, the Warfarer followed his diminutive host between rows of 
towering shelving, apparently bound for a broad stair in the center of the room.  As he walked, he 
eyed Dellas' back suspiciously.  Something was not right with the small man.  There was 
something strange in his manner.  Though he dressed in ill fitting clothes and affected a submissive 
personality, something about Dellas Dembar's Son spoke of confidence and... power. But how 
could this be.  The man's arms and legs were twigs.  His body was soft and lumpy from long years 
of laboring at a desk.  What power could he enjoy beyond the powers of reason. 
"Your words are aptly spoken, but I do not believe your webbed feet will be scratching 
out any eyes this day." 
Upon finishing these words, a strange thing occurred.  Epsilon had his gaze fixed on the 
floor before him, watching his footfalls, when he noticed Dellas' shadow within it.  The umbra was 

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cast down from skylights high above, so its shade was bloated and oddly shaped.  As they walked, 
it changed.  The Ritesman's eyes bulged with disbelief. 
As soon as he had finished the last syllable of his remark, Dellas' shadow swelled 
frightfully.  The shape of his head elongated and his neck all but disappeared.  Where the outline 
of his arms had been, now there were wings.  And scaly claws where Dellas' skinny legs should 
have been.  When the little man laughed at Epsilon's statement, the shadow eagle's mouth opened 
in accordance and its tongue worked in time to the chuckles. 
Epsilon shook his head and quickly shut his eyes.  Opening them once more, he saw that 
Dellas' shadow was returned to normal.  And the little man seemed not to have changed at all. 
"What troubles you." enquired the slight one slyly.  "Is something wrong with your eyes." 
"No," came the instant response, "Merely a trick of the light." 
Both to take his mind off the hallucination and to further his cause, he retrieved Pandolyn's 
scroll and held it in his left hand, keeping his right free.  Tagging along behind his reluctant host, 
Epsilon was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the situation.  Something, his instincts 
warned, was not right here.  Except he could not say exactly what.  Looking up, he saw how the 
interior of the building was open at the center, with a tall atrium surrounding the stairs that 
stretched three floors to the uppermost tier.  A few archers on the balconies overlooking this 
ground level would surely pose a lethal threat, but this was not the cause of his discomfort. 
Dellas stopped at the stairwell and turned to face Epsilon from the third step.  Now the 
little man's gaze was almost even with the Warfarer's.  His expression was sallow and impatient.  

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"Well.  Rob me if you must, then get going.  I have much work to finish ere opening hour comes 
‘round." 
Epsilon extended the arm holding Pandolyn's parchment woodenly.  Was that a flash of 
raging flame reflected in Dellas' wide blue eyes.  The Ritesman glanced over his shoulder to see 
nothing out of place behind his back.  And nothing out of place when he returned his attentions to 
Dembar's Son standing before him.  The flicker of firelight was gone from the small man's 
puzzling gaze.  Epsilon cleared his suddenly constricted throat, and croaked, "I have this for you." 
The clerk raised his nose and sniffed aristocratically.  "And what might that be." 
"Private matters for your concern."  Epsilon pushed the rolled document harshly forward.  
"Take it.  Do you not see your name in the seal." 
For the briefest of moments, for but the span of an eye's blink, Dellas' countenance 
exploded into a red faced demon's mask.  His eyes went from ice blue to crimson and back again, 
while the rest of his face contorted into a sadistic, hateful parody of itself.  Horns spontaneously 
sprouted from the crown of his head, while gory fangs replaced the even, white teeth in his 
mouth. 
The Ritesman shut his eyes tightly, briefly, and gently shook his head to clear it.  Dembar's 
Son noted the action, and grinned devilishly.  "It is a strange light that falls through the colored 
glass overhead.  Men see queer visions in this building." 
"Aye," groaned the Empirical Warfarer, his left arm dropping leadenly, as though it had 
wearied at holding up a ponderous weight.  The parchment dangled at his side, momentarily 
forgotten.  "It must be the light." 

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"It is the light."  Now the clerk's voice was altered.  It went from shrill squeak to a throaty 
base growl in mid-syllable.  "But come.  If we have business, it must be conducted above, in 
privacy.  In the privacy of my... office." 
Strangely, though Dellas had clearly said 'office', this last word had sounded like 'lair'.  
Echoes of it rebounded from the walls in overtones of a lunatic's erratic whispers.  Lair, lair, lair, 
lair... came the insane reverberations.  Come into my lair. 
"Of course," was all the Ritesman could manage to say.  And he mounted the stairs after 
Dembar's Son, unable or unwilling to turn away.  As a robin enthralled, he trod the serpent's back 
in oblivious delirium.  What was it that he had come to do.  Had he a purpose here.  Had he ever 
known purpose. 
"He seems to have come a long way," muttered Dellas under his breath.  "A stern man on 
a stern errand.  With a great, glittering sword at his side.  What business might Empire have with 
the likes of me.  It is a dark place filled with dark minds that hate magic and all that is magical.  
What business might a Holy Warfarer have with meek little Dembar's Son.  Eh." 
These words registered on Epsilon's mind intelligibly as, "...nunna nunna nunna nunna 
nunna nunna..." 
Dellas topped the stairs and stood there, foot tapping, impatiently awaiting the slower 
man's dazed approach.  He clucked his tongue and declared, "I will never understand the folly of a 
Warfarer's Exodus.  This man is absolutely ignorant of the ethereal arts, yet he was sent naked and 
unarmed into these Wilderlands of Sin, where magic reigns, that he might conquer them single 
handedly.  It is an act that transcends mere suicide.  It is hysteria!" 

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Epsilon heard, "...nunna nunna nunna..." 
"And now he has come to me."  Dembar's Son stared up at the Warfarer's impassive face 
as the bigger man mounted the final riser.  The clerk's expression was devious and deviant.  It was 
a cat's expression that ponders a cornered rodent.  "All the long, arduous way from Empire.  All 
the way from Tesla, deep inside Empire's high, protective barricades.  All the way from Alcorde." 
 Shrugging and rolling his eyes, the little man turned onto the walk that crossed the atrium, and 
strode over to the northern side of the building.  "Come on, then.  This way.  This way to decide 
your fate." 
Epsilon heard, "...nunna nunna nunna... Come on, then.  This way... nunna nunna nunna..." 
and he moved mechanically to do as he was bidden. 
Dellas' uneven tirade continued while he stumped along the balcony, bound for a far 
corner of this upper level.  They passed the terminal ends of row upon row of cluttered 
bookshelves and the occasional tarp-shrouded contraption.  Ahead, a lone lamp flickered atop a 
large ebony desk that was heaped with papers and scrolls and delicate bits of mechanisms and 
machinery.  A strange mobile worked silently to one side, its large golden spheres revolving 
fluidly about a larger central globe.  Upon the forward face of its iron base, a dial transcribed with 
foreign runes clattered and clicked as it rolled and rolled and rolled. 
"Probably some minor mage playing with his poems," muttered Dellas, his tone irritated.  
Then his voice waxed worried and he wondered, "Or could it be a greater mage.  I thought it was 
at first, but now... now I am uncertain.  Why send such a buffoon.  Why plan an assassination to 
fail."  He clucked his tongue nervously.  "What dangers have I failed to foresee here.  Countless 

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dangers," he mumbled softly, stumping along, his skinny legs working inside his too short 
trousers.  "Countless dangers. Measureless risk.  I must work a stronger keeping spell at the door. 
 No, it was not the spell that failed, but my judgment.  I let him get too close."  He cursed 
fluently, "It was the gold.  That damned Empirical gold.  No, not that, either.  It was my own 
greed that nearly undid me.  Martyrs!" his hunched shoulders shuddered violently, "With his 
brutish, stifling hand upon my throat, I could not speak enchantment, and neither could I sign it, 
blinded as I was by the door.  I thought he was Sin Supri come to claim my meager resources for 
his own!" 
Breathing heavily, panting really, despite the brevity of the walk, Dellas arrived at his desk 
and leaned heavily upon it.  "I shall be more careful in the future.  No more foreign gold for me!" 
Epsilon stopped at a respectful distance from the table and stood there silently, awaiting 
further instruction from his new master.  His body automatically effected an at-ease posture as he 
waited.  There was not the slightest threat apparent from his stance or bearing. 
The clerk moved around the edge of his desk and collapsed into a thickly padded leather 
chair.  He withdrew a stained kerchief from a one ink stained cuff and wiped at the sweat upon his 
lightly wrinkled brow.  "Gods, this is a dangerous business.  Who would have considered it 
yesterday.  A live Warfarer standing in my laboratory!  Come to call at my door!  I am 
dumbfounded, really.  It was like opening the outhouse door to find a bear squatting inside, 
grinning hungrily.  What should I say to him.  What should I do.  Let me think a moment... Ah, 
yes!  The parchment!"  Dellas raised an exclamatory finger and leaned forward sharply.  "He 
claimed to have a document for me.  Let us see it, but let us not read of its runes." 

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Epsilon heard, "...nunna nunna nunna... let us see it, but... nunna nunna nunna..."  He 
extended his arm and dropped the rolled hide in front of his waiting master. 
Dellas made an odd noise with his mouth, then simply sat waiting, staring at Pandolyn's 
scroll as though it were a deadly serpent and might suddenly strike.  At Epsilon's now empty left 
hand, Dellas' golden spheres rotated and revolved, and the dial went round and round and round. 
Presently, a small monkey came scampering through the shelves of books to alight upon 
Dellas' narrow, bony shoulder.  Its prehensile tail curled lovingly about the scrawny man's neck. 
"There you are, my familiar," cooed the mage, stroking the creature's thick, musky fur.  "I 
am sorry to disturb you from your morning apple, but we have a matter of business on the table.  I 
thought you might help."  He nodded at Pandolyn's parchment.  "Will you first tell me if it is 
safe." 
Incredibly, the monkey scratched its head and buttocks thoughtfully (and simultaneously), 
and ultimately clarified, "Safe.  Safe touch."  Its voice was guttural and awkward, but readily 
intelligible. 
"First.  Is it safe to touch." 
Obligingly, the monkey scampered down the mage's arm and onto the his desk.  It 
approached the rolled hide cautiously, its nose twitching curiously.  Delicately, warily, it neared 
the suspect document in a roundabout manner, its tail curling and uncurling impulsively.  It 
sniffed.  It touched.  It tasted. 
Then it declared, "Safe touch," lofting the scroll happily.  It tossed this back and forth, and 
chattered, "Safe touch!  Safe touch!" 

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"Excellent," enthused Dellas, offering up a bit of jillroot, which the small monkey seemed 
to relish.  "And now, read the inscription that surrounds the waxen seal.  Would you be so kind." 
"Read.  Safe read."  It cocked its hairy head to one side and scratched sedately.  As if on 
inspiration, it abruptly turned the document around until the seal was apparent.  "It say; 'Oreset 
Treasury; Precinct Four, care of Dellas Dembar's Son, Master of Deposits.'" 
"And how do you feel now." 
"Feel.  Now.  Safe."  It scampered back onto Dellas' shoulder to chew another bit of 
'root, which its master had offered up. 
The Ritesman watched this transpire with a blank, slack mask of oblivion fixed upon his 
countenance. 
Dellas softly muttered an esoteric spell of keeping and tapped the scroll with a feather 
light touch of his finger.  When no monsters sprang out of the floor, he deemed the parchment 
was safe enough.  On the outside, at least.  And he picked it up.  The monkey screeched and 
bounded off into the cluttered shelves. 
"Now for the tricky part," he mused, turning it this way and that curiously.  “How to get 
at its insides without letting what is inside get at me.  A most frustrating dilemma." 
His gaze ultimately fell upon the Warfarer.  "Tell me, Ritesman, what is scribed herein.  
Eh.  What sort of mayhem or deviltry do you bear from far Empire." 
Epsilon opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, but something else entirely came 
out.  As if in a dream, he heard himself say, "I know certainly nothing of the document's contents. 
 It is not borne from Empirical lands." 

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"Not Empirical.  Oh, that IS disturbing.  You have it from some Wilderland creature 
then." 
"Yes." 
Dellas clucked his tongue and turned pale.  "Who could it be.  Who.  A rival, perhaps.  A 
hated enemy.  And why now, of all times.  Does it involve my work here." 
The Ritesman heard, "...nunna nunna nunna..." 
Eventually, the mage fell silent to ponder his thoughts alone.  "Well," he apparently 
concluded, "There is but one way to find out, and that is to ask."  Which he did. 
"A lizard lady named Pandolyn charged me with its delivery," responded Epsilon. 
"Pandolyn." repeated the clerk, blinking his eyes confusedly  "Pandolyn.  What sort of 
wizard is a Pandolyn." 
"She is a lizard lady, as I have said." 
"Of course she is!  You have already told me so.  What I want to know now is, did she 
give herself a title." 
"She is also called Rit Merdian." 
Dembar's Son gasped, and a finely boned hand snapped up to cover his gaping mouth.  
"Rit Merdian." he breathed, incredulous.  "Rit Merdian.  First a Holy Warfarer and now this!   It 
seems the surprise grizzly bear in my outhouse has come bearing tokens from a goddess!"  Now 
he wrung his hands and jumped up excitedly from his soft chair.  "What am I to do.  What am I to 
do." 

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Near at hand, the mobile of spinning spheres worked silently, while Dellas paced about, 
muttering feverishly.  "Perhaps I should kill him out of hand.  Yes, kill the Ritesman and burn Rit 
Merdian's parchment without breaking its dubious seals.  The gods only know what might become 
of me, once I have opened it."  He stopped pacing abruptly, and turned an appraising eye on the 
tall Warfarer.  It was the appraising eye of a cook measuring which rooster to behead for dinner.  
Then he seemed to reconsider, shaking his head.  "No, no, no, no.  That is no good at all.  If he is 
a high wizard's envoy, he must be protected in some manner.  The very fact that I can detect no 
enchantment on his person speaks of the breadth and guile of Merdian's powers."  Dellas made a 
high pitched, squeaking noise far back in depths of his throat.  It was a rabbit's squeal of terror.  
"But to send an Empirical Warfarer!  Gods, she has sent a sledge hammer to drive home a pin 
nail!" 
Suddenly angry, he stalked up to his spellbound victim and demanded, "Why should Rit 
Merdian want to kill me.  Eh.  What have I ever done to her." 
"I do not know that Pandolyn wishes you dead.  She said nothing of this to me, or of what 
you might have done to attract her interest." 
"Oh, fine!" belched the little man, throwing up his arms in exasperation.  "Why am I asking 
you.  You could be enchanted to say whatever that mighty wizardess wishes you to say. 
"Damnation!  I must decide, to one end or another.  Yet I cannot decide without knowing 
what the consequences of my decision might be.  To find out, I must decide.  It is Lyacine's 
Paradox, an endless circle without beginning or end.  No place to start save the middle..." 

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Dellas wandered back to face the tall, stern, blank Epsilon.  "Tell me, Holy Warfarer, as a 
master tactician, what is the proper move here." 
"I could not say without more information.  What is the tactical situation." 
The mage paused to reflect on the implications of this question.  Several times he made as 
though he would speak, only to shut his mouth impotently.  At length, he returned to his desk and 
sat in his chair.  He fingered a strange toy that flew a shockingly long way when he tossed it over 
the balcony rail. 
"I think I have it," he eventually offered.  "Though it is a complicated situation in reality, I 
will summarize my predicament for your convenience, using as few words as I can manage. 
"View this scroll here as a powerful weapon.  It has entered irrevocably into my camp, and 
I must deal with it hastily.  I cannot send it back or ignore its presence altogether, neither can I 
abandon my position around it.  Thus, I must take some sort of action regarding the parchment, 
even though the consequences of said action will undoubtedly be unpleasant and far reaching.  
What should I do." 
The Ritesman's first question was, "You cannot negate the weapon's impact.  Have you 
no armor or defensive structures of sufficient strength." 
"No, nothing of the sort.  I am a powerful mage, but I am a mere insect when compared to 
a Synod Wizard's authority."  Something in Dellas' tone spoke of lies and mockery, but they were 
strange mage's lies and jests and far beyond Epsilon's understanding. 
His second question; "Have you no means of gathering intelligence regarding its function 
and utility." 

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"No.  This is, in fact, my quandary.  To fathom all it entails, I must activate the weapon, 
which I am loathe to do." 
"Yet no other option remains you, according to my understanding of the plot." 
"Precisely.  What would you suggest." 
"If you are bound to die, Dellas Dembar's Son, do so with courage.  Pray to your gods and 
activate the damn thing at once." 
Still, the mage did not react immediately.  He pouted, sniffling softly.  From time to time 
he could be heard mumbling about not wanting to die, but all Epsilon could discern of it was, 
"...nunna nunna nunna...."  Presently, however, his remorse turned into gloating, relieved laughter. 
Within the laughter, he commanded, "The solution to this puzzle is absurdly obvious, 
though I could not see it for looking. You will open it, Ritesman!  Break the seal and read me of 
the scroll's contents." 
But all Epsilon could hear was, "...nunna nunna nunna..." 
"Did you hear.  Open the scroll and read, damn you!" 
("...nunna nunna nunna...") 
From a distant corner of the building, Dellas' familiar screamed shrilly.  The mage stood, 
and his shadow was misshapen at his back.  It was a grotesque form of reptilian limbs and raven's 
wings, sewn together from the stuff of night.  His face was that of a devil's, and his eyes shone 
with a flaring, crimson glow.  When he opened his mouth, it was to roar bestially, rather than to 
speak. 
He bellowed, "Sh'lot a kos ama sh'kelt!  Faramoor mal ama sh'kelt!  Aka, aka, aka!" 

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The Ritesman suffered a disjointed sensation, and felt his feet leave the ground, though his 
body had not moved.  His head spun sickly.  He seemed to lurch forward to fall, and was tossed 
into a headfirst dive.  Still, his body had not twitched in reality. 
Dellas was calling, "...aka, aka, aka..." and suddenly Epsilon found himself back at 
Alcorde, standing in the center of a bloody arena. 
The stadium was filled with the roaring of an enthusiastically bloodthirsty audience.  He 
could hear individual catcalls mixed into the din.  All were calling for violence of one sort or 
another, as though their many voices were the products of a single mind.  And they were shouting 
his name.  Ep-si-lon!  Ep-si-lon!  Ep-si-lon! 
Movement to his right caught the Ritesman's eye.  He ducked and wheeled around 
instinctively.  In the course of this movement, Epsilon realized he was wearing full body armor of 
the heaviest gauge.  A thick shield was permanently affixed to his left arm.  A sword was similarly 
welded into the steel gauntlet of his right hand.  His vision was impaired by the close visor of a 
fully visaged helm. 
Panting from the effort, he spun about as agilely as he could manage, bringing his sword 
arm about in a wide arc.  He knew he was striking out blindly, but the blow followed the course 
of his adversary's passing charge.  Thus, Epsilon hoped to cut his adversary's knees out from 
under him.  Instead of meeting with resistance, however, the tip of his blade just missed the 
backside of his foe's leg.  Its angular momentum brought Epsilon in full circle, as he followed 
through with the swing.  Finishing the action with a flourish, the Ritesman came up in a ready 

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crouch behind his shield, and held his weapon high.  His opponent assumed a similar stance, and 
the two combatants began circling warily. 
Without taking his eyes off the armored man before him, Epsilon let his attentions fall 
upon the bunting and banners that adorned the arena wall beyond.  Their colors and patterns 
indicated this was the Fifth Circus of Alcorde.  Thus he was fighting in the semi-finals, just two 
victories shy of winning a Warfarer's coat of arms. 
Yet how could this be.  Had he not already fought and won at Alcorde.  Was he not now 
on Exodus.  Or had he simply dreamed his passage into the Wilderlands, in anticipation of wins to 
come.  What was the truth.  Which state of existence was reality. 
...aka, aka, aka... nunna nunna nunna...  
His foe charged again suddenly!  He was a big, powerful man, with broader shoulders than 
Epsilon, and longer legs.  When he moved, it was with such speed and agility that the smaller 
warrior was shocked to see it.  All too quickly, his foe grappled closely to deliver a series of 
ringing blows to Epsilon's shield.  The Warfarer tried to strike back, but his assault fell on empty 
space.  The incredibly quick man dodged aside, and lashed out at Epsilon's unprotected flank.  
Only a timely shift of the Warfarer's sword saved him. 
In a flash of clarity, Epsilon had a deep glance into the eye slits of his opponent's helmet.  
With a pang of dread, he saw that his foe's face was that of a worm eaten corpse's.  Its eyes were 
milky and shriveled, its cheeks all but devoured.  Epsilon could see a grin of molded, stained teeth 
where portion's of the man's lips were missing.  And yet there was something oddly familiar in that 

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destroyed countenance.  He enjoyed a pang of recognition that told him once he had known this 
dead man.  He had known him well. 
Then his vision was obstructed by a polished shield, which his adversary had raised in 
preparation for delivering a fresh rain of blows.  The Warfarer turned this new attack with his 
blade and buckler, and bellowed, "WHAT MADNESS IS THIS.  HOW CAN THIS BE." 
The weight of the cadaver's ferocious offensive bore Epsilon back and down.  He 
collapsed to one knee, raising his notched broadsword to defend against the high blows, while 
holding his shield low to protect his vulnerable abdomen. 
Despite the chaos of close combat, he managed to spy out the insignia stamped upon his 
rival's breast.  It was Tau Nine's seal!  Tau Nine, whom he had slain at Alcorde! 
But this was impossible!  His mind reeled, and a loud ring of steel sounded throughout 
Epsilon's armor to remind him it was not impossible.  Even now the apparition was desperate to 
slay him. 
Except there, at his foe's side, just where his carapace bonded to his breast plate, Epsilon 
could see the rend in Tau's mail shirt that had been the source of his death wound.  I ran you 
through, there, and you died in my arms, brother, bleeding and coughing up clot!  You died!  
Indeed, a dark stain lingered in the form of a dried ichor wash, which had apparently flowed all 
the way down his left leg to his armored foot.  Flecks of dried blood remained in the chinks and 
fluting of his plate. 
"WHAT TRICK OF THE LIGHT HATH DUG THEE UP." wailed Epsilon, his tone 
wracked with remorse and guilt.  He had not meant to slay his friend in that long ago arena on 

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that long ago day.  Oh, he had intended to win the contest, but not with a mortal wound.  It was a 
freak stroke of fate that sent Epsilon's blade deep into his mate's belly, not intention.  Beneath the 
dead man's assault, the Warfarer collapsed lower and lower, until he was forced to use his sword 
arm to keep himself from the soil and certain death.  "WHAT MADNESS IS THIS." 
...aka, aka, aka nunna nunna nunna... 
Before he could be pinned down with a lancing thrust of Tau's notched sword, Epsilon 
rolled and scrambled away.  He sought his feet and ran across the circus.  Had he been able, the 
Warfarer would have shed his weapons and plate as he fled.  As it was, the armor sealing his 
hands was permanently fixed into place.  Only a groom could remove his steel mittens, and then 
only with the service of a hammer and anvil.  So he was mired in the contest irretrievably, even as 
he was mired in that damnable shell of polished alloy. 
Epsilon could hear the clattering stomp of Dead Tau's steel shod boots as he pursued all 
too closely behind.  At any moment, the Warfarer expected to suffer a decapitating stroke, but 
none fell. 
When he was come up hard against the arena wall, Epsilon turned and raised his arms 
defensively.  Tau came charging in, as expected.  The Warfarer leapt to one side in the last instant, 
while simultaneously lashing out with the blunt face of his tall shield.  Tau was forced headlong 
into the barricade and nearly lost his footing in the stumble to recover. 
The smaller Ritesman reacted immediately, and landed another unsteadying blow with his 
shield arm.  Tau was thrown against the wall again, but this time when he bounced back it was 
with an unexpected swing of his own shield arm that sent Epsilon reeling.  Before the Warfarer 

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could recover, his long dead friend was back on the offensive.  Epsilon parried blow upon blow 
with his sword and shield.  Finally, he unintentionally parried a high, vicious chop with the crown 
of his helm, and the world was plunged instantly into a numbing darkness. 
He collapsed to his knees, his head bowed drunkenly.  The roar of the crowd became a 
cacophony of disjointed and distorted whispers, which oozed through his mind as a red ribbon of 
blood flowing through a muddy sewer. 
Weakly, functioning on instinct alone in absence of awareness, Epsilon felt himself raise 
his blade defensively.  Somehow, despite the ringing in his head and his suddenly rolling guts, the 
Warfarer managed to defend himself against the remainder of the assault.  Tau grew weary at long 
last, and backed away to catch his breath.  Tottering uncertainly from side to side, the smaller 
Ritesman fought to his feet and stood there, swaying erratically, as though he might fade at any 
moment.  It was a perfect opportunity for Tau to finish the contest.  A single sure strike could end 
it all. 
But the bigger man did not strike.  When Epsilon raised his head to discover why, he saw 
that Tau Nine was exhausted on his feet.  From the way the corpse held his sword and shield 
dangling limply at his sides, the Warfarer realized his adversary's arms had been drained of 
strength by the demands of his frenzied attacks. 
In Tau's weariness, Epsilon saw his own victory at hand.  Yet he could not act on the 
opportunity, any more than his opponent could.  Though his arms remained fresh, Epsilon's brain 
was rattled and his thoughts scattered by Tau's one fruitful blow. 

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As a pair of stunned rams that have knocked heads too harshly, the two combatants 
stumbled into a wary circling while they each fought to recover.  The crowd became dissatisfied 
with the bloodless display, and their cheers turned to jeers as quickly as a fickle wind might 
change directions.  Tau took notice and roared angrily, waving his arms, weapons and all, in a 
manner of warding off pesky gnats.  Then he lowered his head to make a final charge. 
Even as Epsilon's thoughts cleared.  The Warfarer easily rebuffed the dead man's few 
weak, ineffectual blows, and landed several of his own.  One of these took off Tau's shield arm at 
the elbow.  The big man screamed defiantly, and rounded off again to attack.  Again Epsilon 
rebuffed the advance, this time removing one of his dead friend's legs below the knee.  When Tau 
crumpled to the blood stained dirt floor, the Warfarer closed instinctively.  Leaning heavily on the 
haft of his weapon, he drove its point through Tau's breast plate, into his body, and out the other 
side.  The fight was finished. 
Weeping, Epsilon retracted his blade and fell to his knees beside Tau Nine's twice slain 
corpse.  "I am sorry, my brother," he wailed, sobbing, "Sorry for this offense and the first.  Can 
you forgive me.  Have you forgiven me." 
To which, the corpse's grating reply was, "I cannot forgive you, Epsilon Three.  Whether 
you take it into your heart or no, you walk a walk of evil.  Yours is a path of unholy 
righteousness, and so there can be no redemption for you, only misery and pain.  But remember 
my words where you are going, as they may in time save you from your fate.  Soulless, you are 
lost, my brother.  Godless are you found again." 

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"What.  I- I understand you not.  Why have you no forgiveness for me.  By the gods, it 
was an accident!  I did not mean to slay you!" 
"Yet am I slain by you," gargled the impossible cadaver, its ineffectual limbs twitching.  "I 
can offer you no kind words of immortal succor, Epsilon, for the slain may not redeem their 
slayers.  You have lived by the keenness of your blade, and so shall you die.  But remember ere 
you perish, all is not finished in this world.  Beyond the River Styx, an entire lifetime awaits.  In it 
you are lost without a soul.  As I am lost.  As are all Ritesmen lost."  The voice fell silent, and the 
corpse's twitching stilled abruptly.  Epsilon thought Tau was gone again, but at the last he 
croaked, "Do not die without a soul, my friend.  Do not walk your path of evil to its indecent 
end..." 
From the sides of his vision, Epsilon watched the approach of his grooms.  They quickly 
set to work freeing him from his gear of war, starting with his fingerless mittens. 
The fading Tau choked, "Remember... soulless you are lost... godless are you found 
again... remember..." 
Now his hands were freed.  Epsilon shoved the grooms aside.  He gripped his slain 
comrade by the rim of his breast pate to lift the body into a sitting position.  He shook it gently, 
calling his beloved enemy's name.  But Tau only repeated his dire warning, which was, in the same 
words, a condemnation of the Martial Rite and all it held sacred.  It seemed someone in the crowd 
was cackling madly. 
...aka, aka, aka...  

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"Tau!" he raged, tortured.  And he laid the body back again to reach for its shining face 
plate.  He hooked his left thumb beneath the rim and was ready to push it up, when...  
...nunna, nunna, nunna... 
...when the arena and its babbling audience dissolved into nothing, and the face plate was 
rendered into Pandolyn's scrolled parchment.  Epsilon found he had hooked his gloved fingertips 
beneath the seal, and was ready to snap it off.  His grip was instantly relaxed, and his arms fell 
back to his sides to dangle loosely.  At his left, the mobile of spheres spun and revolved and 
rotated silently.  Its dial clattered and clicked. 
Dellas, the man-form, was standing before him once more, mumbling softly.  The mage's 
wedge-shaped face was upturned and entranced.  His thin lips were working feverishly, all but 
silently. 
Epsilon could hear nothing more than a distant whisper.  "...nunna, nunna, nunna..." 
And suddenly the transparent veil was lifted.  Though he had not been sleeping, the 
Warfarer snapped awake.  He registered, “...nunna, nunna, m'sillini mal ashelt.  Mok aush 
elletelt, sh'tlok-" and recognized Dellas Dembar's Son standing before him.  Recognized him for 
what he was; a mage weaving enchantment, oblivious that his charms had somehow failed. 
Quick as a striking adder, his right arm lashed out and took the enthralled wizard by his 
bony little throat, once more, cutting him off in mid-syllable.  In that same instant, the man-form 
was gone and the demon form of Dellas returned.  It flapped its jet black wings unhappily, and 
scrabbled claws at the wooden floor and Epsilon's mailed arm.  The Ritesman's reach was greater, 

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however, and so he managed to keep the monster at arm's length.  A few savage kicks stilled 
Dellas' struggles altogether, and the mage was abruptly content to be strangled in peace. 
Then it began weaving delicate, hypnotic movements with its scaly, clawed hands.  The 
Warfarer averted his gaze to the wondrous mobile, and kept it focused on the central golden 
sphere. 
"Damnable wizard, hold thee still!" he commanded, when Dellas renewed his frustrated 
struggles.  "I should stifle you at once, here and now, for what you have done to my mind!  And 
so I would, if it were not for my master's business." 
Dembar's Son gagged and coughed.  Epsilon had mercifully eased up on his windpipe to 
avoid complete strangulation. 
Whereupon, the mage began to hiss a subtle spell at once.  Epsilon clamped him off again, 
more violently than before.  Those long, black wings beat ineffectually about the Warfarer's helm. 
 He thrust his left hand into the fluttering disturbance, forcing the parchment up close to Dellas' 
beaked face. 
"Take it!" he bellowed, "This instant!  Our I shall squeeze out your vile, unwholesome life, 
and my master be damned!" 
One taloned claw settled harshly about his straining wrist, while the other accepted the 
scroll.  Dembar's Son choked and sputtered.  His ravens' wings worked spasmodically.  Epsilon 
squeezed harder still when the mage hesitated, easing his grip only after he heard the wax seal 
break.  Dellas unrolled the hide and stretched it out, using hand and claw-tipped hind foot to 
effect the effort. 

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Again the wizard paused.  "Read!" commanded Epsilon, adding a prompting kick to the 
demon's groin. 
Dellas began to read.  Things began to change almost immediately. 
His demon form faded, and was replaced by Dellas, the man.  The strange light at 
Epsilon's back, that which shone through the skylights, was bleached of its dappled, multicolored 
hues.  All pattern was gone from those once ornate windows.  Now they were made of nothing 
more than clear panes.  Much of the mystery and intrigue that had infested the building was 
dispelled, and only dust motes remained where whispering shades had lurked. 
Experimentally, the Warfarer loosened his grip.  When Dellas did not respond with foreign 
mumbling, he let go his hold completely and backed away. 
The mage finished reading Pandolyn's scroll, and discarded it to the cluttered top of his 
desk.  He bowed in deference, and made a sign of welcome by rolling his hands around one 
another.  "I am your slave," he intoned.  "I may neither deceive nor harm you in any way, Holy 
Warfarer." 
Epsilon smiled broadly.  It seemed Pandolyn was not without power, after all. 
Dellas retired to his desk to rummage anxiously among its clutter.  With an exasperated 
growl, he swept the papers and scrolls and bits of machinery aside until the table was absolutely 
cleared.  Then he sat at his desk and appeared to stew. 
"It is unfair! Unfair and unjust!" 
The Warfarer wondered what happened to that business about being a slave.  Was this 
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Dembar's Son continued, his tone verging on hysteria, "All the wealth of a lifetime!  My 
wealth!  My lifetime!  Each shekel of it gathered and hoarded, day upon day, year upon year, 
generation upon generation.  Each shekel of it mine!  Not yours!  Not Rit Merdian's, but MINE!" 
 He pouted and stuck out his lower lip like a petulant child. 
Then he smiled suddenly.  "Still, I am your slave.  My purpose is but to serve."  Now he 
extracted a sheet of blank paper from a pigeon hole and reached for a pen, "Even if it means my 
utter financial ruin!"  The mage began scribbling furiously, and moaned, "Damnable hand!  
Treacherous arm!  Do not!  I beg you now, stop!  Stop!  STOP!" he roared at his own 
appendage.  "You would sign my life away!  You would reduce me to a pauper!  Resist!" 
The Ritesmen cocked his head curiously, but recalled Pandolyn's words.  She had said the 
man might act strangely once he read the scroll.  Now he stopped writing, and his left hand 
attacked his right.  As two sparring serpents, his arms vied for control of the quill.  In the end, 
Pandolyn won, and Dellas finished the first letter.  Reluctantly, he reached for a second sheath of 
paper, and dipped his pen to write further. 
The mage growled angrily, and the whole of his body shook with the strain of his resisting 
exertion.  "Not fair!" he gasped, his right hand inching closer and closer to the paper's surface.  
"Not fair!"  Dellas raised a tear stricken, beseeching gaze to Epsilon's dispassionate face.  "Do you 
see how I am undone!  Why should I give it up.  Why.  It is mine!  Enough gold to buy all of 
Oreset ten times over, I think.  More coin than I could count in a month!  Why should you have 
it."  The pen touched down and began leaving a trail of runes as it scratched along.  "Gods curse 
you!" 

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Epsilon could hold his tongue no longer.  "Why should you have so much, wizard, when 
children starve in the street beneath your grimy windows.  I can easily imagine how you came by 
such vast wealth, and the concept of honor does not enter into my thoughts."  He paused a 
moment to ponder the situation, and let his attentions be distracted by the wondrous sculpture 
working at his left flank. 
The Warfarer heaved a reluctant breath.  "Still," he gloomed, "I am loathe to take honest 
money from an honest man.  Tell me truthfully how you came by your riches, and I shall decide 
whether you should keep it." 
Dellas squirmed and made a foul face.  His hand maintained its effort.  "I would rather not, 
and it please you, master." 
"It does not please me.  You are undoubtedly enchanted to obey me in every way, and I 
demand that you tell me all.  I would better understand this larceny I am perpetrating." 
But the little man only squirmed.  He whined and moaned piteously, muttering 
unintelligibly the entire time.  At last he seemed to surrender the contest.  With a sigh, he 
confessed, "It is not honest money, as you might have guessed.  My monetary fortunes were 
amassed with the aid of magic.  I have been skimming off the top of each day's counting.  You 
might have noticed on your way in that the warehouse district is a bit, uhm, inactive. 
"That is a direct result of my ingenuity.  I established a system so insidious and subtle that 
five generations of Oresetian bankers have failed to detect it.  Bit by bit, sheck upon sheck, I bled 
this district dry and came to own nearly all of its lands.  Then I sat to work on the southern 

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precinct until it fell, and next the northern.  Soon it, too, will be bankrupt, and I will turn to the 
east and pluck the final apple." 
Epsilon was aghast.  "It is sheer madness!  Chaos ever skulks just beyond this city's walls, 
and you would conspire to bring those walls down.  Why." 
Dellas finished the second letter of credit, and halted prior to signing it.  “For the sake of 
greater wealth.  In the name of a higher authority.  It was my plan to purchase all of Oreset and its 
surrounding free lands, using the city's own accumulated wealth.  In so doing, I hoped to bring the 
entire population under the guidance of a single leader.  A patriarch, if you will, to lead the people 
into a state of collective enlightenment." 
"A tyrant, you mean, to lead them into slavery."  The Warfarer was unexpectedly angry.  
"And while you hoarded, while you cleverly skimmed from the coffers, Oreset descended into 
blight and neglect.  Its inhabitants starved.  And now children live like rats amid refuse, unloved 
and un-cherished.  Your greed has bred a nation of orphaned vagabonds!" 
Dembar's Son flinched and hurriedly signed the second letter, adding to it a wad of 
vouchers that he drew from his desk.  "This was not my intention.  It seems I overlooked a few 
minor consequences of my endeavors, however, and-” 
"Minor consequences." repeated a stunned Epsilon.  "Have you no shame.  Have you no 
compassion.  What is minor about new life.  What is minor about an innocent child's hopes and 
dreams.  While it was within your power to better their lives, you have instead reached out to do 
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"They are all your little bastards, Dellas, and you have been a neglectful father.  Well, gods 
help me, you will not deny them any longer!" 
The little man shivered, and shrank back into his richly padded chair.  "You have your 
money.  Take it and go.  Spend it where you will." 
"Oh, I will have more than that, ere I leave.  By rights, I should have your life.  And I yet 
may, if you displease me." 
"I should not like to displease you, Holy Warfarer." 
"Good.  Then fetch me all the deeds you are currently holding on Oresetian lands.  All of 
them, Dellas.  To the last number." 
"But I am bound by Rit Merdian's spell only to sign over the coin," he squeaked, cowering 
still further into the soft upholstery at his back.  "Your lady's enchantment said nothing of the 
lands." 
"It is I that speak of the lands.  And I am quite enough." 
"No, you are not.  You have no grasp of ethereal powers, and no authority to bind me in 
spell to anything I would not voluntarily do." 
With a bright flash and ring of grating steel, Epsilon drew his sword and held it ready, 
point up and tilted slightly in Dellas' direction.  "What you say is both true and irrelevant.  Instead 
of debating what I may do, perhaps you should scrutinize what YOU may do.  For an instance, is 
there anything in the world that could prevent me from cutting your miserable throat.  Hmm."  
He let his blade fall into place, and approached the mage casually.  "Is your flesh magically 
armored.  Would it turn aside this keen edge that has severed so many other throats in the past.  

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And if I killed you, what is my loss.  Nothing.  I have everything I need."  Now the point of his 
weapon was buried nicely beneath Dellas' bony chin.  "You, on the other hand, stand to lose 
everything.  What need has a dead man for wealth or lands." 
"I- I can see your point," stammered the slight man.  Indeed, he made a vain effort to 
swallow, but his bobber would not roll past the Warfarer's point. 
Epsilon chuckled blackly and whipped his sword away and sheathed it.  “But take heart, 
villain.  You should view this unfortunate turn of events as a blessing come in disguise!  Now 
your sleep should come a bit easier and your heart beat a bit more softly.  Think of the good you 
will do!" 
Dellas' smiled sickly, and rolled his eyes.  He appeared to lose all sense of balance.  His 
gorge rose, and the little man fought to chew it back.  "All for naught," he whined, rising.  "All for 
nothing.  You have no idea what you undo here, Ritesman.  You have no idea how much time, 
how much careful consideration went into possessing what you are about to steal.  Lifetimes of 
labor undone in an instant," he wailed, moving away from the desk cautiously. 
"It was a twisted sort of labor," growled Epsilon, following close at Dellas' back.  The 
smaller man set off along the balcony.  "It deserved a hasty, untimely end." 
The mage spat.  "What do you know of it.  What do you know of my plans for this city 
and its people." 
"I know you neglected the most vital aspect of any city; its future.  Without taking the 
children's needs into account, you can but sow harm into the world.  And the Wilderlands, I think, 
has enough of harm to go around."  When he noticed the wizard tensing to flee, he prodded the 

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slighter man in his bony ribs.  “Hold there, slave.  We will shortly right a great many of your 
compounded wrongs.  Stay a while and be better for the experience." 
"I am perfect as I am." 
The Ritesman scoffed.  "A perfect ass, perhaps." 
"A man must have something to his favor." 
Dellas crossed over the spacious central atrium at the skywalk, and continued on to the far 
end of the building.  There, in the corner, set into a massive block of granite, they arrived at the 
gleaming door of a safe, which was constructed of polished, shining everwear steel.  Its round 
door had no apparent locking mechanism, as the face was smooth save for a molded indentation 
at its center.  Into this, Dellas fit the stone of one of his many large rings.  Epsilon heard a sound 
of catches releasing and bolts sliding home.  The door popped slightly open.  Dellas reached for 
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But Epsilon extended a hand to stop the wizard.  "It seems unlikely you will have left this 
horde unprotected.  Before you open that hatch, I want your oath that nothing untoward will 
happen." 
The mage squirmed and made a sour face.  "Bah!  Take it then, damn you!  Just take it 
all!" and he opened the safe without activating the booby traps he had installed within. 
Out poured an overflow of neatly folded documents.  Many seemed to be quite old, and 
more than a few were stained with what appeared to be dried blood.  Epsilon retrieved one of 
these and held it up accusingly. 
"What is this, here." he demanded, pointing out the stains.  "Ink." 
"Yes, ink," quipped Dellas brusquely.  Then he cackled madly, "The sort of living ink that 
writes the human word!" 
Epsilon grimaced.  "So magic was not your only wile.  Some of these lands you have 
taken by force." 
"What difference, how they were taken.  Suffice it to say they were taken and let us pass 
on to further business."  He gathered up the bundles by the arm load and carried them over to a 
small table and chair.  Several trips were required to complete the transfer, and Dellas mumbled 
unhappily all the while.  Bearing a final clutch of deeds, he growled, "The carrion's source should 
not concern a buzzard." 
"No, but the stink of it may!" and the Ritesman added a shoving kick that pushed 
Dembar's Son rudely into his seat.  "Now," he commanded softly, menacingly drawing near, "You 

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will sign each and every one of these deeds over to tender.  And no spells and no trickery.  Leave 
a blank space for the recipient's name.  I will fill that in later." 
"Why later.  I could enter your foul name readily enough here and now," derided the 
mage, reaching for a nearby quill and ink well.  "Epsilon Three," he raved angrily, "Slayer and 
thief.  Betrayer of his brothers!"  He signed the document to tender, and tossed it to the floor. 
"Shut up, you!" demanded Epsilon, adding a savage cuff to Dellas' ear. 
"Epsilon Three!" cried Dellas, signing over another deed.  "Soulless ghoul!  Dealer of 
death's shade!" and he tossed the tendered property to the ground, snatching up another.  "Epsilon 
Three!"  He scrawled a flourishing signature.  “Stygian monger!  Lover of hate!"  And tossed the 
papers to the ground.  "Epsilon Three!  Fatherless bastard!  Black hearted beast!" and 
"Motherless swine!  Ignorant animal!" and "Foul reek of Hades!  Beloved son of the underworld!" 
and “Unwholesome spawn of monsters!" and "Creeping murderer of babes!" and “Blood feaster!" 
and "Serpent!" and so forth until the last certificate was endorsed. 
Quite suddenly, the mage fell silent and brooding.  His head was hung and his shoulders 
hunched morosely.  They bobbed and heaved, and only when he heard the squeak of sobs did 
Epsilon realize Dembar's Son was weeping. 
"All gone," he moaned sickly.  "Every sheck.  Every acre.  Mine no more." 
"You have only returned it to the rightful owners." 
Dellas snorted wetly and spat a wad of salty mucous onto the heap of properties.  "There 
is your rightful owner, Damned Ritesman!  Put it in your evening stew and eat it!" 

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Epsilon cautiously stooped to retrieve the soiled papers.  He wiped them clean on Dellas' 
white linen blouse. 
The little clerk was enraged, and leapt unexpectedly at Epsilon like a wild cat, all four 
limbs splayed.  The Warfarer dropped the documents to draw his sword, but quickly ascertained 
that he did not have time.  The quarters were too close.  Instead, he brought up his left forearm to 
block Dellas' attack, and used his right to get a grip on the mage's shirt.  Despite the maniac's 
efforts to bite his hand, Epsilon hefted Dembar's Son up and over his shoulder, and tossed him 
bodily across the balcony rail.  Even as he did so, the clerk's physical form changed fluidly.  The 
man was gone. 
In his place, the raven winged demon was manifest.  It plunged over the edge, only to rise 
again at the center of the atrium, flapping its broad, sable wings.  Dellas the Devil screeched 
angrily. 
It cawed, "You have spawned a black enemy this day, Epsilon Three!  A black enemy 
indeed!  Ever be ware and watch for Dellas at your heel, for I am become your shadow from this 
day forth!"  And it rose with a frustrated roar, smashing through the skylight directly overhead. 
Epsilon leaned carefully over the rail to watch Demon Dellas struggle into the heavens.  A 
rain of glass like white diamonds fell sparkling in the wake of his passage  "Where are those fickle 
illdross, now that I want one." he wondered aloud.  
Then he collected the deeds, along with his letters of credit and vouchers, into the hem of 
his cloak, and returned to ground level.  Returned to Helmcleaver's side, he secured the wealth 
within his baggage and gathered up the stallion's reins to leave. 

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Pushing through the heavily reinforced doors, Epsilon met up with a man that had a look 
of business about him, who seemed intent on entering the Treasury building.  The Warfarer smiled 
politely and nodded, as he led Helmcleaver up and out of the entryway.Epsilon eyed the sky for 
winged monsters, then climbed into his saddle and said, "Do not waste your time here, citizen.  
Dellas Dembar's Son will not be cheating you today."  He heeled his steed around to face the 
street.  "I suggest you try Oreset's eastern changing house.  The stink of corruption is sweeter 
there."  And he gouged his mount into a gentle trot. 

 

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12 

And a King to Sit His Throne 

Epsilon had rounded the headless statue, and was once more progressing along the 
bloodstone wall, when he met up with a fistful of ruffians, led by the offended gatekeeper.  All 
five of the sloppy man's compatriots were large, well armed men, though they were scantily 
armored.  And all appeared to be quite angry. 
"There he is!" shouted the slovenly gatekeeper, handling his crotch obscenely.  "That's him 
that cannot follow directions!  And him that named your mothers for whores!  Have at 'im, boys!" 
And, snarling savagely, the five charged, each raising notched and stained broadswords to 
menace their prey.  Epsilon checked the strap of his helmet and reached for his buckler.  Guiding 
Helmcleaver with his knees, he drew his sword coolly and prepared to meet the assault. 
Some fifty sticks distance separated him from the five swordsmen, and they had to run up 
a slight, curving slope to approach him.  Ever the tactician, Epsilon shook his head 
disapprovingly.  They drew their weapons too soon and charged prematurely.  As they neared, 
the Ritesman guided his stallion across the street and up onto the walk, where it was covered by a 

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low, roofed awning.  There he lingered, until all five men had climbed onto the walk and were 
nearing close enough to swing their weapons. 
With a powerful spring of corded hindquarters, Helmcleaver jumped off the walk and 
came sharply about.  The goons had only just left the raised porch, when Epsilon turned to meet 
them, blustering furiously.  All five had raised their swords overhead to administer chopping 
blows, but had failed to note the awning above.  When they attacked, all five blades sliced 
forward to embed in the cross supports of the low ceiling.  At the sound of steel meeting wood, 
all five raised their stunned eyes in unison, then lowered them again helplessly.  Immediately, they 
began tugging at the hafts of their weapons, eager to re-arm themselves prior to their mounted 
foe's counterattack. 
Meanwhile, Epsilon casually but quickly guided Helmcleaver around to the awning's two 
supporting piers.   At its master's urging, the stallion kicked these out, one by one. 
Now the five assassins were forced to catch the collapsing roof, before it could swing 
down and crush them against the wall.  It was all they could do to hold it up, apparently, and they 
blew and strained to save themselves.  Their blades were, necessarily, forgotten for the moment. 
Epsilon next turned his stern attentions on the gatekeeper, who had turned to flee, while 
cursing the fates of stupid men.  Helmcleaver easily ran the unsavory character down and knocked 
him, sprawling, to the cobblestones.  As he slid, the slovenly man's face scooped through a dense 
pile of fresh manure.  The gatekeeper sputtered and coughed, and wiped the shit from his eyes as 
he rolled over to sit up. 

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The Ritesman laughed heartily.  "The color and smell suit you, citizen.  And the mask is a 
definite improvement over your natural features."  He reseated the Warfarer's ornate blade and 
took up the reins once more.  Helmcleaver circled the prone robber closely, his steel shod hooves 
dashing sparks and sharp splinters from the pavement.  The keeper flinched at every clatter.  
"What a despicable coward you are!  I would dash out your brains on the spot, scum, except for 
the danger of my stallion slipping in the mess!  Now get up!  Get up, damn you!  Your witless 
friends are in need of aid, and you should not abandon them!  Get over there, now, I say!  Raise 
your hands and hold up your share of that roof!"  The gatekeeper took his place in the ranks, and 
performed as instructed. 
Epsilon stood in his stirrups to address the gang as a group.  "Beware!" he intoned, "You 
have all come before a Holy Warfarer of the Martial Rite.  Empowered in the name of Empire as 
Prefect of all these Wilderlands and its peoples, I have summarily judged you and found you guilty 
of wanton criminal behavior.  Your punishment is declared to be death!"  All six men paled to 
hear this, both that they had vainly attempted to assault a Holy Warfarer and that the Warfarer 
had sentenced them to death for their crimes.  "However, in light of this awning's need of your 
collective support, you are hereby redeemed until some kind citizen should come along to replace 
the piers.  I hope for your sake that one happens along soon!" 
Helmcleaver was away at a gallop, and Epsilon found himself sniggering sidelong from the 
corner of his mouth.  Just as he breached the market gate, he heard a loud crash, which was 
followed by tumultuous cursing.  His snigger erupted into gale force laughter, and he hurried back 
to the Swooning Dragon raging with merriment. 

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Back at the inn, he entered into the rear courtyard via the overarched alleyway.  From 
there he penetrated the rundown theater to enter the Captain's Room through its back door, horse 
and all. 
He quickly tucked Helmcleaver into a stall, and removed the most important of his bags 
from the stallion's flanks.  This was, naturally, the one that contained Dellas' purloined loot. 
Mounting the balcony stair, he was met by a pleased Half Pint, "Master!" gushed the 
midget joyously, "I had thought you gone forever!" 
"Not hardly, Half Pint!" he returned enthusiastically, slapping his short friend on the back 
as he passed.  "Come with me, little big man, and we shall discuss this city's fate as its lords!  Cast 
aside that apron and let those mugs alone, for today you are made a god!" 
"W-what of gods." squeaked the halfling uncertainly.  "You jest!" 
"I jest you not.  But wait!" he declared, snapping to a halt.  "I have prior business to 
attend!  Will you be content to play my runner yet a while longer, ere you assume the garb of 
king." 
"I know nothing of kingship, sire, but I am content to run anywhere for a Holy Warfarer!" 
"Then first tell me, is there a boy enquiring after me in the great hall.  A boy of fourteen." 
"Aye, sire, there was, him and a gaggle of noisy little ones.  But I ran them off this 
morning." 
"Ran him off.  No, no, no.  That is no good, my friend.  A king must have an army and an 
army must have an armorer!  You have just driven yours away like a mangy cur!"  He laughed to 
see the midget's stunned face, "Go and call him back.  If I know that miscreant, he will be lurking 

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just beyond the doors.  And while you are about it, search me out, ah, uhm, (damnation, what did 
Pandolyn call him.) ah, yes!  Search me out the esteemed Captain Tipper.  I would have words 
with him about his Lucky Lady." 
A plethora of emotions crossed Half Pint's face while Epsilon spoke, all in a mad moment. 
 Disbelief.  Happiness.  Surprise.  Shock.  Confusion.  And disbelief, once again. 
"But, sire," he hedged, "You have already had words with Captain Tipper.  I have not 
seen Vespuzia since last night.  His fate remains a mystery." 
"Vespuzia.  What has he to do with this." 
"Vespuzia IS Captain Tipper.  I thought you knew." 
Epsilon was not utterly amazed to hear it.  Pandolyn's magic worked in an obtusely direct 
manner, it seemed. 
"Very well, fetch me Vespuzia.  Tell him I would save his ship from the harbor master." 
Half Pint's eyes gleamed, and his grin broadened impossibly.  "You see!" he cried, 
stumbling down the stairs to hurry on his way, "You see!  The best!  I knew you would want the 
very, very best!" 
The Ritesman went to the balcony rail, and leaned over it to call down, “Can you find him 
on such short notice, then.  Good!  Good!   But hurry.  Something tells me I will have need to 
depart Oreset before sunset." 
Half Pint nodded and waved and stumbled a few steps further.  Epsilon had left the rail, 
but returned when he recalled another matter.  "And the boy!  Do not forget the boy!  Send him 
up with ink and pen!" 

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"Of course, master.  He shall be along presently! " 
Whistling tunelessly, the Warfarer returned to his table of the previous night, the one 
before the east windows, and saluted the grim faces he met along the way.  None of them 
returned his greetings, but neither did they offer up insult. 
Before the sun had climbed much higher above the burning Desert Ocean, he was 
distracted by a meek coughing.  Peering over the balcony rail, he saw Vernin standing in a dung 
pile down in the sty below, staring up at him expectantly.  The boy cleared his throat nervously 
upon capturing Epsilon's attention, and averted his gaze.  He seemed to notice where he was 
standing for the first time, and jumped out of the manure as though it were scalding. 
"I have come, Sir Epsilon, as commanded," stated the youth softly.  He shifted from foot 
to foot and would not look up again.  His hands worked at relentlessly crimping a worn linen hat. 
 "Mind you, I expect nothing for my effort.  You have commanded me, and I, uhm, er, I have 
come.  That is all." 
"Mount the steps, then, and come all the way.  I would have a few private words with you 
at my table." 
The boy ascended slowly, stolidly, one step at a time.  He seemed bound to a gallows, 
rather than a greater destiny, as his head was hung and his shoulders bowed leadenly.  When he 
arrived at Epsilon's table, he deposited the quills and ink well, then simply stood there silently, his 
hands dangling limply at his sides. 

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"Have a seat, boy, and raise your head."  When Vernin was seated across the table and his 
gaze had risen to Epsilon's chin, the Warfarer continued, "I should like to know if you have the 
stuff of a man in you."  Vernin said nothing.  "Well.  Have you." 
"The stuff of a man, sir." 
"Precisely.  Do you prefer thievery to an honest day's work.  If I filled your hand with a 
hammer and placed an anvil before you, would you use them or sell them.  If I secured for you a 
smithery and procured contracts for your service, would you conduct your business honestly and 
fairly.  Or would you be greedy and underhanded." 
"Beg pardon, sire, but I do not understand any of this business.  Your words are most 
generous.  I have considered them all through the night, scarcely sleeping, and I have decided 
there must be something amiss.  Something horribly amiss." 
"Oh.  And what have you concluded this to be." 
"With all due respect, my liege, it is my belief that you have called me here to face the 
Mariner's Tribunal.  It is customary to save at least one man for an example, is it not." 
"Yet I am not a captain."  Epsilon waved the youth's fears aside and eased back 
comfortably in his chair.  "No, Young Vernin, I have not called you here to lop off your head.  
Rather, I have called you here to save it." 
"Save it how.  Do you really mean to offer me a smithery, complete with tools." 
"Aye, and more business than you can handle in ten years!  We are going to rearm this 
tired old Oreset, Vernin, and set her people on the path to freedom.  Yours will be the strong 
arms to forge her new iron bones!  Yours and your brothers’ when they are of age." 

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Vernin's head seemed to reel.  "I am dreaming, or you are playing some sort of nasty 
game.  Only last night I conspired to rob and murder you, and now you say I am to be... to be... I 
know not what all!  And I am not certain I should even guess."  The boy's face was pale, but he 
braved Epsilon's stern gaze briefly to demand, "Tell me now, sir, to my face.  Is this all right and 
true." and he held it there until the Warfarer nodded, smiling. 
"You see, there is a glimmer of manhood yet burning in your eyes, Vernin.  I saw it there 
last night, and it seems I was not deceived.  Perhaps it is your youth, or your upbringing.  
Whatever its nature, something sets you apart from the scum of this city.  Last night you verged 
on plunging into Oreset's sordid depths, but I suspect you would not prefer a life of robbery and 
murder, had you other options." 
"Indeed, it is so.  I am no thief by nature, lord.  But I was, I was hungry... and desperate.  
Not just for myself, you understand, but for my brothers and sisters.  Since my mother died and 
we were cast out into the street, they have suffered piteously." 
"Yet you have not abandoned them.  Surely it would have been the easiest thing to do." 
"I could not." 
"You would rather risk your life to feed them than let them eat from the garbage.  Again, 
the man rears its head within the boy."  Epsilon sighed, and indicated the remainder of the pub's 
patrons with a curt sweep of his hand.  “Who can say how many of these other vagabonds might 
have grown straight and true, but for hunger and lack of a home.  Who can say what might have 
become of you and your little family, had the black hearted Dellas had his way.  Certainly nothing 
good.  Yet his plans have been foiled.  And you have been saved as a consequence." 

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Despite his apparent confusion, Vernin stated, "I have heard the name Dellas.  Has 
something happened to him." 
"Something good.  But never mind that business for now.  Let us, instead, discuss the 
disposition of your smithery and what all I would have you finish for me." 
"I am listening to your words, sire." 
"First, we must address your need of security.  We cannot have thieves burglarizing your 
shop every time your back is turned, nor can we allow you to suffer threat from the thugs that 
seem to love this place.  Your smithery should be housed in a secure compound, one with high 
walls, sound defenses, an independent water supply, and barracks for a garrison.  Can you name 
such a place." 
The boy screwed up his face thoughtfully, and started shaking his head slowly.  Then he 
stopped and declared, "Yes!  The old royal palace." 
"I heard it had burned." 
"The main house and servants quarters went up a while back, but the barracks and such 
remain standing.  And it has several wells within its walls." 
"The palace, hmm, let us see," drawled Epsilon.  Hefting his lone bag into his lap, the 
Ritesman rummaged within it until he found a particular document.  “Ah, here it is.  What would 
you say if I told you that the old royal palace belongs to me.  It is an excellent choice for you, I 
think, but now I am in a quandary," he gloomed.  "Where shall I install Oreset's new king, if you 
have taken the palace." 

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Something about this particular deed caught Epsilon's eye (besides the dark, ichor blood 
stain on its outer sheath), and he fluttered its contents open curiously.  A handful of titles fell out, 
each addressing individual structures and plots of lands within the subdivided palatial property.  
He selected one that pertained to a large barn, and another that belonged to an adjoining 
liveryman's quarters. 
"What is your formal name, Vernin." 
"Vernin Lassiter's Son." 
"Lassiter, eh.  It is good to know your father's name."  Epsilon picked up a quill and 
dabbed it in ink.  He fixed the boy's name into the blank that declared the new landowner.  "And 
now, Son of Lassiter, you are a man of property.  Here is your smithery and a new home for your 
family." 
The boy accepted with trembling hands, and mumbled over the words scribed upon the 
deeds.  He could read enough to recognize his name, at least, and a few of the most obvious 
details. 
"Once I have installed the king within his seat of power, he shall have an army, and need 
of a good smith.  We will garrison the estate to keep you both safe, thereby slaying two dragons 
with a single stroke.  What do you think." 
"It all sounds wonderful, master.  Except that Oreset has no king.  None of the royal blood 
remains." 
Epsilon shrugged.  "What is royal blood, after all, but blood.  What is a king but a man of 
great wealth and property.  Today, Oreset shall have a new king." 

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Vernin blinked uncertainly.  At last, he burst out, "Who will it be." 
"Here he comes now!" declared Epsilon happily, indicating Half Pint with a flourish.  
"Behold, the new king!  King Half Pint!" 
The halfling blushed at what he thought to be a cruel joke.  To stave off further verbal 
assault, he huffed, "I have sent word to the Lucky Lady.  Nobody has seen her captain of late, but 
the crew should know where to find him.  I suspect he will turn up shortly." 
"Fine.  Good work, m'sieur."  Epsilon stood to welcome the small man to a seat at his 
table.  He chided playfully, "You have not yet discarded your apron, I see.  Is it force of habit, or 
a longing for eternal mediocrity.  It is certainly no fit attire for a citadel's lofty master!" 
"What is this talk of kings and kingdoms, sire.  The jest is lost on me." Half Pint effected a 
pained expression, but accepted the offered seat. 
"As I have told you, it is no jest.  How would you like to be king of Oreset, my friend." 
"King.  Of Oreset.  But the city has no king." 
"Precisely.  Which means it is in sore need of one.  A fair king.  An honest king.  A wise, 
educated king.  I think it needs you, Half Pint.  Will you accept." 
"I- I cannot say," he stammered, glancing back and forth between Epsilon and Vernin.  
The boy only grinned and shrugged his shoulders, a pleasantly puzzled expression on his face.  
"What I mean is, providing you had the means to install me as such, I should like to know more 
about this confusion." 
"Wisely spoken.  And more you shall know.  What questions would you ask." 

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Half Pint paused to ponder.  At length he stated, "First, I should like to know why you 
have chosen me.  Then I should like to know why you believe a mere, weak halfling could rule in 
dominion over greater men.  How would such a thing come into being." 
Epsilon warmed to the discussion, and leaned forward to place his elbows on the table top. 
 "All good questions.  I have chosen you, Half Pint, because you are the best example I could find 
in this miserable city.  There are, perhaps, wiser me, and perhaps more honest, yet I have not the 
time to search them out.  As for this question of your strength, it is true that physically you are 
weaker than most men, but this means nothing to a king.  A king who wields a loyal and mighty 
army, that has stout men at arms at his beck and call, and magistrates and executioners to deal 
with wayward ruffians.  I would not set you up as ruler without the strong right arm that is 
needed to pound that rule home. 
"No, these people have been lawless too long to expect their un-protesting submission."  
He produced the remainder of the palace's deeds and fluttered them happily.  "That is why you 
shall have a stronghold from which to make law, and a garrison to defend that stronghold.  What 
is your given name, Emmal's Son." 
Half Pint was shocked, and his mouth dropped.  "You- You know my father's name." 
"Aye.  He was a good man, of good reputation.  Why should I not know of him."  Epsilon 
smiled ruefully to see his little mate's pleased expression.  "But surely he did not name you Half 
Pint.  It is too derogatory a title to have from a loving father." 
"So I have often thought, but it is not a self-given moniker.  My real name is Ipani.  Or so 
my mother called me." 

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"Ipani Emmal's Son," spoke Epsilon, reaching for the quill once more.  He signed over the 
remainder of the palatial properties, and presented these endorsed rights of ownership to the 
halfling.  "Here is your stronghold, King Ipani.  I have taken the liberty of granting young Vernin, 
here, the rights to a large barn and liveryman's quarters on the same grounds.  You shall have to 
build another stables, but you gain an onsite armory.  And now, I suppose, you should meet your 
armorer, who even now sits at your side.  Vernin Lassiter's Son, meet King Ipani of Oreset, Son 
of Emmal the Great!" 
The two stunned men turned to nod at one another and shake hands.  Epsilon took the 
opportunity to heft the bag of titles onto the table. 
"Here," he intoned proudly, "Is your kingdom.  I know not how much of Oreset's real 
property lies within, but I suspect it to be a majority.  At the least, you are the most well endowed 
single landowner in all the city.  From the start, you will command more of it than all the members 
of the so called Round Table together, and it would be my advice that you initiate your dominion 
by purging Oreset of those whore mongers first.  They are an exploitive blight on your people, 
Sire, and can only oppose your right to rule." 
"'Sire.'" repeated an owlish Ipani.  "My people.  Right to rule.  Really, Master Warfarer, 
you carry this game too far!" 
"Too far.  We have not yet pressed far enough.  There are many wrongs to right here, 
many injustices to set straight.  Not the least of which is the garbage in the street and the lost 
children that live upon it.  As king, you must do something about this vexing problem right away." 
 Epsilon emptied the bag's contents and spread the documents out liberally across the table.  "We 

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have need of a large school house, one with many dormitories clustered close about.  It should be 
near the king's palace, if possible.  Vernin, what would you suggest." 
The lad considered the question for a moment, and offered hesitantly, “The old foundry 
near the market place comes to mind.  I apprenticed for a smith there, ere it closed, and many 
suitable apartments inhabit the area, as I recall." 
Epsilon turned an inquisitive eye on King Ipani, who shrugged and stated, “It sounds to be 
an excellent choice." 
Searching among the many papers, Epsilon turned up the titles in question and presented 
them to Emmal's Son.  "Sign these over at once to your Ministry of Youth and Education.  It is 
my wish that you house, clothe, feed and educate any of Oreset's children beneath the age of 
thirteen that lack a proper home and family.  You should set aside lands outside the city's walls 
that will be dedicated to supporting this cause, and you must restore the buildings and requisition 
learning materials.  Naturally, you will need to find a director for this department.  I suggest you 
hire a woman to fill the post, Sire.  They tend to be more robust in the rearing of children, and are 
miserly in the dispensing of a budget. 
"Speaking of which, you will have need of at least three other departments from the start, 
if your reign is to prosper.  You will require a Ministry of Justice, with all its judges and 
magistrates and sheriffs and deputies.  And you will also require a Ministry of Law to tabulate and 
legitimize your royal decrees and proclamations.  They will need to draw up a Governmental 
Charter and perhaps establish some form of lower bureaucracy.  But these matters are mere 
details.  Finally, you will have need of an accounting department to handle your financial affairs; 

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the establishment and collection of taxes, for instance, and the maintenance of your royal payroll. 
Again, these are mere symptoms of a society, and might be postponed at least temporarily. 
"When you do select men to fill these posts, however, I can only urge you to chose wisely. 
 Do not give any one man or department too much power, and make certain that all vital aspects 
of your government have checks to ensure their nominal control.  Never let the hound watch the 
henhouse alone, but put a hound on the hound, and a hound on the hound on the hound, if need 
be.  Do you understand, King Ipani." 
The halfling nodded, pale.  "I understand that I am about to be sick all over my kingdom's 
holdings." 
"But choke upon your gorge yet a moment longer," chuckled the Warfarer as he searched 
among the deeds for suitable properties, briefly examining the common city map affixed to the 
front of each document, which identified names and locations.  "I must find you a court and 
sheriff's buildings.  Here and here, these should do nicely.  And now for your accountant's 
offices... hmm, it should be something stylish and neat, something well centered for the 
maintenance of a healthy commerce... ah, here it is!  The Fourth Precinct Treasury Building!  A 
most excellent choice, Sire, as all your cash is currently stored within its vaults.  Sign it over to 
the department, if you please, and these others, too."  He proffered the properties in question and 
Ipani signed.  "Excellent! 
"Now your dominion is structured.  All that remains is the appointment of key personnel 
and a few legal formalities.  Bind these together on parchment in the language of your courts, and 
there you have it!  The Kingdom of Oreset!" 

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Half Pint shook his round head negatively.  "I do not see an army in these papers.  And, 
even if I did, what is to keep that army bound to a dwarf's rule." 
"What always binds men to a king's rule.  Money.  Land.  Your army should be well fed 
and well paid, but only by your hand.  Your hand that can take as easily as give.  Provide them 
and their families with comfortable dwellings, and threaten to spill them into the street at the first 
sign of revolt.  Muster an elite core of loyal and fanatical men, if you will, that can ruthlessly and 
amorally prosecute your political will among the general ranks.  Establish an officer's corps, and 
behead the first of them that so much as thinks of sedition.  Set a few examples among your lower 
ranks with the flog.  Blood a few of the jokers, and the rest of your men will not laugh when these 
crack wise.  In dealing with your army, you must be stern and fearless.  Do not hesitate to call 
upon the executioners in matters of treachery and disobedience. 
"In this way, you will prevent such matters from being reared against you, and you will 
garner a grudging respect among your men at arms.  And do not consider for an instant your 
diminished stature.  Some of the greatest military minds in history have been short men.  It is not 
your height they will look to in times of need, but your leadership." 
Ipani protested, "But I am not a leader of men, Holy Warfarer!  I have no experience!" 
"But you have.  I see the way you handle your underlings at the Swooning Dragon.  
Ruling Oreset will be no different.  You merely decide what needs to be done, formulate a plan of 
doing it, gather up the necessary men and supplies, then set out to finish the job.  Simple. 
"As for experience, you do not need it.  What you need is money and property, which you 
have in plenty.  Just glancing through your current holdings, I see you have title to much of the 

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free lands outside the walls.  Therefore, it is you and your government that will feed the people in 
the future.  Without your benevolence, they will starve. 
"And let you be generous during the first few years.  Feed the hungry, heal the sick, house 
the homeless, employ the unemployed.  There is much that needs to be done in this city.  Establish 
a vast public works to rebuild the walls and pave the streets and clean away the filth.  Pay your 
workers well, you have enough money to do so for a time.  Once the economy is primed with 
enough free cash, jobs will arise where only poverty existed before, and you will see an explosion 
of growth. 
"Your first priority should be the reconstruction of the bloodstone wall that surrounds 
your so called market.  This was a primary interior defense at one time, and I suspect your last 
king once used it to protect the heart of his governmental works.  All of the changing houses are 
installed within, as are a great many other public buildings.  As you will see from the deeds you 
have signed, I have selected your courts and other departmental buildings from within this 
structure's domain.  There they can be easily patrolled and defended by the garrison of your 
palace, which also lies within the bloodstone's harboring arms. 
"While you are about these repairs, have your palace reconstructed.  Hire up all the 
masons and carpenters and artisans that you can, and finish it quickly.  This alone should be a 
significant symbol of your might and will and authority.  Yet be careful not to be too lavish in its 
construction.  Keep your home simple and rather plain, that the people might see you live and 
work humbly, as they do.  Keep few servants and no slaves.  When you travel, travel well 

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protected, but ride your own horse.  Show them that you breathe the same air, and they will not 
be dishonored to breathe it with you." 
Ipani remained skeptical.  He shifted uncomfortably in his comfortable seat.  "Your words 
make it sound so easy and pleasant.  Yet I am not certain I would relish such responsibility and 
power.  And still I see no loyal army in these plans you have devised!" 
Epsilon made a placating motion with his hands.  "I will explain the recruitment of your 
armed forces presently.  First I must know, will you accept this charge of kingship I am offering, 
if I provide you with a private force of loyal men." 
"With a personal army to guard my riches, how could I refuse." 
"Then let me divulge my martial plans for the resurrection of Oreset's army."  Epsilon 
reached for and enjoyed a chaw of jillroot, despite his empty stomach, and masticated thoughtfully 
for a bit.  When he spoke it was with a deliberate, professional tone, and there was not the 
slightest doubt in his words. 
"As king, your first order of business should be the removal of all potential rivals to your 
rule.  The Home Guard and the round table of rogues are your greatest threats in this regard, as I 
see it.  Fortunately for your needs, however, these two forces are opposed, which means you may 
play them relatively effortlessly, one against the other.  It is my opinion, Sire, that you should 
favor the Home Guard in these games, and use its ranks as the core of your new army. 
"Recruit them with promises of better and more plentiful daily rations, as well as a 
monthly payroll.  Add to that the incentive of new weapons and armor, and you are halfway 
home.  Once you have them twitching on your fishing line, bait them further with a promise of 

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rent free housing for the duration of their enlistment.  And, finally, let them know that your first 
priority as their commander in chief will be the round table's immediate destruction.  This last item 
should cement the deal, and there you will have a raw but serviceable armed force. 
"Before you move them in large numbers into your palace walls, however, you must 
stockpile resources.  Food and such arms as may be scrounged from existing stores, along with a 
plentiful supply of raw iron and its alloying metals.  This is where Vernin will be of invaluable 
service.  It is his smithery that will hammer out these raw materials at break neck pace, fashioning 
new shields and swords and helms and easily worked plate mail.  You will need leather by the 
long yard and plenty of good linen.  Settle on a coat of arms and hire a horde of seamstresses to 
fashion new uniforms and sew blazons onto your troops' leather jerkins.  Hire cobblers and shoe 
them with good, stout boots.  You will need master armorers, I suppose, and carpenters that can 
carve bows and manufacture a ton or so of arrows in short order.  Install them all behind the 
walls, ere you garrison the palace. 
"Then garrison it in force!  Make a display of your actions.  Let the people and the round 
table witness an exodus of grim, determined, armed men from outer wall to inner.  Let them see 
clearly that the old palace is to be the new palace, and that no amount of aggression or resistance 
can see the matter undone.  Let them hear the ringing of Vernin's hard hammer and smell the reek 
of his forges.  Let them gather outside your high walls and hear the clatter and rattle of men 
training for war.  Let them hear hundreds of humming bows and the whistle of a thousand arrows 
as they streak home to target. 

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"As soon as you have established the ranks and worked some of the fat off their collective 
midriffs, post an initial set of Royal Decrees throughout the city.  Allow three days or so of grace, 
then send out your men to implement your laws with all harshness.  Gather up the round table 
criminals and try them publicly in your new courts.  If they are sentenced to death, execute them 
publicly, as well.  Let the people see blood, then show them your new schools and charities.  Feed 
them afterwards, free of charge.  Declare a holiday, if you will, and amnesty for all hungry 
children under age thirteen. 
"Call the city's orphans in from the garbage heaps and offer them a generous king's love.  
Then eradicate the garbage heaps, altogether.  If you can do these things, you can be a great man, 
King Ipani, however small you may seem to be." 
Half Pint smiled.  "It is too good.  Too good to be true." 
"Only if you deny me.  What say you, Ipani Emmal's Son.  Will you honor your father and 
all those starving children by accepting the challenge I have laid before you.  Will you be King of 
Oreset." 
The midget glanced uncertainly at Vernin, who nodded his encouragement, grinning 
broadly.  "I will make your swords sharp and true!  No flesh or armor shall withstand your will!" 
Then he turned his gaze on the Warfarer.  Who assured him, "You can do it, little big man. 
 I will catalogue the details in writing for you, ere I leave, that you should miss no slightest trick.  
What do you say." 
"I say yes!" blurted the halfling, all but delirious.  "Damnation and good news!  I say yes, 
Holy Warfarer!  Yes and yes again!" 

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"Fine, fine," applauded Epsilon, clapping his mate on the back.  "Then let us get started at 
once.  Little time remains me."  He pushed the pile of deeds over to Ipani's side of the table, and 
offered him the quill.  "Sign these over to yourself, Your Highness, then I shall accompany you 
back to the Treasury to claim your lands formally.  And," he added, "To register this," presenting 
the first letter of credit, the one without vouchers.  Half Pint accepted it, and his eyes bulged to 
see how much money he was holding.  "It is but the first installment.  I have here another letter 
with vouchers, but I need some of these funds to outfit my voyage across the Desert Ocean." 
Half Pint blustered, "It is indeed a royal sum, Holy Warfarer, and fit for a king!  But is it 
real.  I am stunned beyond certain sight!" 
"It is real enough, Your Highness.  But I warn you, use it only for the good of the people. 
 Do not let these riches get to your head.  They are yours, but only so long as you do not neglect 
the city's orphaned children or the walls that keep them safe from harm." 
"It will be done as you have designed, master.  It will be a happy labor, too!" 
"Good.  Now finish the endorsement of these titles.  I have further business with Young 
Vernin."  To whom he turned and next addressed.  "I want you to run a few errands for me, boy.  
First, I want you to hire criers to go about the city, warning that a Holy Warfarer of the Martial 
Rite has journeyed from Empire to set this town aright.  Then get down to the market and 
purchase dried goods and enough water to supply a large ship on a long voyage, including extra 
water for my mount.  Also, purchase ten thousand pounds of polished niter.  Make certain all 
goods are of high quality, then have it boarded onto the Lucky Lady.  You will find her at the 
docks under the harbor master's impound.  I authorize you to pay all necessary fees and bribes to 

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accomplish this, and to get her cleared for sailing this afternoon.  Use these vouchers, I will give 
you five," and he dolled them out, "One each for criers, food and water, polished niter, and harbor 
master's fees.  The fifth is for grain fodder, oats if you can find them.  Get the best and get it in 
abundance, Helmcleaver has a refined palate.  And be certain that no other hands come into 
contact with your purchases between market and Lucky Lady's holds." 
Epsilon removed five more blank vouchers and held them up.  "These are for you when 
the task is done.  They are cleared to draw a maximum of fifty thousand shecks each at the 
Precinct Four Treasury.  Use them in this manner, King Ipani will see that it is so:  Use one to 
refurbish your home on the palace grounds.  Use another to buy household goods and wares and 
clothing for your family.  Use the third to purchase a private stock of raw materials for your 
smithery, which materials will be available for work other than your royal labors.  The fourth will 
buy your tools, including fuel and forges.  And the fifth is for cash. These funds are yours above 
and beyond whatever fees you and the royal army should haggle between you.  I trust the king 
will be most forthright and fair in his dealings with you." 
"Aye," inserted the busy halfling, his right hand working with the quill.  "I will order light 
armor and weapons for a force of one thousand men on the spot." 
The Warfarer beamed.  "There!  You see.  You already have need of apprentices and 
lesser smiths!" 
Vernin blushed happily and sputtered, but found nothing to say.  He clutched his deeds 
and vouchers, and simply looked stunned. 

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"Well." demanded the Ritesman playfully, "What delays you, boy.  Inform your family of 
the good news and get down to the market.  You have a busy day ahead!" 
"Aye!  As you command, so shall it be!"  The youth stood clumsily, and stumbled over 
Half Pint.  "Beg pardon, Half P-, I mean, Your Majesty!  Have no fears, Holy Warfarer, your ship 
shall be freed and laden before sunset!" and he charged down to the balcony stairs.  Descending 
these, he cried joyously, "The King is come again!  Long live the King!"  Then he disappeared 
into the great hall and was gone. 
As he signed title after title, including all subtitles that he encountered, Ipani expressed his 
grave doubts.  "I am afraid of failure, sir.  How can I become a king." 
"As I have already instructed.  It will be an easier matter than you think, with careful 
planning and conscientious execution of those plans. 
"The core of my strategy is a precisely timed occupation of your stronghold.  You must 
gather your materiel covertly at first, compiling it within the palace's walls as best you are able.  
Then march your forces in all at once.  Take a month or so to consolidate and rearm your troops, 
making your presence generally known.  I will warn you now that there are some rotten apples in 
your ranks, not the least of which is the marketplace gatekeeper.  Hang them in bunches!  Be 
harsh with criminals that would serve you, for they are just as easily turned to treachery as they 
are to larceny and extortion.  It is a rude remark, but adorn your parapets with severed heads on 
pikes if you must. 
"When you are ready, post your first Royal Decrees, and declare a holiday for, say, a week 
after grace expires.  In the time intervening, round up the city's worst criminals, including the 

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round table's members, and hold them for a quick trial.  On the day of your holiday, behead the 
villains and hold a feast to toast their purging deaths.  Stage a crowning ceremony after the people 
have fed and are drunk, then announce the many public works you will have enacted and 
sponsored by then. Once you secure the function of your royal bureaucracy, the citizens will 
respond to and respect it. 
"I tell you, Ipani, Oreset is crying out for a governing hand.  Feed the children.  Employ 
the people.  Repair the walls.  Love them with material things, and they will return your love with 
immaterial support.  Become a stern but doting father to your people, and they will in turn 
become your obedient children."  Epsilon paused to think a moment, then added, "And promote 
yourself positively.  By which I mean, send criers and heralds throughout the city to announce 
your decrees and charitable opportunities.  Whenever you put a man to work, make certain he 
knows that you are responsible for hiring him.  Alter the drab coinage of this tired economy, 
replacing it with your own image cast in a bright, hopeful setting.  Be seen where improvements 
are made to the city, and alongside your judges when they condemn wicked criminals to deserved 
deaths.  Equate yourself with progress and beneficent change wherever possible." 
"Do I have enough money to do all these things." 
"You saw the letter of credit." 
"But how much is required to run a government.  I will go broke within six month's time." 
"Not if you handle affairs properly.  Establish taxes as law, and enforce the law sternly, 
excluding your armed forces from raiding your pockets illegally.  Since your army will receive a 

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monthly wage, they will have no need to dip into your coffers.  If they do, chop the first few 
greedy hands off and the stumps will dip no more." 
"It sounds harsh." 
"Being king can be a harsh business.  But I suspect living life as a dwarf among tall men is 
also a harsh sort of business." 
Ipani blushed, but did not pause his hurried signing.  "I have tried not to let the abuse 
corrupt me.  I have endeavored to be strong." 
"And it shows. Do not worry, my friend.  All will go well enough.  Are you finished.  All 
are signed.  Good, then let us make our way to the Treasury to solidify your rule.  From there, I 
would have you wander down to market and watch over the boy discretely.  Make certain he is 
not cheated and that he does not cheat." 
"Never let the hound watch the henhouse alone, eh.  Who will be watching over me, I 
wonder." 
"Does anybody dare watch over a king conducting his business." 
"Or a Holy Warfarer conducting his." 
"Never on both counts.  Let us go, then, King Ipani.  On to fame!  On to fortune!" 
"But wait!" protested Half Pint, as Epsilon gathered up the titles.  "Might I have this one, 
here, to keep a moment." 
"It is yours.  Do with it as you wish." 
Ipani smacked his lips and lifted the freshly signed deed.  "This, above all else that has 
transpired today, is a dream come true.  For this, Sir Epsilon, is the Swooning Dragon!" 

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As he stood, the Ritesman replied, "I had wondered about that.  What will you do with it. 
 Replace your old boss." 
The little man was aghast, "Never, sir!  The master of this house has been a kind and 
decent man.  Like you, he has never held my stature against me, but rather offered me a job when 
other proprietors drove me off as a freak.  He has long suffered the high cost of renting this place, 
though its owner was unknown to him.  Once, he told me that demons would come in the night to 
make certain he was not late with the payments.  I thought he was joking."  Ipani stood and 
followed Epsilon down the stairs.  "Now he shall be rewarded for his kind treatment of me.  Am I 
being too extravagant, in your opinion." 
The Ritesman shrugged his broad shoulders as he stomped along.  "It is the nature of a 
king to reward his loyal subjects.  But tell me, what was his rent." 
"Ten thousand shecks a month." 
"Ten thousand is quite a sum.  It would feed many children.  Still, you can afford it, I 
suppose.  But instruct the proprietor to offer all members of his staff a substantial raise.  I do not 
appreciate the rate he pays his darning ladies." 
Half Pint smiled, nodding.  While Epsilon readied Helmcleaver, the halfling dashed off to 
complete his own business.  As the midget's absence stretched on indecently, the Warfarer grew 
impatient, and retired to the porch to be rid of the sty's reek.  There he enjoyed a rushed breakfast 
of warm wine and hard, dried venison.  When Ipani reappeared, the Ritesman enquired, "Well.  
How did he accept your offer." 

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"With much disbelief.  I do not think the reality of it will fully settle upon his shoulders 
until he registers the property with the land office." 
"And how did giving the gift make you feel." 
"Kingly, I think." 
Epsilon climbed into his saddle and helped Half Pint up behind him.  "Your generosity is 
commendable, Ipani, but do not let it get the better of you.  A king does not keep his kingdom by 
giving it away, deed by deed." 
"Of course not, Sir Epsilon.  I do not intend to form a habit of it." 
"See that you do not," stated the dour swordsman, kicking Helmcleaver out into the 
courtyard and around to the street. 
They rode along in silence, with Epsilon mentally ordering his preparations for the long, 
hot journey ahead, and Ipani cataloguing his vast holdings that were buildings he had been barred 
from entering all his life.  The little man was thinking of enemies he could now depose, of 
supporters he could promote.  He was thinking of all the good works that needed doing and how 
he might set about seeing them done.  And he was thinking of all the miserable, starving children 
they passed on the street, and of how their lives had changed for the better without their 
awareness.  He had never really noticed how many they were, or how sickly.  Give me a double 
fortnight, he thought, and you shall have beds and hot meals every night. 
All too quickly, they were arrived at the bloodstone wall and its gate.  The gatekeeper was 
there, as always, but today he sported a nasty gash at his hairline.  He glanced at his feet upon 

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seeing Epsilon and his mount, then shuffled off into the shadows, apparently intent on urgent 
business of some kind. 
"Do you see that devil, there, Ipani.  Get rid of him and his ilk, first thing.  He is not fit to 
serve in any uniform other than that of a state's prisoner."  Upon spying a few of the keeper's 
mates lurking in the mouth of the alleyway he added, "And a condemned prisoner, at that." 
Half Pint nodded soberly.  "He will be dealt with at the earliest possible moment." 
The Ritesman grunted.  "It will be long and difficult work, ridding this town of miscreants 
and criminals, but do not surrender the struggle until it is finished.  You should construct a large 
penitentiary, I think.  Maybe two.  And plenty of gallows." 
"I do not like the thought of hanging a man, sir." 
"Do you like the thought of child murderers and rapists running amok in your kingdom.  
How will you restore order with such vermin prospering in the cracks, ready to monger chaos at 
the first opportunity.  No, round them up and deal with them harshly, Your Highness.  All of 
them.  Once the work is finished, your city will be better for it, as will its general population." 
"Your are most correct, of course.  It is a role I do not relish, but neither will I shrink from 
it." 
"If it bothers you, leave the work up to your magistrates and such.  Stay away from the 
gallows." 
"No, I am not so queasy as all that.  There may, however, be better solutions than that of 
outright execution.  Perhaps you are right in suggesting the construction of large penitentiaries.  I 
could imprison the bastards, and use them as cheap labor in the course of public works." 

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Epsilon nodded respectfully.  "A novel idea, King Ipani.  I am certain Vernin would be 
happy to fashion you several hundred sticks worth of stout chains and leg irons.  You could 
always execute those that refused to work." 
The halfling grimaced, but said nothing.  Presently, they rounded the headless statue and 
were climbing up the low hill to the Precinct Four Treasury building.  Off in the distance, only just 
audible over the growing din of a stirring city, they heard a hoarse crier shouting, "HEAR YE 
ONE AND ALL!  AN EMPIRICAL WARFARER OF THE MARTIAL RITE HAS ENTERED 
INTO ORESET!  HE IS CHARGED WITH SETTING THIS CITY'S AFFAIRS INTO ORDER! 
 NEW LAW HAS COME TO THE LAND!  CRIMINALS ARE WARNED!  BEWARE!  
BEWARE!  HEAR YE ONE AND ALL..." 
And so it continued.  The Ritesman smiled and eyed the towering warehouses warily.  
Was that a shadow in the shape of a raven winged demon. 
They arrived at the changing house and pushed through its now open doors.  A pair of old 
men were busy cleaning up a sparkling pile of shattered glass, which lay in the middle of the 
ground floor. 
As soon as they entered, a stoop-shouldered old man approached and enquired, "May I 
help you, m'sieur.  Have you business with the Treasury." his tone was placating.  He eyed 
Epsilon's tall lean form and was dismayed by his rough cut and shining weapons.  "Or have you 
simply come to rob us again." 
The Ritesman was taken aback.  "Beg pardon.  What do you mean 'again'." 

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The clerk indicated the mess beyond the stairs with a motion of his bony left arm.  "Do 
you see.  We were robbed this morning.  And Master Dellas is missing."  He snorted, and 
stumped away to find his desk amid the clutter.  “Funny thing, though," added the old man, with 
an air that indicated they should follow without the horse.  Epsilon removed the side bag that 
contained Ipani's fortune, and they pursued as instructed.  "The thieves broke into an antique safe 
that has been hopelessly locked and unused for generations!  In the end, they profited nothing, 
and the Treasury's loss is but a few panes of glass." 
Beyond the central stairwell, the shelves came to an end, and a neat little office space had 
been arranged.  Several desks where arranged here, with a man sitting at each.  Most were busy 
counting out coins or keeping ledgers.  The old clerk found his own seat and indicated that 
Epsilon and Half Pint should scrounge up seats of their own. 
"Do pardon my rudeness earlier," apologized the clerk, arranging a scatter of papers upon 
his desk.  "But it is rare that we get patrons entering at the back door.  Most come through the 
front." 
"Oh," stated the Warfarer indifferently, "We were unaware of the difference.  My friend 
and I have enjoyed little need of banks or bankers in the past, you see, and we are doubtlessly 
rusty where etiquette is concerned.  I believe it is customary to exchange names, prior to doing 
business with another man.  I am Epsilon Three, Holy Warfarer of the Martial Rite.  I am come 
from far away Empire to install a king over these godless people of Oreset."  The old man 
swallowed nervously, and fumbled with a broken quill, twirling it anxiously.  "And this," he 
intoned, indicating the halfling, "Is your new king.  King Ipani, Son of Emmal.  His mother was of 

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Empire, you see, and had royal blood in her.  It is the Emperor's wish, therefore, that he be king 
here." 
Wide eyed, the clerk extended a palsied hand and announced, "I am pleased to meet you, 
lord master.  My name is Afram Luxor's Son."  He swallowed with difficulty a second time.  "But 
I am not certain I understand what makes this, uh, this little man my king." 
"He is king because I say he is.  And, as Prefect of all these Wilderlands, I assure you that 
my declaration is quite enough." 
"If you say so, sire." 
"And then there is a matter of all the king's property and loose cash.  Now, if you prefer, 
we could see another clerk and let him tend to-" 
"No!  No, no, no, no.  I would not hear of it, m'sieur," Afram rubbed his hands together 
greedily, and the shark's smile of a happy coin changer appeared on his face.  "Now you 
mentioned properties and cash.  What sort of properties.  How much cash." 
At Epsilon's nodded okay, Ipani hefted the saddlebag and emptied its contents onto old 
Afram's desk.  With trembling hands, he added the letter of credit to the top of the pile.  The 
Warfarer then removed several of his letter's vouchers, and added it to the pile with the bulk of 
the wealth contained therein. 
The clerk paled, and all work in the office stopped.  A hushed mumble stirred in the 
recesses and crags of the many shelves, which mumble would rise up from the Treasury building 
to be distributed over all Oreset before night was set. 

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"By all gods, holy and unholy," gasped the coin changer.  "It is drawn for... for... an 
enormous sum!  And from the vaults of our own Treasury, that of Precinct Four!"  He showed the 
letter to one of his fellows, and they exchanged astonished glances.  "It is all in order, I believe.  
Yet I was unaware we had so much gold on hand!  In fact, I was unaware there was so much gold 
in all of Oreset!"  He laid the letters aside, and picked up one of the ancient titles.  "The mill!" he 
declared, discarding it for another.  "The east barracks!  And subtitles to all its individual 
buildings!" and another, "This is deed to the old public bath, the one down on the square that 
serves as a cheap brothel now!  You know the one, eh, Xavier."  The old man's mate made a sour 
face and pretended to know nothing, after all.  "And here is the monastery outside the walls!  By 
the gods, he owns free lands!  And more still!  All made out to Ipani, Son of Emmal.  Here I hold 
title to half of all the western fields!  But how can this be.  I thought this to be property of 
Shimemel of the round table!" 
"Shimemel is dead, Afram.  Your mind is fading in your old age.  Do you not recall how 
he was disemboweled by an illdross last winter." 
"Ah, yes," breathed the old man, as he shuffled through the real estate laid out on his desk. 
 "A fitting end to the miserable bastard, even if I do speak ill of the dead." 
Ipani cleared his throat and scooted forward to the edge of his seat.  "Er, ehem, ah, if you 
will look a bit further, Master Afram, you will find a, uh, a deed for this very building, as well.  
Which means I am, in effect, your new employer." 

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Afram paled further, and hurriedly sifted through the letters until he found a particular 
one.  Holding it up to the light, he gulped and began to shiver.  "I- I do apologize, M'sieur Ipani!  
I did not realize!" 
"KING Ipani," admonished Half Pint.  Epsilon smiled approvingly.  "And now I should 
like for you to first register these lands, then the letters of credit.  I will want to see my gold to 
verify it is well secured here, ere I leave."  He tried to effect a confident air and still the tremor 
from his voice as he spoke, though he could not be certain his efforts were utterly successful.  "It 
troubles me that this building was entered last night and that its chief steward is missing.  Such 
incidents smack of internal corruption and embezzlement.  You had not thought of that, had you. 
 At any rate, I am reducing your rent by half, and I want added security provided from the excess 
funds that result." 
"Of- Of course, sir, uhm, Sire.  As you say, so shall it be, but, ah-" Afram appeared to be 
at great pains to speak, even as Xavier ducked back to his own desk to hide his face.  "May I 
speak freely, Holy Warfarer.  May I enquire as to how you intend to install a new king over these 
lost people.  And a, ah, a man so short, to compound the confusion." 
Epsilon grimaced unhappily.  "Your king would appreciate your deference, citizen, within 
his presence and without.  I warn you, Luxor's Son, many Oresetian heads are soon to be 
separated from many Oresetian bodies.  Do not let yours be among them.  A new law has come to 
this land.  And a new king to wield it.  Why.  How.  Because I am empowered of Empire as your 
Prefect, and hold the authority of a demigod while on Exodus in these Wilderlands.  Here is your 

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new king.  Your new king that will soon have a well supplied and well trained army at his right 
hand, and an impartial, honest magistrate's court at his left. 
"Now look down at this hoarded wealth before you, and tell me that he is not a king and 
master of all Oreset and its surrounding lands.  If not him, then who." 
"I see your point.  Very well, I will concede your authority.  For myself, I would welcome 
a dominant hand in this city.  It is doomed to be overrun by the wastes, if something is not done." 
He opened and reviewed the Treasury's title, and harrumphed when he was finished.  "As you 
claim, we are now your subjects, Master Ipani.  And, since you seem to be such a generous 
master, I wonder if I might ask for an immediate raise in salary.  I would not ask, except that we 
have been slaved to a cruel master here, not that I speak of Dellas Dembar's Son, and, well, we 
have suffered sorely.  Xavier and I have labored here for many, many long years, yet we earn a 
mere clerk's wages, which is not enough to feed our families." 
Half Pint smiled broadly.  "It was my intention to do just that very thing, m'sieur.  Besides 
installing a new, stern rule in this city, I intend to foster its growth.  Inside six months, every 
honest, able man shall have employment at a decent wage.  Especially those that work closely 
with my holdings.  A poor man is sorely tempted to steal what a rich man would not ponder.  Let 
your pay be doubled from this day forward.  Simply show me that you can be loyal and honest 
men, and I shall increase it by half again within three month's time.  How does this strike you." 
But the employees were already on their feet, applauding and cheering.  After that, the 
transfer of lands and registration of monies went quickly and smoothly. 

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When the formalities were completed, and all the papers signed, Afram stood and bowed 
low.  "If it please Your Majesty, our vaults are in the basement.  We should secure your real 
estate with your cash holdings." 
"I am anxious to do so.  Will you accompany us, Holy Warfarer." 
The Ritesman nodded soberly.  "I had not thought to do otherwise." 
They returned in a shuffling group to the stairwell, and followed the flight down to the 
lowest floor of the Treasury building.  After winding back and around through a tortuous hall, 
they arrived at a gate of bars, which sheltered a tall, shining vault beyond.  Afram opened the bars 
with a quick use of an esoteric combination, and then the vault.  Here, Ipani was somewhat 
disappointed to discover no piles of glittering coin shoveled into the corners, and no gaping chests 
filled with gemstones and silver.  Instead, they saw only another short hall of smoothly worked 
granite walls, with a line of heavily reinforced doors installed along each aspect of it.  These doors 
were engraved with numerals and runes. 
Afram consulted a paper in his palsied right hand, and grumbled a bit.  "It is strange, you 
know, this business.  Your wealth was unknown to us until this very day, though I am personally 
charged with the Treasury' general accounting.  From the designators on this account, your horde 
is kept in the far vault, number seven, which we have never used in all of my time here.  I had 
thought it defective in some manner, since it was not allocated for general deposits.  Now, 
perhaps, we shall find out why.  Like as not, if these numbers on your letter of credit are 
substantiated, it is filled to overflowing." 

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The old man had no idea just how correct his words would prove to be.  He progressed 
along the short access to stand beside the final vault door, which was adorned with cobwebs and 
rife with the dust of ages.  Afram swept these away, and mumbled over the safe's combination, as 
he turned the tumblers. 
Upon the release of its last catch, the heavy door swing wide at once, and a mountain of 
coins and jewels and tiny ingots poured out onto the floor, knocking the astonished clerk to his 
back and covering him over with crushing wealth.  Ipani cried out in surprise and ran to the old 
man's aid.  With Epsilon's at his side, they managed to free him from the gold before he 
suffocated. 
Huffing and sputtering, Afram felt for breaks in his bones and looseness in his joints.  
Finding none, he seemed to be convinced he had survived the ordeal more or less intact.  "By the 
gods!" he gasped, eyeing the sparkling horde.  "I have never seen so much!  In one place!  At one 
time!  I that have labored long at Oreset's primary changing house!" 
"Nor have I," breathed Ipani, stooping to his knees to scoop up a double fistful of 
doubloons.  But Afram's ancient hand snapped down on his pudgy little forearm to halt the 
midget's advance. 
Epsilon laid a hand on the hilt of his sword and growled.  The clerk paled and removed his 
grip, along with Ipani's reach. 
"Beg pardon, Your Majesty.  I know not how you came by this gold, or how it has 
remained sequestered away from my knowledge for so long.  But there are no tally sheets for the 
sums, you see, and your letters of credit are open, set to draw blindly on the contents of this vault. 

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I have no idea how much is really here.  Nor do you, I suspect."  Afram straightened and dusted 
the soiled knees of his trousers, then waved a veil of cobwebs from his bristly gray hair.  "It must 
be counted to the last penny, ere anybody save a Treasury accountant lays touch upon it." 
"Oh," offered a crestfallen king.  "I had not realized." 
"It would not be conducive to a good relationship between us, were this account to come 
up short in the future, at the cost of my head. Do you understand." 
"Of course.  How long will it take, do you think." 
The clerk turned an appraising eye on the mess, and scratched at the short whiskers on his 
chin.  "I have never counted so much, so I could not say certainly.  Much of it is in foreign 
coinage, so the precious metals must be weighed, ounce upon ounce.  Then there are the gems to 
consider, and their mounts.  We shall need an appraiser of fine jewelry, I think.  Maybe two.  All 
in all, it could take weeks.  Months, perhaps, to have an end of it." 
Half Pint was more crestfallen than ever.  "Weeks.  Months.  So long." 
"Aye.  You are a wealthy man, Sire.  Such wealth is not counted in minutes or hours." 
"Very well.  But we must be certain none of this disappears during the counting.  I 
imagine it should be easy to slip a diamond into this or that pocket, or a doubloon into a hat's 
band.” 
Afram was aghast, "Sire!  We are honest men, here!  Thieves may be rife in Oreset's 
general population, but they have no place in a public counting house." 
"How can we be certain." demanded Epsilon skeptically.  "Your promises will not fill His 
Majesty's coffers once they have been despoiled." 

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"Quite right, quite right," harrumphed Afram, as he urged them out of the access way and 
beyond the main safe doors.  "Let me confide in you, Holy Warfarer, that these vaults are 
enchanted.  It is an ancient enchantment installed by royal wizards of old, and none of Oreset's 
mages now have the power to defeat it.  We will conduct the counting within, and thus your 
money will be secure enough." 
Both men glowered.  Epsilon was the first to express his doubts.  "I do not like magic, 
m'sieur.  And I do not believe your spells will be enough.  At least one wizard in this city has the 
ability to corrupt your safeguards.  Where there be one, I warrant there be more." 
Ipani seemed torn.  Almost, he asked of the Warfarer what he should do.  Then his little 
face changed, and he turned unnaturally grim.  "We will trust this man, I think.  Afram, you shall 
personally oversee the counting.  I will rely on your good character to keep the tally fair, and, 
when it is done, you shall be rewarded well for your loyalty.  And well for your disloyalty, if that 
prove to be the case." 
"I understand, Master Ipani."  The old man reached for the safe door to swing it shut. 
Whereupon Epsilon held forth a sheath of vouchers, fluttering them in the clerk's face.  
"These, however, could be counted out on the spot.  Could they not." 
The clerk harrumphed and grunted and grumbled, with a dissatisfied expression on his 
face.  He seemed to think the request was most irregular, but he accepted the withdrawal slips 
reluctantly.  "How much have you here, eh.  Ten slips at a maximum of fifty thousand each.  That 
would come to five hundred thousand shekels!" 
"In gold, please.  Empirical coin, if you have it." 

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Afram turned an inquisitive eye on Half Pint, who nodded soberly.  "Very well, as you 
would have it.  Sign the slips over, and I will count out the coin.  Oh, you have not a pen!  
XAVIER!" bellowed the old gent in a surprisingly strong and base voice.  "BRING US DOWN A 
PLUME AND INKWELL, AT ONCE!"  The clerk cleared his voice and eased the door nearly 
shut at his back.  "It is the enchantment, you see.  I cannot enter to remove coin but that I leave 
the proper withdrawal documentation in its place.  Ah, here comes the good Xavier, now.  Leave 
the quill, m'sieur, and inform the remainder of the staff that the vault is closed to all but me from 
this moment forth.  By order of the new king!" 
Xavier was perplexed, but he nodded his assent, regardless.  Epsilon accepted the writing 
implement, while Half Pint held the well for him.  He scrawled his endorsement to the timing of 
the second clerk's receding footfalls. 
Only when he had the drafts in hand did Afram enter into the crypt.  He rummaged noisily 
for sufficient Empirical coin to fill the order, and soon emerged with exactly fifty gold pieces in 
his grip.  These he counted out into Epsilon's right gauntlet, after which he canceled the vouchers 
with a stamp. 
Epsilon shook the coins gently in his palm.  "Ten thousand shecks per doubloon.  The 
exact exchange for Empirical coin," and he turned an approving eye on his short friend. 
Who blushed, and glanced self-consciously at this little booted feet.  "Only the most 
foolish of fools would dare cheat a Holy Warfarer of Empire!" 

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The Ritesman pursed his coin and they climbed the stairs once again.  After making further 
arrangements for the care of Ipani's riches, he and Epsilon found themselves outside the 
Treasury's back door, Helmcleaver in tow. 
Afram bade them good travel and fond re-acquaintance, then promised a fair accounting 
by the will of the gods!  With that, he slammed and bolted the building's heavy doors.  Epsilon 
thought he glimpsed a fluid shadow, which skirted around the corner of a warehouse across the 
street and dodged into a garbage strewn alleyway.  Did it have the form of a raven winged demon, 
or of a bony, hateful little man.  He was uncertain. 
Ipani cleared his throat and squeaked uncertainly.  "Where shall we go now, sir." 
The Warfarer detached his attentions from the fickle shifting of noon shadows, and turned 
to face his nervous little friend.  "We must part separate ways, I fear.  I need you down at the 
docks, overseeing the boy's labors.  Have you sufficient funds to cover unforeseen incidents.  
Good.  Above all else, make certain no stranger's hand comes into contact with those goods, do 
you hear. 
"When all is finished, both you and Vernin should wait for me dockside near the Lucky 
Lady.  I suppose you should round up her crew and captain, prior to turning your attentions on 
the boy.  It is vital that the boat be ready to sail by sunset." 
"It will be done as you have commanded.  But where will you go in the meantime, Holy 
Warfarer." 
"To meet with a man about matters of war.  Do not fear, my friend, I will be along before 
the sun is expired.  Oh, and, should anybody ask why you need so much polished niter, tell them I 

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am bound to sprout a garden in the desert."  He climbed into his saddle.  "And do not be angered 
by the responding laughter." 
"Is it true.  Would you really do such a thing."  Ipani waddled alongside for a distance, as 
Helmcleaver started west. 
"Aye.  It will be a garden sprouting in the desert," replied the Ritesman grimly, urging his 
mount ahead faster.  "But a garden of grave stones!" 
The halfling shuddered and called out his final farewells.  Epsilon ignored them, intent as 
he was on the business before him. 
As he made his way back to the western gates of the city, the Warfarer passed more than 
one crier calling out a harsh and ominous warning.  "...CRIMINALS BE WARNED!  BE WARE! 
 BE WARE!  HEAR YE ONE AND ALL!..."  Not surprisingly, he was met with many long 
stares as he progressed through the city streets.  His freshly re-tailored and laundered finery stood 
out clearly amid the raggedly adorned citizens, and it seemed all could recognize him for who and 
what he was.  Whispers like a soft patter of running water chased after in his wake, and the 
crowds parted respectfully before him, their eyes averted. 
Returned to the western gate of the outermost barricade, he called for Old Bob.  A beefy, 
rosy faced hag of a woman peered over the battlements instead. 
"Who wants Robert the Long Shank at this hour.  Oh!  It is you!"  She grinned 
toothlessly, and Epsilon could see all the way up her overlarge nose.  “They say you have come to 
restore the kingdom in the name of Empire!  Is there room in it for the good men of Oreset's 
Home Guard." 

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"Only a mangy dog does his business in the center of the street, for all to see and hear," he 
returned neutrally.  "Call Old Bob down here, and I will parley with him in confidence!" 
"Ooooh," she fairly cooed, "And him being so handsome, too!  Not a monster, at all!  
Who would have thought." 
The Ritesman grimaced and shifted impatiently in his saddle.  "Will you call him down, or 
no." 
"I am here!" bellowed Old Bob, his head appearing over the rail further along the wall.  
"Myriam, have you no work below to occupy your wits.  What of supper and the darning." 
"Bah!  Mend your own damned short pants!" she belched, making an obscene motion with 
her hands. "Watch your tone with me, Robert, or you'll not enjoy my favors this night!" 
A much abashed Old Bob came trotting down the wall-bound stair, tugging on his much 
patched livery as he progressed.  Huffing and puffing, he drew near to Epsilon's knee and bowed 
stiffly. 
"Holy Warfarer, sir," he began, breathing heavily, "Please accept a humble man's humble 
apologies!  Here," he coughed, holding up a heavy purse.  “Begging your pardon, but I cashed 
one of your Empirical gold pieces, and only the change remains.  The other is intact within.  Do 
not slay me, sir, I beseech you!  I would not have spent a shekel of it, had I known you for a man 
of the Rite!  Forgive me!" 
"But there is nothing to forgive, Old Bob.  Whether or not it was known to you, I, at the 
least, was aware of my rank.  No, keep your money, soldier.  You have earned it."  Epsilon eyed 

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the densely crowded buildings that towered all about them.  "Is there somewhere nearby that 
might offer us a bit of privacy." 
Robert lowered his purse and shut his gaping, nearly toothless mouth.  “Aye, there is my 
quarters, just along the wall.  We are having lunch, soon.  Will you join us." 
Epsilon nodded and dismounted.  "I will sit at your table, but I have my own rations.  I 
trust you will not be insulted." 
The tall man shook his head and declared, "By the gods, no!  Your abstinence only leaves 
more for me!"  He hobbled off in the direction from which he had come, glancing over his 
shoulder often to be certain his master was following behind.  "It is a good thing, too, for I have 
purchased five pounds of beef only this morning!  Worm-less beef for my table!  I could eat it 
every bite of it, myself!  All thanks to your generosity." 
"It is good to be well fed.  But how would you like to be well fed every day.  How would 
you like to receive a guaranteed monthly wage.  And decent, subsidized housing well within the 
city's walls." 
Old Bob was nodding agreeably, "You do not know Old Bob, if you feel the need to ask 
such questions.  I am for all these things." 
"What about new weapons.  New armor.  New, well trained recruits." 
"Better and better." 
"And if I offered you a stronghold to garrison, besides these crumbling and drafty outer 
defenses.  Would you garrison them loyally." 

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The old warrior was suddenly suspicious.  "Here, now.  What stronghold.  What sort of 
garrison.  I told you yester eve that I will have no truck with the round table and its ilk!  We of 
the Guard are bound to oversee the outside wall only.  The city's interior is left to those villains." 
They approached a squat stone hut that leaned up against the outermost barricade.  A 
sweetly scented smoke curled from a chimney at the far end of the little house.  Myriam poked her 
head out of the doorway, and her eyes went wide, "He has not come to slay you, then.  And 
what.  Is he to eat with us, too.  By gods, man, have you no decency to warn a woman 
beforehand." 
"Fret not, Myriam, and make no fuss.  This here is a man of the Martial Rite.  He could 
sleep in the saddle, drink from a muddy hoof print and eat carrion, if need be!" declared the tall 
man proudly.  "He will not be offended by the comfort of my humble home.  Will you, lord." 
"Not at all.  A chair and a level table are more than I am generally used to." 
"Then you will be most welcome at Old Bob's house, for that is just about all I own." 
As they neared further, a youth of nine years or so thrust his mopped head out of the 
doorway, his chin greasy from gnawing at a well polished rib bone.  “You there, boy," 
commanded the lad's father.  "The Warfarer would tie off his mount and eat in peace.  You will 
watch over it in his absence, and raise alarm if you spy thieves skulking about!  And keep awake!  
Or you will not have your supper this evening!" 
"Aye, papa!  Is this the man that was coming to kill you." 

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"Never mind about that, you!" scolded Old Bob, "Where are your brothers and sisters.  
When you see them, tell them I will want their chores completed, ere they eat this night.  We are 
having meat, lad, and a man must earn his bones ere he chews them clean!" 
The youth seemed to be puzzled by this.  "But what of the girls, papa." 
"Just watch the horse.  And mind you, master, tie it off tight beneath the eave of the roof.  
Be sure it is out of sight from eyes on high," he warned ominously, pointing toward the heavens 
and rolling his eyes.  "The boy will warn of illdross, if one should turn up.  Come on, now, fetch 
down your Empirical rations and join me at my table.  I would hear more of your fanciful, 
potentially profitable talk." 
"Good.  It is what I have come for, after all."  Epsilon hauled down his victual sacks and 
wineskins, and added the crossbow to his burdens as an after thought.  Not for fear that it might 
be stolen, but for fear of it tempting the inquisitive boy to draw too near the fierce stallion.  "What 
is your name, young citizen." he asked, addressing the boy.  "Lemling, eh.  Well, Lemling, watch 
this beast closely, but from a distance.  I will confide a secret in you, if you will promise not to 
share it."  The boy nodded eagerly, blushing.  "This monster may seem a stallion to the unwary 
eye, but he is, in reality, a black demon!  Beware, and stay away!" 
Lemling's mouth was a sudden dark 'O' of amazement, and he nodded his understanding of 
the warning.  He drew back to the far corner of the house, and sat in the dirt to play with doodle 
bugs and watch for dragons. 
Sweeping a tattered curtain to one side, the Ritesman entered into Robert's tidy little 
home.  It was clean enough, if it was cramped.  There seemed to be only two small rooms.  A 

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legless table was cleverly fashioned by fixing a length of wood to one wall.  When folded down, it 
was just large enough to seat two men.  Epsilon sat in the master's chair, while Old Bob drew up a 
wobbly keg.  He banged on the table to call for his food. 
Myriam appeared presently and laid out cracked wares with wooden spoons.  As Epsilon 
laid out his dried venison and poured wine into an earthen mug, Robert the Long Shank ripped 
into a huge haunch of roasted meat.  Potatoes there were in abundance upon the platter, and 
carrots and other foodstuffs that the Empirical man could not recognize. 
They ate without speaking.  When both men had belched at the finish of the meal, Myriam 
returned to clear away the mess, and Old Bob retired to a mound of blankets piled at a safe 
distance from his small fireplace.  There he fished out the workings of a pipe and shredded jill.  
Noticing his guest's curiosity, Bob offered up the rig to Epsilon, and fixed another for himself.  
Now they smoked in silence for a time, each eyeing the other with a satisfied grin on his face. 
Presently, Epsilon cleared his throat to say, "It is good jill.  Almost as good as my 
Empirical weed.  From whence do you have it." 
"The western company keeps a plot around the wall a bit.  Each man takes turns tending 
it, and all share the harvest when it is grown."  Bob puffed happily, his eyes sparkling with 
curiosity, "Now, as I recall, you were saying something about daily rations, and monthly salaries, 
and improved hardware for my men." 
"And you were saying you had no interest in destroying the round table and its warren of 
criminals."  Epsilon nonchalantly made rings with the thick, blue smoke curling from his lips. 

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"I said nothing of the sort!" Old Bob coughed and sat up to spit into the fire.  “Damnation, 
m'sieur, you have nearly put me off my pipe!  All I did was state the law.  We, of the Home 
Guard, must keep to the wall, and leave the city to the rogues." 
The Ritesman arched his eyebrows curiously.  "It hardly seems a straight bargain to me.  
After all, there is so much of the city, and so little of the outer barricades.  And when I think of 
how you are bound to offer them thirty parts per hundred of everything you profit..." he shook his 
head and clucked his tongue, “It makes me ill, Old Bob.  How has Oreset and its army fallen so 
low in so short a time." 
Old Bob was ashamed and hung his head.  When he spoke again, his tone was soft and 
wrought with a surprising amount of genuine emotion.  "I know not how it came to be, Holy 
Warfarer, I know only that it is and try to live through it, as best I am able.  If you ask me, it was 
doing away with the king that finished us.  A black day descended on this land with the letting of 
royal blood, and it has not risen since.  Perhaps we are fallen so low because there is nothing left 
to die for, and no man high enough that could honor such sacrifice." 
The Warfarer helpfully inserted, "What this city needs is a new king, then." 
"Aye, a new king and a long row of gallows!" 
"It gladdens me that you agree so wholeheartedly, Robert, for I have installed one just this 
morning!"  And he added his broadest, falsest smile. 
"Peeshau!" scoffed the toothless warrior.  "Hades, you say." 
"In all earnest, sir!  Oreset has a new king.  And the new king has need of a fresh army to 
defend his new kingdom." 

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"He does, does he." 
"Aye.  Would you think me a liar." 
"No, no," came the hasty reply.  "Only, I am stunned to hear it.  How can this be." 
"As a Holy Warfarer on Exodus, I am Prefect of these lands.  I have set him on the throne 
in the name of the Emperor." 
"What good, that.  A king is more than a throne.  An army is more than unkempt rabble.  
Besides which, Oreset is a corrupt town.  Its people have grown to love an absence of law.  Who 
could bring order to such chaos.  You." 
Epsilon smiled slyly.  "Not I, citizen.  I am a man of war, not of government.  Still, it is 
true that the city has a new master.  As to whom might bring law into this amoral country, I could 
only reply with another question.  Can the Home Guard not set this place right." 
Robert shrugged.  "Possibly.  With funds and polished steel in abundance." 
"Then you shall have it.  But you shall have more, as well."  The Ritesman paused to puff 
his bowl down to ashes, then bang it out against the heel of his boot.  "You shall further have, as I 
promised, daily rations, monthly pay, subsidized housing, a stronghold within the walls to 
garrison, and fresh arms and armor.  You will have new uniforms from the inside out, and stout 
new boots, as well.  In short, you shall have everything you now lack." 
"I am skeptical of what sounds so damned good." 
"The whole affair is quite simple, really.  Of all the people in this lost city, one man enjoys 
an Empirical heritage and Royal blood.  He, alone, is fit to rule.  I have searched him out, and 
provided him with vast riches and land holdings in this province.  Your new king is lord and 

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master of eighty five percent of the free lands outside the wall, and nearly all of its existing interior 
structures.  Additionally, he is in possession of a horde of gold and gems that would make you 
soil your pants on sight of it!  Look into my eyes!  Do you detect deception." 
The tall warrior stretched out his legs and shook his head without verifying Epsilon's gaze. 
 "No, it appears to be true enough.  And I have your good gold, here, to back what you say." Old 
Bob paused to consider, puffing contentedly.  "Still, I would question your king's use of us.  After 
years of slaughter in the Wilderlands, we are reluctant to submit our fates to the hands of a 
civilian.  What would he do with an army, once he had one." 
Epsilon sat abruptly forward, thrusting a single huge, open hand out before him.  This he 
clenched savagely into a tight fist.  "Crush the round table!  Right the wrongs of this leaderless 
anarchy!" 
Old Bob cackled sarcastically.  "And I may pull a winged cow from my arse!" 
"Why are you so reluctant to destroy a hated enemy.  Have you no fighting men in your 
ranks.  Can you not hire and train ten companies of ready made killers to work your martial will." 
 Upon seeing that Bob's disbelieving expression remained, the Ritesman tried another tack.  
"Perhaps I should speak with a soldier of higher rank.  Have you a superior." 
Robert sputtered and choked.  "By the gods, I have not!  Not in this sector, at any rate.  
No, I am top sergeant of the western wall, and bow to no one.  And I have fighting men aplenty. 
With all due respect, Holy Warfarer, you have no need to goad me with insults.  I would like 
nothing better than to square off the round table and its vile masters, but so much stands in the 
way.  Where could we draw fresh ranks but from the city's population.  And the population is rife 

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with round table loyals.  I would end up with more of them serving than honest men!  Why, the 
first time the sun went down on my garrison walls, there would be revolt and the palace would 
burn from the inside out!"  He loaded another bowl full of jill and huffed it to life with a glowing 
brand.  "Theirs is an insidious way of life, m'sieur.  Corruption is a thin serpent that may wend its 
way through all manner of tortuous crack and contrivance.  Safeguards, however well laid, are as 
nothing to such vermin." 
The Ritesman nodded, considering, "You are correct, of course.  Still, it is not an 
insurmountable obstacle to success.  We must needs simply lay plans to overcome it.  Let me 
think a moment..." he drawled, accepting a refill of his pipe from Robert.  "Ah!  Try this formula 
on the problem: 
"First, organize a company of intelligence officers, drawing from the ranks of your most 
loyal and trusted compatriots in the Home Guard.  Try to select men that have a particular hatred 
for the round table and its ilk.  These men should receive special pay and privileges to engender 
them to their new assignments, and you should offer them housing that is separate from the 
quarters of your regular army.  Buy them a wardrobe of unobvious civilian rags, then send them 
out into the city a week prior to calling for your recruits.  Instruct them to take up posts where 
they can monitor round table business, particularly the coming and going of its flunkies and thugs. 
"Once they have eased into the citizenry and their presence is no longer questioned, call 
for your recruits.  Offer a fair bounty and accept more men than you could possibly use, maybe 
ten thousand to fill a need for one thousand, like that.  As part of their enlistment, shave their 
heads bald and tattoo each man with a number here," he indicated, pointing to the very back of his 

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skull, "It should be large enough to be seen from a slight distance.  Then pour palmate onto each 
man's shaven pate.  It will not bother them when left alone, but they will itch like mad for several 
days at the slightest touch of a head cover."  Epsilon grinned boyishly at the prank, as it was an 
old one that he had from his childhood dorm mates.  "In this manner, they shall be easily identified 
on the street by your intelligence agents.  After they have had a hair cut and been branded, force a 
long, boring speech about honor and duty upon them, then pay their bounties and let them go for 
the evening.  Better still, offer them a three day grace prior to first muster and basic training." 
Old Bob was perplexed.  "Let them go.  With the bounty and before they have been 
trained.  It is ribald foolishness!  They will off to the gutters to drunkenly spend every sheck of 
it!" 
"Aye, most will.  And where does a man go when he wants to have a good time." 
"To see his friends, I suspect." 
"And whom does the turncoat seek out at the first possible opportunity." 
"His whoremonger, that he should divulge his traitor's information and collect further 
pay." 
"Exactly.  Meanwhile, your agents are in the field, recording numbered heads that appear 
where they should not.  In this manner, you should be able to weed out the majority of 
roundheads quite easily.  When they return for first muster, arrest them all on the spot for 
suspected sedition.  The king will have a use for such prisoners, I can assure you."  The Ritesman 
paused to think a moment further.  "It might be advisable to torture a few of the more obvious 
ones, however, to find out what they know about your enemy's weaknesses and future plans." 

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Robert the Long Shanks whistled toothlessly and grinned like a well scratched dog.  "By 
the gods, it is a sound plan!  And once the first purge is finished, the agents could keep a proper 
watch over the squareheads that remain!" 
"Now you see the utility of the design.  We have climbed a mountain with a pair of sheers 
and a bit of ink." 
"Ooh," gloated Old Bob, "I should like to see the day that the Home Guard rules again 
and there is a king upon Oreset's throne!" 
"Then make it so."  Epsilon reached for his heavy purse and opened it.  "How many men 
serve the Guard, at present." 
"Mmmm, say six hundred, give or take fifty." 
"That few.  Here," he stated, offering Bob twenty gold doubloons.  "Take these for the 
men, and see that it is distributed fairly throughout the ranks.  Only men loyal to the wall are to 
receive a share.  It is two hundred thousand shekels, and but a pittance compared to what will 
follow.  Tell your fellows it is a small token from the new king. 
"And these," he stated, handing over three more coins, "Are for each of the other top 
sergeants in command.  You already have yours. I want you to take the funds over this afternoon. 
 Gather up your peers and tell them what is underfoot, then have them return here if they will join 
the cause.  I would meet with them personally, ere I sail east." 
Robert stood to accept the cash, frowning slightly, "You speak as though I have already 
enlisted, master." 
"Have you not." queried the Warfarer. 

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The tall warrior weighed the coins in his hand, his grin broadening impossibly.  "I suppose 
I have!"  Then he frowned again, "But what of your leaving soon.  I thought you were to be our 
general." 
"What need have you of a general, with Field Marshal Robert the Long Shanks on duty."  
Epsilon laughed and tucked his wallet away again.  "No, I have business far across the Desert 
Ocean that cannot wait.  But have no worries, mate, the king will keep you safe and well, 
provided your Guard, in turn, keeps him safe and well." 
"If it means a secure monthly wage and all else that you have promised, Ritesman, we shall 
keep him safe as houses!" 
"Fine, then hurry off to fetch your compatriots.   When we are met up again, I will take 
you to His Majesty, that you should all be introduced."  Old Bob had turned to leave, when 
Epsilon caught him up with, "And, Bob." 
"Yes, lord." 
"I will want five of your very best and most trusted men right away.  Bring them when you 
return with the top brass." 
"What sort of men." 
"Fierce warriors.  Men that have loyal hearts and no families.  Our king must have a 
dedicated personal guard." 
"Quite right!  I shall make the selections, personally!" and he was gone beyond the 
curtained doorway. 

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Epsilon stuck his pipe between his teeth, and hefted one of his bags onto the table.  From 
this, he withdrew ought with which to write and a roll of uncut paper.  Tearing off a sheath of this 
latter, he used the former to scrawl out a detailed outline of Half Pint's first few months of office.  
In it, he included brief discussions of side issues, such as what to do in case of revolt and how best 
to train his new men.  By the time he was finished, the sun was low in the sky and evening 
shadows were stretching long. 
He was just about to rise and ask after Old Bob, when the scarred warrior thrust his face 
through the curtain.  "They are come, lord, and all seem happy enough to join up!" 
"Excellent," returned the Warfarer jovially.  "And have they made arrangements to 
distribute the king's gift among their troops." 
"Aye, we have sent runners to the changing houses several hours ago.  By now, every man 
should have received his pay.  It will be a hot duty on the wall tonight!  Eh, boys." called he over 
his shoulder. 
Epsilon emerged from his host's tiny abode into the happy mumbles of eight large, well 
armed strangers.  The three top sergeants were easily discerned by their comparatively superior 
arms and armor, though these were rusted and much abused like Robert's. 
Before he could open his mouth to speak, a boisterous cheer went up from the battlements 
all along the wall.  Looking up, the Ritesman noticed the outline of hundreds of heads peering out 
between the stone parapets.  They were shouting his name and praising the coming of a new king. 
 All were flushed with joy and happiness and not a little ale.  They tossed down freshly plucked 

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flowers and bits of brightly colored rags, which collected atop Epsilon's helm and shoulders and 
piled about his booted feet.  
Raising his arms to accept the adulation, as any proud warrior would, Epsilon soon called 
for quiet.  Into the expectant silence, he shouted, "You have all undoubtedly heard by now that a 
new law has come to this city!  And a new king!"  (A raucous cheer erupted immediately, and 
stilled only reluctantly)  "If you will be loyal and honest, the king would have the Home Guard for 
his men at arms!"  (Another cheer)  "To prosecute his will to its fullest intent!"  (A longer cheer)  
"Together, you shall empty Oreset of its rotten filth, and purge its crumbling walls of rampant 
neglect!"  The cheering swelled to unmanageable proportions. 
Epsilon turned to Old Bob and the other top men and stated, "That is all I wish to say, I 
think.  Dismiss your troops, sergeants." 
To which they saluted smartly and called brashly for order.  Presently, the tumult was 
swept away, and Epsilon was left to confer in peace with the Home Guard's commanders. 
He and the master sergeants retired beneath the long, overhanging eaves of Robert's 
home, where they were afforded some slightest shelter from roving illdross, while Ipani's five 
body guards removed themselves to a respectful distance further along the wall.  Introductions 
were the first order of business, and Old Bob acted as mediator.  He said, "Holy Warfarer, I 
should like to present you with Top Sergeants Gilm, Nalson, and Carlis, of the northern, eastern 
and southern walls, respectively.  Gentlemen, Epsilon Three of the Martial Rite, Prefect of the 
Wilderlands in the name of Empire."  All nodded and exchanged grips. 

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Gilm was the first to speak.  He was a great, burly man of unpleasant countenance, though 
his eyes seemed gentle enough.  Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he stated, "It is good that 
order seems to have returned at last to Oreset, Master Warfarer.  But Robert the Long Shanks 
tells us you are bound to sail east soon, leaving us alone to fight this war you would start.  Why 
should we disturb a status quo of peace, all for a transient swordsman." 
Old Bob paled and made as though to reprimand his mate, when Epsilon stilled him with a 
raised hand.  "No, Robert, be calm.  Gilm has broached a relevant question.  For it is peace that 
men of arms long for, and not war.  Yet I have posed no plans for war today.  Have I Old Bob." 
The sergeant shook his head slowly.  "Not directly, at any rate." 
"No, I have merely proposed that you round up and arrest your detractors.  Behead or jail 
them, as the case may be, then retake the city from the filth that has owned it for so long.  The 
enforcement of law need not entail violence or combat."  Epsilon hooked one thumb in his belt 
casually, and leaned back against the wall of Bob's home.  In response, the others effected more 
relaxed attitudes, as well, which action was instinctive and scarcely noticed.  "The fact of this 
matter is that these people are longing for an honest hand to guide them.  Sheep do not revolt 
when the shepherd culls wolves from their ranks.  Only the wolves revolt." 
"And they are quite enough, all too often."  This from the one named Carlis, who was a 
short but powerful man.  Epsilon eyed this sergeant and knew he would be a vicious, no holds 
barred scrapper.  Swordplay alone would not subdue him, for his fists showed every sign of 
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will snap and bite at the hand that guides them.  Thus, we will have another war with the round 
table." 
As the other sergeants nodded their agreement, Epsilon shrugged his shoulders.  "In the 
first place, the initial conflict between your two factions was hardly a war, in the second, none is 
called for in this matter, either.  I have laid out careful designs to avoid massive armed conflict, in 
fact, precisely because I realize the last thing this city needs now is further chaos and anarchy.  
Your king has these designs on hand, and the will to prosecute them in his heart.  Follow him 
loyally, and all will be well."  Disbelieving, skeptical expressions appeared opposite him. 
When they did not protest verbally, however, the Ritesman pressed forward, "By no 
means do I intend you to blunder into this ordeal blindly, throwing the dead bodies of your mates 
into the cause like chaff into an unabated wind.  There is no strategy in such maneuvering.  No, 
the smart thing is not to conquer these people of Oreset, for they are already beaten.  What you 
must do is free them from their tyrants.  Shed them of the parasites that suck their blood.  Purge 
them of the pests that steal their winter stores.  Denude them of the black hearted mongers that 
persuade fathers to spend the rent on ale and diseased whores.  Free them, and they will not resist. 
 How could they. 
"Have you ever removed ticks from a street weary cur.  He would bite you for looking at 
him, but stop to pluck his plagues and he turns belly up whenever you appear.  Is it not so." 
"Aye," responded Nalson, a wiry young man of dark hair and eyes, "It is so.  And yet the 
first plucking remains the hardest.  How are we to turn this dog belly up to show our good 
intentions, without getting bitten." 

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The Ritesman responded, "Nobody has vouchsafed your un-bitten hand, sergeant.  As men 
at arms you are expected both to bleed and let blood.  Judging by your battle hardened faces, I see 
you have had some experience with such matters.  Casualties are inevitable in any forced change, 
but this righting of Oreset need not be a blood bath.  Again, your king has public works and other 
plans in mind to win the people over to his side.  With their support, it will become easier and 
easier to herd the sheep." 
"And sheer them!" from Gilm, who laughed greedily. 
Epsilon glowered.  "Before we progress further, let us have one matter hammered out 
straight and true.  The king must have his taxes to maintain all the good he would do.  He will 
have tax collectors and assayers to do this work, however, and it need not involve his army in any 
way.  You are to be issued a healthy monthly wage, graded by rank, as well as daily rations and 
subsidized housing.  You will, therefore, have no need to dip illicitly into your master's pockets.  
Any such dipping will be dealt with harshly, I warn you. 
"The object of this exercise is not to depose one set of criminals for another, but to replace 
corruption with honesty and fairness.  A shepherd's staff should be crooked, not the shepherd, 
himself." 
Nalson cast an unhealthy glance at Gilm and declared, "It sounds right and good to my 
ears!  I would prefer an honorable salary to stealing pennies from gate-bound widows!" 
The others glanced at their feet and grumbled agreement, even Gilm.  Presently, Carlis 
cleared his throat to speak. 

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Shuffling his feet, he stated, "We have it from Bob that you are guaranteeing all our men 
new uniforms, arms and armor.  If he has it directly from you, then I believe it.  But tell me, Holy 
Warfarer, what of the walls.  Oreset is grumbling to ruin, and no amount of courage or steel will 
keep the Wilderlands at bay, once the battlements are toppled." 
The Warfarer nodded reassuringly.  "As I stated earlier, your king has many public works 
in mind, not the least of which will be reconstruction of the walls, inner and outer.  He intends to 
open his coffers within a double fortnight, showering riches on the general population in the form 
of bountiful public employment.  Skilled peasants will be set to repairing the barricades and city 
streets, once his military machinery is in place.  So, you see, all hinges upon you and the honor of 
your men." 
"The men of Oreset's eastern wall will serve true!" declared Nalson.  "I tolerate no 
brigands in my ranks." 
"And the northern wall, too," from its master. 
"And the southern." 
Old Bob grinned toothlessly.  "You already have my pledge for the western gate, master!" 
"Fine!" roared Epsilon merrily, "It is done, then.  We will go to meet your king presently.  
But first, Robert, introduce me to these men you would have watch over the new Master of 
Oreset." 
The battle scarred warrior called them over. They were all youthful men that had a look of 
grave ability about them.  Each bore both long sword and bow, with the plate mail and bucklers 
that all men of Oreset seemed to carry.  Epsilon noted approvingly that these five had taken better 

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care to polish and hone their steel.  They were not as neatly put together as Empirical men of war 
might be, but the Ritesman suspected each had done the best with what they were issued. 
All five came to attention smartly and saluted more smartly still.  It was the first display of 
martial discipline that Epsilon had witnessed during the whole of his stay in Oreset.  He was 
pleased to return the example.  After brief introductions and briefer interrogations, Epsilon 
decided that Old Bob had chosen well enough.  The five settled on a captain among them without 
argument, a big man named Tull, or Tull the Bull as he was affectionately known, and they 
seemed to be a close knit group from the start. 
Before they left for the market, Epsilon addressed the five as a single unit.  "You are to be 
the king's personal armor, and are meant to protect his every aspect from moment to moment.  
You will sleep where he sleeps, eat what he eats, and go where he goes.  At least initially, you will 
have no relief and no superior beyond the king, himself.  I trust you are all of stout heart and good 
courage, and that there be no assassins among your number.  This is good, but it will not be 
enough, alone. 
"From the moment you accept your king as charge, you must be vigilant beyond human 
endurance.  Let no man near him, except that man be searched for weapons.  Do not let a morsel 
or a drop pass your master's lips, but that it has been first tested.  And do not let him progress 
around blind corners or into unknown shadows without first verifying their safety.  Always 
remember that you are his life. 
"Now, I am aware it is no light duty to protect a man that so many long to murder," 
Epsilon reached for his purse strings again, and emptied out five coins into his hand.  

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"Accordingly, you shall be well rewarded for the greater risk and loyalty such duties demand.  
This," he intoned, holding up the gold, "Is to be your monthly rate.  And make no mistake, there 
is now no man richer than your master in all of Oreset.  If you are offered ten thousand shekels to 
betray him, come to your captain, and the king will pay you twenty thousand to betray the 
betrayer."  He dropped the coins into their waiting hands, depositing Tull the Bull's lastly.  
Addressing this man directly, the Ritesman added, "Establish a reasonable shift of watches to 
monitor your king around the clock.  Let him go nowhere alone, and never speak of his private 
business among outsiders, especially where that business might betray his schedule.  Do you 
understand." 
"Aye, Holy Warfarer.  We five are the best men for the job.  Of that, you may be certain." 
"Good.  I will confide in you now that Old Bob, here, is already charged with the 
construction of a company of intelligence officers, whose primary duty will be to assess and assay 
all manner of threat to His Majesty's rule.  Work closely with its commander, once he is 
established, that you should never miss an obvious indication of impending assassination." 
"This I shall do." 
With a friendly clap on the captain's shoulder, Epsilon turned to loose Helmcleaver's reins 
from where he had tied them off.  Yet he did not mount, but led the stallion walking, intermingled 
with King Ipani's men. 
"Now, good citizens, I suppose you are anxious to meet the Royal.  Let us go, then," he 
encouraged, starting back along the street toward the market.  "But do not be shocked by what 
you see.  You must remember that this man you are about to meet has not lived his life as a king 

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to this date.  Rather, he was reared among you, and lives as you do.  And, like you, he is a victim 
of these Wilderlands and its magic. His mother was cast out of Empire by means of some fell 
sorcery, and nearly drowned in the Great River.  Fortunately for you all, she was plucked from 
brink of death by water tenders and returned to this city, where she gave birth to three sons.  All 
of whom perished ere I arrived, save for one.  And he is, perhaps, the best of the lot." 
"Reared among us, you say." wondered Bob.  "Do I know him." 
They all wanted to know what the king's name was.  Secretly assured that it would not 
give the surprise away, he told them. 
Gilm scratched his beard and belched.  "Ipani, you say.  Ipani Emmal's Son.  And he is a 
grown man, not a boy.  Strange, but I do not know him."  None of them did. 
Epsilon responded, "It is not surprising, for, like many men born unsuspecting to 
greatness, his has been a meager life thus far.  Though not so meager as to have been an utter 
unknown.  I would not be surprised to find that more than one of you know this man well enough 
to call him in a crowd." 
"Though not by name obviously..." hedged Old Bob, fishing for further hints as to his new 
master's identity. 
None was forthcoming, however.  Epsilon quickly turned the talk to other matters, 
anxious as he was to completely brief these men that would be closest to Ipani.  He laid out his 
plans for government, and discussed counter points and objections, until it was clear that the 
sergeants had an adequate understanding of what all needed to be done in order to put Oreset 
straight. 

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By the time he had made the final arrangements, they had passed through the bustling 
market area and were bound for the docks.  This was a less than ordinary passage, however brief 
it was. 
They passed out of the bloodstone wall to the east, kept safe by the heavy cover of oak 
groves, then out of the city altogether.  Following a well worn and hardily cobbled road to the 
Earth's Rim, they were faced with a two hundred stick drop straight down to the desert sands 
below.  The road came to an abrupt end between two towering booms of wood and rope and 
iron. There might have once been safeguards to prevent the unwary traveler from plunging to his 
death here, but these were long lost now.  Thanking Nars that he had not made the approach in 
darkness, Epsilon veered north with the rest of his party, as they followed a sheer switchback 
descent that lacked railing of any kind.  Helmcleaver was nervous of the steep drop, but calmed at 
Epsilon's soothing touch. 
At their back, ropes began grinding through pulleys attached to those booms at the bluff's 
edge.  Simultaneously, a team of donkey carts arrived at the edge of the artificially maintained tree 
line, waiting for the cargo that would soon rise up from below. 
On the way down, Epsilon caught glimpses of a large platform being hoisted into the 
heavens.  It was laden with all manner of boxes and kegs, enough to fill a ship's hold. 
Epsilon thrust a chin at the materiel and enquired, "Is that from the boat I saw riding in 
before this morning's storm." 

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"Probably not," declared Nalson, master of the eastern gate.  "Boats rarely offload 
immediately upon their arrival in port.  And if we are thinking of the same ship, m'sieur, I believe 
the desert won that race just before noon." 
The Ritesman shook his head dourly and mentally commended the lost crew's souls to 
Nars.  With squinted eyes, he peered out into the wastes and was awed.  A vast flat landscape 
stretched out farther than his eyes could see, into the haze of eternity.  It was marred only by the 
regular flow of ripples that were like the waves of a liquid ocean.  Even as he watched, a tall set 
of sails pushed out of the rocky harbor, bound for the rising night.  Below the sails, a wooden hull 
pitched and rolled against the wind to stir a wake of sifted dust behind.  It rounded a low granite 
peak and turned immediately south, passing out of sight. 
With every stick's length of progress along the ramp, the temperature rose perceptibly.  
Before long, Epsilon was forced to tie off his cloak, then his emblazoned baldric.  His mates 
dressed down as the heat required, though their martial pride would not allow the shedding of 
arms or armor.  Thus miserably burdened, they walked the long walk down to Oreset's docks, 
passing a steady stream of ruddy-faced scarecrows bound breathlessly in the opposite direction. 
None too soon, they were arrived at level pavement again, and entered into a portion of 
the city that Epsilon had not known existed.  Great tents sewn from discarded sails sheltered the 
docks from both blistering sun and bloodthirsty predators.  Beneath the tents, a little oasis 
prospered, and a natural rocky ledge served perfectly as a mooring.  It stretched straight and true 
along the base of the rim, and around the rocky peninsula that formed the seaside arm of the 
harbor, where the lesser sandboats tied off. 

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Currently, more than three dozen large ships abutted the dock and the few shaded piers 
that jutted out into the sandy harbor.  A bustle of activity festered here, as crates and containers 
were loaded off and on the vessels, or transported along the wharf to the lift, where they would 
await shipment topside. 
Most of the warehouse space of the port was sheltered in deep, wide caverns, which led 
far back into the Rim wall.  Nalson informed that there were shops and houses to be found within 
those cool confines, not to mention criminal strongholds that catered to pirates and other rogues 
of the Desert Ocean.  He made a quick inquiry of a harbor master's runner, and was directed to 
the Lucky Lady.  The boat was berthed at slip seventeen, they were told brusquely, with the boy 
adding flippantly, "And you had better hurry, if you want to catch her!" 
"Oh." demanded Epsilon, "And why should that be." 
"She is weighing catch spurs even now to gain the easterly winds of sunset," shouted the 
runner over his shoulder, returning to his errand.  "Some lunatic has hired her to sail into the eye 
of the storm!" and he was gone. 
The company hurried on from there, and found Ipani sitting unhappily at dockside, his 
little feet dangling over the drop.  Before him, the crew of the Lucky Lady were busy about the 
business of making way.  Beyond, a man-powered tug was tying on at the bow.  Upon sighting 
the Warfarer, Half Pint brightened and jumped up at once. 
"Master!  You are come at last!" he cried, waddling over, "The crew said they could not 
wait, and Vespuzia is nowhere to be found!  I told them you were a Holy Warfarer come from far 
away Empire, but they only laughed and spat upon me!" 

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"What.  Though you and Vernin had freed them from the harbor master's impound.  
Though they have already loaded our goods.  The scoundrels!"  He turned to address Ipani's five. 
 "You there!  Board that vessel and fetch those bastards here!  I want them on the docks, face 
down!  NOW!"  And the Ritesman was livid, his face red and lethally angry. 
Lucky Lady's crew was tossed on the ground before Epsilon's pacing feet all too quickly.  
They whimpered and moaned piteously, and begged forgiveness. 
"The time of forgiveness is past, by gods!" he bellowed in response.  "I will know now 
which of you spat upon this man!  Well.  Speak up!  I warn you all; harboring the criminals will 
not salvage your lives!  If you refuse to say, I will have your tongues out, one and all, to offer in 
burnt sacrifice up to my god!"  He drew his long dagger and stooped to snatch up one man's bony 
head.  Placing the point gently upon the bent bridge of the hapless man's nose, he hissed, "Was it 
you, citizen." 
The sailor shook his head and whimpered and whined.  "All due respect, lord, none of us 
will say!  You might as well gut us on the spot!" 
"And why is that." 
"The one that says will die, no matter what else you may do!  We have a code!" 
"Bah!" spat Epsilon, rising to sheath his knife.  "I should hang the lot of you!  This man 
has come in the name of Empire, whatever else he may be!  Your disrespect of him is disrespect 
of me, and I am a Holy Warfarer of the Martial Rite!" 
"B- But we thought he was only joking, m'sieur!" from another of the crewmen.  "We 
meant no honest insult of it!" 

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"Yet insult you offered.  What did you think.  Did you think the King of Oreset would 
welcome your spittle." 
"What." queried another of the sailors sarcastically, "Half Pint.  King of Oreset." 
The all laughed, even Ipani's five.  A ring and flash of hastily drawn steel silenced the 
display.  Epsilon had drawn the Warfarer's sword, and laid its shiny edge across the throats of two 
of the king's body guards. 
"Laugh you not, lads.  For he is your king.  It is his gold in your purses, not mine." 
Half Pint blinked and blushed, but did not glance away from the many shocked stares 
turned upon him.  From another of the sailors, "What.  Half Pint." 
"HE IS IPANI, SCUM!  KING IPANI!"  The Ritesman withdrew his blade from the 
Guardsmen's necks, and held it at the ready.  More calmly he added, "Let any man who doubts 
step forward at once!" 
None were forthcoming, though a crowd had gathered to witness the display.  The 
spectators apparently thought Epsilon to be an unknown captain of cruel bearing, bent on 
executing mutineers on the spot.  Nudging one of the Lucky Lady's crew un-gently with his boot, 
the Warfarer demanded, "And you.  What would you say of it.  Nothing now and forever.  Or 
merely while my sword threatens your neck.  Damnable cowards that abase yourself at the 
expense of a helpless soul!  Do you rob grandmothers in the night, also." 
He rounded suddenly on Ipani's five, "And you, who say you shall serve true!  Will you 
turn tail and run, now.  Will you refuse to serve the king simply because he is short of shank.  
Well, go on, then!  Leave us on the trot, before I have your heads!" 

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But they fell to their knees, groveling.  They professed their continued commitment to the 
cause, and begged redemption for their initial reaction of surprise.  As if he loathed doing so, 
Epsilon reseated his weapon and bade them rise, absolved of their crime.  Immediately, they 
assumed a protective posture about Ipani's person, who seemed a bit shocked by the display. 
Epsilon finished the tirade with a few questioning words cast in the sergeants' direction, 
and calmed to a normal tone only when their pledges of fidelity were renewed.  "Good," he stated 
into the brittle atmosphere, "Do not forget that Ipani has been appointed king by the Emperor, on 
account of his character and the fact that he is of royal blood."  (This was a surprise to Ipani, 
himself, but, to his credit, his face did not show it.)  "If something goes wrong here, a horde of 
vengeful legions will storm this city of Oreset and burn it to the ground, docks and all!" 
And finally he addressed the sandboat's crew, bellowing.  "As for you miscreants, I should 
have you flogged to death!  Without your captain, you are useless to me!" 
Whereupon a ragged beggar separated from the throng and pressed up close, moving 
quicker than Epsilon could react.  The beggar hissed into his ear, "I would not do that, Ritesman. 
 The Lucky Lady cannot sail herself!" 
Epsilon rounded angrily to face Andrietti Vespuzia, who was dressed in disguise.  "You!" 
he breathed, and opened his mouth to say more. 
But the captain raised a stifling finger to his own lips.  "Shhh!  We would not have 
voyaged without you, fool!  Now, quick, push me away and curse me for a flea bitten cur." 
"With pleasure!" came the hushed return, and he added a kick to the seat of Vespuzia's 
pants, which sent him flying into the crowd. 

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Just at the back of the mob, two things caught Epsilon's eye.  One was the presence of 
vigilant Osgarthe and his men.  The second was an odd, shifting shadow.  It seemed to flow 
liquidly through the erosion worn crags of Earth's Rim, to settle on the wharf some distance 
further along.  Was that a flutter of soft wings.  Or merely the shifting winds upon the sand. 
As an afterthought, he added the requested curses, and brushed at his chain mail to rid it 
of imaginary fleas.  With a final angry stare at the cowed faces around him, the Ritesman declared, 
"It is fortunate you are favored by this Lucky Lady, rats.  Now get up and return to your labors."  
They scrambled to reply, and the crowd faded away (except for Osgarthe and that elusive 
shadow).  "And be careful not to offer insult to Oreset's king again in the future!"  A chorus of 
duly respectful 'ayes' sifted back to Epsilon's ears, borne on the hot breeze.  He was not impressed 
with their sincerity, but accepted their effort nonetheless. 
While the sandboat hoisted its daunting stern catch spurs and made ready to sail, the 
Warfarer turned his attentions on last second preparations for Oreset's future.  Drawing the 
halfling aside, he offered Ipani the plan of action he had authored, and clapped the little man 
soundly on the back.  "Have no concerns, Emmal's Son!  These men of the Home Guard have 
sworn to serve you.  And these five, in particular, have vowed to personally protect you from all 
harm, day and night.  They should be paid well for their hazardous duty, as should these other 
officers, each a master of Oreset's gates.  I do not doubt their authority, or the depth of their 
hearts, but watch them carefully, Your Majesty.  Keep your army strong, but never let it harbor a 
political will of its own. 

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"Old Bob is commissioned to form a company of political agents.  When they have 
finished their initial work, designate some of them to serve on internal surveillance.  Be wary of all 
talk of revolution, and crush the throat that would so much as whisper the word sedition!"  Upon 
spying Ipani's secretly frightened face, the Ritesman knelt to one knee to lower himself to the 
king's level.  "Listen, Half Pint, I know it seems a million things need doing at this point, and they 
do.  Yet they need not be done all at once.  If I were you, I would leave this dock and make 
tracks straight away for the Fourth Precinct Treasury.  Hold up there until your palace walls are 
ready and your new army recruited.  The most dangerous time will be the first four weeks. 
"If you are still king by the end of this season, you will reign long and happily until your 
natural death.  Now, let me offer you one final bit of advice.  Your most important role will be 
that of commander in chief of your armed forces.  In dealing with them, act confident, pretend 
you know what you are doing even when you do not.  This is, after all, what they are trained to 
do, and they will respect it when they see it in you.  They are not gods, Ipani, but men.  
Remember this, above all else." 
Half Pint sighed and promised to do his best.  At that precise moment, a sailor approached 
and coughed respectfully.  "We must board your stallion, now, Holy Warfarer.  The tug's pilot is 
impatient to tow us into the wind, and our departure permit expires at sundown." 
"Very well, I will march Helmcleaver aboard myself."  He rose and cinched a tighter grip 
on the steed's reins.  "It is good bye for now, little big man.  You are more favored in this fate 
than you can know.  A goddess watches over us both, I think, and she will not let harm befall us 
while in the course of her work." 

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"I pray that you are right, master.  Be careful where you are going.  And may the hands in 
your pockets ever be your own!"  The halfling bowed low and saluted with a twirl of his hands, 
one around the other.  "Good bye." 
 The sergeants and Ipani's five all called their farewells, and Old Bob promised to 'wring 
the right cat's scruffy neck', whatever that entailed.  Without further exchange of words, Epsilon 
turned to find the gang plank. 
As Epsilon prepared to cross it, he examined the sandboat for the first time in detail.  It 
was a tri-hulled craft of wedged shape, its two outriggers meeting the central hull at the bow and 
spreading out in a forked manner.  Four long, flexible masts rose up at obtuse angles from her 
blunt prow.  These swept back and to both sides, two to starboard and two to port.  A seeming 
tangle of block and tackle secured the booms to the hulls.  Regarding the outrigger design, he saw 
they were not centrally connected to the main boat, as were similarly fashioned water craft, but 
were instead angled sharply in at the bow, where they met at the base of the masts. The outriggers 
swept gracefully back and down, until they met the sand at twin skates.  The skates were sharply 
bladed on the lower aspect for stability, and flared wide as they approached the hulls to form a 
sort of narrowly planed set of wings.  Examining the main hull, he noted that it was also fitted 
with skates, one forward and one aft.  Heavy steel springs would cushion the hull against the 
worst of the ocean's defects. 
The superstructure of sails and lines was an intriguing tangle of abstract structure.  It was 
difficult to discern how the wind sheets would deploy, but they seemed to be rigged to form a 
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place, presumably to ward off the sun.  But the cover had a strange sort of shape, almost as if it 
were intended to be...  
"Is that the form of an illdross, there." he enquired of a crewman manning the dock side of 
the plank. 
"Aye," came the heavily accented reply, "Those are the blind sheets.  They do not catch a 
wind, but deceive the feeble minded dragons." 
"Deceive them how."  Helmcleaver balked at crossing the narrow access, and jerked 
against the bridle reluctantly. 
"They think the boat is another, much larger dragon, and leave us be.  It is the only way to 
cross the Desert Ocean without being devoured." 
"I see. I had wondered about how we might accomplish that." 
From there, he struggled to get the stallion safely on board without its falling over the 
side, into the miring sand.  It was an awkward proposition, as the beast had never before 
encountered such obstacles.  Nobody laughed at his stumbles, however, which hinted that the 
crew already knew enough to respect the dangerous, sable clothed Ritesman. 
The Lucky Lady was a comparatively large vessel.  Her main hull was forty sticks from 
bow to stern, and five abeam.  Her cargo was carried in nets, which were stretched tautly between 
the outriggers and the central hull, much like the webbing of a bat's wings.  The main hull, itself, 
housed only the ship's men and vital equipment.  Its decks were open amidships, and this was 
where Helmcleaver would be temporarily berthed.  Fodder was already laid out for the stallion, 
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spare sails penned him in on all sides.  This, Epsilon was assured, would ensure both the animal's 
and the crew's safety until permanent arrangements were made.  The Ritesman could only trust to 
the sailors' professional ability, and step aside. 
He retired to the gunwales and kept a curious eye on the sandboat's workings.  Since the 
sails were stored and lofted from the decks, there was no need to climb into the rigging to unfurl 
them.  The men had but to loose their cinch straps, and hoist them back and up along the sharply 
jutting masts, where they dangled limply once in place. 
Now the boat lurched forward.  Epsilon heard the snap of a whip, and glanced up sharply 
to see a gang of slaves struggling to tug the Lucky Lady out into the middle of the harbor.  They 
labored at lever paddles, and strained to pull and push the two boats along, inch upon inch.  It was 
slow going at first, right up until the Lady's skates were pulled free of the mire and came up to the 
surface of the sands, whereupon her speed increased greatly. 
A lean, leathery skinned man came down from the poop deck to stand alongside the 
Warfarer, uninvited.  He leaned over the gunwale to get a good look at the starboard outrigger 
skate. 
"She settled a bit during her long idleness, but nothing seems to be amiss," he announced 
suddenly.  Offering a sweaty hand, he added, "First Mate Becker, m'sieur.  At your service.  
Would you care to join me on the poop deck.  The view from its stern rail is superior!" 
Accepting the grip, Epsilon responded with his own name and rank.  "As you would have 
it.  Lead on." 

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Rounding Helmcleaver's makeshift stall, Becker called over his shoulder, "We are clearing 
space for your animal below.  We might have had it ready for you with another half day's notice.  
As it is, the animal must suffer until the hold is prepared." 
"I thought him perfectly situated where he is now." 
"In fair weather these accommodations are good enough, but the first storm would drive 
your stallion mad!"  Becker moved expertly along the cluttered deck, bound for a port ladder that 
would loft him to the captain's deck.  The boat was slowly moving away from the dock.  "He 
would be over the side at the first opportunity, perhaps taking the whole damned boat down with 
him."  Pointing at the cargo nets stretched between the hulls, the mate indicated great heaps of 
burlap sacks and kegs and crates all neatly arranged therein.  "Your niter, I believe.  Ten thousand 
pounds!"  He laughed brashly.  "They say you are intent to farm the desert.  Is it true." 
"In a  manner of speaking, perhaps.  Have you requisitioned sufficient consumables for the 
voyage." 
"More than enough.  Since we were not informed of your destination, I had your boy 
purchase the maximum load."  Becker reached for the ladder's middle rung and winked slyly.  "I 
must say, m'sieur, that you change tacks smoother than a blind sheet." 
Ignoring the remark, Epsilon called up, "What about the captain.  Surely you do not 
intend to leave without him!" 
"Oh," the mate called down, his tone cryptic, "I suspect he will be along presently.  At the 
moment, he is trying to avoid the murder of his future brother in law."  Then he was gone across 
the poop, barking orders and pointing out lines that needed attention. 

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Epsilon mouthed the words 'future brother in law' curiously, and shook his head.  Just as 
he reached for the ladder to climb it, somebody shrilled his name from the docks.  He turned to 
find Vernin there, hopping from foot to foot, tears streaming down his cheeks. 
"Sire!  Sire!  Must you leave so soon." 
"Aye, lad.  Urgent business across the desert calls me away.  It cannot be helped." 
"But what of Oreset.  What of the king." 
"The king is safe and has his men, who have need of your strong arm!  Serve them well, 
Good Vernin, as this city will live and die by the keen edge of your steel!" 
"I shall forge fast and true, as you would have it, lord!  Good bye!  Good bye!" 
"Good bye!" and the Ritesman might have called out further to say, but a harsh bark of 
'VESPUZIA!' erupted from the wharf to distract him. 
Just as he turned to see what was amiss, a ragged beggar dashed out of the crowd, feet 
flying.  As Epsilon watched, Andrietti shed his pauper's guise and gripped the hilt of his sword to 
prevent it from tripping him up.  Faster and faster he flew, chased now by Osgarthe and his 
bounty hunters.  The big man was too far away and too slow to catch the swift trader, however, 
and Vespuzia reached the dock's edge first.  Throwing his arms up high, he leapt, and leaping he 
sailed across the sands to land on Lucky Lady's starboard catch spur.  It was not a graceful or 
gentle landing, but it was a narrow one.  By the time they had recovered, Vespuzia’s persecutors 
could not hope to make the same jump, as the Lady was drawing away from shore at an 
accelerating rate. 

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Osgarthe was enraged, and ordered his men to string their bows.  After shafting the tri-
hull more than once, the bountymen surrendered this effort, also, and scurried off along the dock, 
shouting epithets and curses at 'Vespuzia the Vile'. 
Presently, the good captain joined Epsilon and Becker at the stern rail.  One of the 
crewmen had helped him down from the catch spur, and offered him a dashingly fashioned wide-
brimmed hat.  This he plopped atop his pate, wringing a wash of perspiration from his brow with 
a bloodied left hand.  Apparently noticing the wound for a first time, he sucked at the small cut, 
then wrapped a kerchief tightly about it. 
"Damnation!" he declared, approaching the Ritesman openly, as though he had not 
recently conspired to have the man killed.  "But that Osgarthe is the most stubborn man I have 
ever known!  It is clear to see where he gets it." 
"Aye," agreed Becker in a grunt, "He is his father to a last hair." 
"And so be his sister!"  They laughed. 
Epsilon glowered unfavorably, and eased over to the far corner of the deck railing.  With 
his back thus protected, he prepared to come to grips with the captain aboard his boat. 
"Did you see that leap, Epsilon Three.  By the gods, I felt Nerkuri, himself, had swept me 
up to carry my feet upon the wind!" 
"It was a prodigious flight, to be sure," grumbled the Warfarer, laying his hands near his 
weapons.  If he was to have a falling out with the ship's master, he felt it should come now, before 
it was too late to return to Oreset for another crew.  "But I find that Nerkuri often favors 
scoundrels and thieves." 

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"Ah," chummed the trader, spreading his arms wide, as though he would embrace the 
unhappy Epsilon, "You are angry with Vespuzia!  Captain Tipper has performed less than 
admirably in your eyes to date!  Well," he gushed by way of dismissal, "Never mind about all that! 
 It was a private matter that need not concern you." 
"Oh, I agree.  It need not have concerned me in any slightest way, yet it did." 
"I assure you, Ritesman, there was no real harm intended." 
"No harm.  In three armed and armored men fit to take my head off." 
Vespuzia lowered his hands but not his smile, and turned to take up a relaxed posture over 
the stern rail.  Epsilon recognized the move for what it was, an enticement for him to drop his 
own guard, to be shed of his animosity.  But the Warfarer held his stance and his temper. 
As he watched the shore and its little people drawing away, Andrietti waved to Half Pint 
one last time, and sighed heavily.  "I did not fear for your safety, m'sieur, even though they were 
three.  Was my measure of your abilities misguided." 
"It is not for myself that I am angry.  Though no man is utterly safe when another draws 
steel against him, I held no real fear for my life when facing them.  What angers me, is that you 
would leave me to fight your battles, unasked, and to slay two men with whom I had no quarrel 
whatsoever." 
Andrietti shrugged maddeningly.  "Still, you did not slay them, and all is well.  I offer you 
my thanks, and acknowledge the debt I now owe you."  And he turned a steely gaze on the 
Ritesman, his smile yet in place.  "What else can we do about it, m'sieur.  Draw swords and gut 
one another.  Is this what you would have.  I think not."  He turned back to face the shoreline, 

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and then turned an appraising eye on the Lady's sharply angled sails.  These were rippling and 
popping at the behest of a slowly stirring breeze.  "No, I think instead you will let me repay your 
debt by sailing you wherever you will go, without question.  Puele nie.  Is this not so." 
Epsilon smiled despite himself and nodded.  "It would go far in appeasing me." 
"I do not need to appease you, my friend, but I should pay my debt with you.  My life for 
your life."  He paused for effect, then softly demanded, "Ease your hand away from that hilt now, 
if you will.  Your intentions are left in question while it lingers there." 
The Warfarer complied in the name of good relations.  He, also, leaned against the rail.  
"How do you mean, my life for your life.  You have not rescued me from anything that I know 
of." 
"Have I not.  Let me tell you something, m'sieur, Vile Doole long ago flogged all 
foolishness from this flesh you see before you.  I am no longer a giggling boy child that would go 
skipping off into the sands, happy to see the sun!  Do not think I am unaware of where you are 
going or what you are about.  For now, as you would have it, I think it best we leave these 
matters un-discussed, but do not believe I am deceived in anything."  The trader whipped off his 
hat and wiped the back of his sleeve across his glistening brow.  "I hold no illusions about where 
you are going, or what you intend to do, once you are delivered there.  And I can see nothing soft 
or yielding anywhere on your person.  You, m'sieur, are a man of death.  Death walks with you as 
a black shadow, both leading and following.  None that would sail with you will escape its taint, 
and nothing good can come from your presence aboard the Lady.  Still, we will go where you 

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intend, and I warrant no other boat in all of Oreset, or its captain, could or would do the same for 
you.  I will do it.  But for a price.  A lofty price." 
The Ritesman returned immediately with, "I had thought to do it no other way, captain." 
Vespuzia grunted dourly.  "Good.  How much have you to spend." 
At which the Warfarer chuckled lightly.  "If the truth be known, captain,  I was charged 
and funded to offer you a king's ransom.  I thought this a bit excessive for so short a voyage, 
however, and instead decided to fund a legitimate king in Oreset.  Not to worry, though.  You are 
not forgotten altogether."  He removed a sheath of vouchers and ruffled them in the breeze.  
“Here I hold a great wealth.  It is yours.  I will sign the lot over to you immediately upon arrival at 
my destination." 
Captain Tipper growled and spat.  "Bah!  You have nothing more than papers there, and 
not enough to wipe my arse with, either.  If that is all you brought to the table, I hope you are 
prepared to walk back into port." 
Now it was Epsilon's turn to growl and spit.  "And who will toss me overboard.  You.  
These men of your crew.  Hmm.  All together could not see it finished." 
"Do not be so certain, my friend.  One night perhaps you will dream of falling, only to 
awaken and find yourself lost in the Desert Ocean!" Andrietti laughed, "No, do not threaten the 
captain of the boat.  Nor should you make the mistake of thinking you and any other crew could 
sail this vessel safely unto your destination.  You cannot.  I, alone, am capable of such a feat." 
"You keep coming back to these words, Andrietti.  Just where do you think I am going." 

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But Captain Tipper did not answer immediately.  Rather, he scratched at his scruffy 
whiskers and kept a mute watch for the trade winds they were seeking.  By now, Oreset's docks 
had been greatly reduced in the distance, and individuals were no longer evident in the colored 
blur that was the busy crowd. 
"You," he stated at last, "Are bound straight to hell, Ritesman. For such a voyage, my 
minimum charge is two hundred thousand shecks, in gold.  And those vouchers you are holding." 
As though relenting, the Warfarer sighed and reached for his heavy purse.  “One hundred 
and fifty thousand, and the vouchers.  Would you leave me a pauper." 

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Vespuzia laughed, "My friend, I care not whether you live or die, so long as I am paid.  
However, I do not forget the debt between us, and so concede to your reduced rate.  Providing 
payment is in advance." 
"You shall have your gold in advance," he returned, offering up fifteen Empirical coins.  
"But these vouchers will remain unsigned until we arrive at our destination.  On this, I am firm." 
Accepting the coin and quickly tucking it away, Vespuzia leered, "It seems you are not so 
sure of yourself, after all." 
"Of myself, I am sure enough.  It is you that give me doubt." 
"But whatever for, m'sieur.  How has Captain Tipper given you cause to doubt him." 
"It is certain I have no cause to trust him." 
"And why not.  You have never sailed with me, ere now, and I doubt very much that you 
have been outside Empire long enough to have become acquainted with my reputation at sea." 
"This is true enough.  Yet there is that matter back at the Swooning Dragon to consider, 
not to mention your treatment of an unknown Sudanese maiden.  What is this business with 
Osgarthe, after all." 
Before the trader could respond, they were interrupted by Becker's cry of, “Captain 
Tipper, look!  Off the starboard stern!" 
Whereupon the two adventurers turned to catch sight of the devil Epsilon had so recently 
addressed.  For there, making way out of port under power of their own lever paddles, Osgarthe 
and his three warriors were pulling at the oars of a sand skiff, straining to catch Lucky Lady 
before she could make the winds.  Andrietti rolled his eyes skyward and groaned. 

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"Oh, gods!  Does that man never give up." 
The Warfarer stated flatly, "It seems he is overly fond of you, captain.  What have you 
done to spawn such affection.  Could it be he demands satisfaction for the dishonor of his sister." 
"I have dishonored no one!  Least of all that man!"  Vespuzia noted that Osgarthe and his 
lighter boat seemed to be gaining on the Lady. 
He muttered a command to Becker, who raised up a conical megaphone and shouted, 
"You there!  Pilot of the tug!  Flog those bastards harder!  Let us have some real way there!"  
Then, "On the starboard wing!  Raise the catch sail to full!  Get that mainsail fleeced down taut!  
Have a hand on the port side, there, we will raise maximum canvass on the first opportunity!" 
Epsilon watched the outer most sail shoot along the mast until it was completely extended. 
 It was a massive piece of canvass, that towered over the boat, and out beyond the outrigger to all 
but dwarf the tri-hull.  And now the starboard mainsail, the one attached to the right side of the 
main hull, was winched down without lowering.  The result was a drum tight arrangement that 
was best for catching the irregular desert winds from behind.  Like the so called blind sheets, these 
two huge sails were arranged and cut to resemble the sharply angular body of a gliding illdross, 
hence their bizarre design.  A dark 'V' was painted onto the bisector of the mainsail's forward 
angle, which served to lend the illusion of wing movement when it flapped in the wind. 
Looking back again, he saw that Osgarthe was indeed closing.  His skiff was a tiny vessel, 
barely large enough to carry four grown men and all their supplies.  Subsequently, it was much 
easier to drag across the sands by sheer brute force.  The bounty hunters worked valiantly at the 
lever paddles, despite the stifling heat. 

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Ahead, the cat snapped and the slaves moaned.  The Lady lurched forward.  They were 
nearing the high, rocky peninsula that protected Oreset's harbor from the south, and would soon 
push beyond the curved jut of Earth's Rim that shielded it from the north.  Lucky Lady's sails 
stirred more anxiously still in the gathering drafts. 
Becker muttered, "They'll catch us up at this rate.  Should I arm the stern." 
"No, boatswain," came the cool reply, "We will wait out the wind." 
"They have sails, too, captain.  If I know Osgarthe, he will come along as quick as he 
can."  Becker paused to let his master speak.  When no words were forthcoming, however, he 
squinted judiciously and stated, "That light skiff might outstretch the Lady by as much as five or 
ten knots." 
"No boat is faster than the Lady.  We will wait out the wind." 
"Un-laden, that is undoubtedly correct, but we carry ten thousand pounds of polished niter 
and supplies for a six month voyage!  We have no hope of-" 
"I said we will wait out the wind!  And, by the gods, wait it out we will, boatswain!"  
Eyeing the set of the sails and the pattern of shifting sands, he added more softly, "Standby on the 
port wing.  Make ready to hoist the port mainsail." 
Becker promptly raised his phone, and shouted out, "Standby on the port wing!  Make 
ready to hoist the port mainsail!" 
On aside, he asked Epsilon, "Have you ever sailed a sandboat at full speed across the 
sands, Warfarer.  No.  You are due a divine treat, then, for it is to fly!"  At this last syllable, the 
starboard mainsail popped loudly, and the right catchsail billowed full of gods' breath. 

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Lucky Lady heaved over sharply, nearly pitching Epsilon from the poop.  Andrietti and 
Becker laughed, and gripped the rail calmly.  The sandboat surged forward all at once, as the 
starboard masts were stretched out and forward by the full force of a strong wind blown from the 
north.  In the same instant, the tug cast off the bowline, which was hastily hauled aboard.  Lucky 
Lady surged beyond the hapless slaves that had given her new life, accelerating past the tip of the 
southern most promontory. 
Once it was safely beyond that obstacle and sailing on the open ocean, the captain 
exchanged further soft words with Boatswain Becker.  Who raised the megaphone again, and 
shouted, "All right, now!  Up with the port mainsail!  Make it fast.  And now come about, 
helmsman!  Steer due south!  On the starboard wing!  Let the boom out!  TACK!  TACK!  
TACK!  And now, damn you, raise the port catchsail to full!  Let her go, men!  Let her go!" 
With amazing responsiveness, the sandboat came about to round the promontory at a 
sharp angle.  Its deck settled level, once all four sails were filled and pulling, and she began 
skipping across the wavelets of sand, faster and faster.  Her skates bobbed and danced beneath her 
hulls, and the great masts strained against their mooring, pushing the bow down low. 
A hot wind sliced over the deck from the north, and only now was Epsilon exposed to the 
first blast furnace touch of the great desert's hot breath.  It burned his face and steamed the 
perspiration off his face.  Flying shards of sand bit into his flesh. 
Becker turned to Captain Tipper and enquired, "Should we raise the jibe, master.  That 
skiff will catch us for sure without it." 
"Aye.  But let her come up a bit, first.  Give the order to standby." 

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Andrietti was grinning like a demon buying souls.  He spoke to the Warfarer next, "Ah, it 
is a good life, Epsilon!  Look around you now.  Do you see the near shore.  It is like your own 
mother's hand, reaching out to send you tottering on your infant's way.  Soon, she will be gone, 
and you will be alone in the wastes.  How will you fare.  She does not care.  Look at her there, 
mate!  Once you are let go, she has no slightest concern for your safety.  While it is true she will 
welcome you happily home again, should you return, it is also quite obvious that she has already 
forgotten you!  And so what.  Eh.  Let her go, and good riddance.  Men like you and me, 
Epsilon, we do not need the land to hold us up!  Men like you and me, we have no fear of the 
dark shadows that chase ever behind us as winged horses!  Let them chase, and no matter!  For 
we are bound where only the boldest may go!"  He raised his right fist at the receding horizon to 
stern and bellowed, "Pursue us if you dare!  Damnable sprites, have you the heart.  Have you the 
courage." 
Suddenly, the boatswain shouted, "JIBE!  JIBE!  JIBE!" 
And a daunting mountain of sail rose up above Lucky Lady's primary hull.  It was a large, 
triangular sheet that spanned the distance between the two laterally angled main masts.  It did not 
ride securely attached to the booms, but was set loosely, leaving it free to wander back and forth 
before the boat, catching the wind as best it was able.  Immediately, it sucked a deep gutful of air 
and snapped tight.  The sandboat surged forward several knots faster still. 
Glancing back to the harbor's mouth, Andrietti announced, "Osgarthe has surrendered the 
oars for canvass.  He will jibe soon and try to overtake us.  But he will not!  Do you hear.  No 
boat is faster on the sand than this one." 

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Becker retorted, "And if he does, Captain. What then." 
The trader shook his head and appeared to be unhappy at thought of this prospect.  So 
softly that his voice was barely audible above the hot, rushing wind, he replied, "I do not know, 
my friend.  I truly do not know." 
"But surely he could be easily slain," protested Epsilon.  "What is this hesitation in your 
heart.  Just last night that man was at your throat, ready to choke the life out of you." 
Vespuzia shrugged.  "Perhaps he feels justified in slaying me.  I, however, do not feel 
justified in slaying him.  If it came down to both our blades at one another's throats, Epsilon 
Three, I would let him have the first cut." 
"Foolishness!  Suicide!  Why should you do such a thing.  While it may be true that you 
sullied his sister, you are not-" 
"I sullied no one!" 
"Then why is Osgarthe so intent upon your murder." 
"I do not know that he is.  Thus far, we have only discussed my return to Bahia Sud." 
In the northern distance, Osgarthe's little boat jibed.  It was an impossibly large sail for 
such a small craft. 
Becker seemed to note this fact, as well.  "They have raised their largest piece of canvass, 
Captain Tipper.  It will be a hard race to win." 
"Damnation!  We are unfortunate that Solwyn's father sent Osgarthe after me!  If only it 
had been Teldell, the next in line, or any of her other brothers.  They would have forsaken the 
chase back at Port Kyle.  Not Osgarthe!  Damn!  And damn again!" 

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"He will come on hard in order to catch us before nightfall.  I see nothing to stop him." 
Andrietti paused to consider the situation a moment.  The entire ship was vibrating now, 
as the  skates skipped across the rounded peaks of tiny dunes.  A sound of 'wum-wum-wum-
wum-wum' pervaded the air.  "Come about fifteen degrees to port," he instructed at last.  "We 
will lead him at speed out into the Desert Ocean." 
As Becker gave the orders to his deck crew, Vespuzia informed Epsilon, “Until now we 
have hugged the Earth's Rim, sailing ever north to Oreset.  Now we are forced to turn into the 
wastes to test this man's resolve.  I pray he will turn back before it is too late." 
"Why so." 
"The Desert is turning, Ritesman.  A boat the size of Lucky Lady is hard pressed to make 
passage these days, let alone a fragile skiff such as Osgarthe has chosen.  It is a quick transport, 
but nothing to take out onto the open ocean." 
"What do you care if Osgarthe lives or dies.  If you have no love for his sister, why should 
you love him." 
"Ah, but I have a great love for Solwyn. She is my heart's throb, as dear to me as this 
Lucky Lady.  The last thing I would have is her good brother's blood on my hands.  Besides," he 
added morosely, staring back at his chasing demons, “He was once my fondest friend, and I have 
not yet disavowed his love, either." 
"If you loved her, why abandon her in Bahia Sud." 
"Where have you come across such descriptions of my actions.  I have done nothing 
dishonorable in leaving Solwyn behind, no matter what her father and brothers may think."  He 

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gripped the rail as the sandboat skipped over a particularly high dune during its shallow left turn.  
"Neither of us felt I had gathered enough wealth to be married, and so we decided to postpone 
the matter while I ran a few more loads across the wastes.  It was agreed between us, but not 
between us and her father, Fash the Magnificent.  He is a powerful landowner in Bahia Sud, 
second in power only to the king.  It seems he was not accustomed to heeling to the dictates of 
another.  Well, neither was I.  When it was decided between myself and my love that I should sail, 
sail I did, and no looking back, though he had promised to hunt me to all corners of the sea of 
sand." 
"And you did not take his daughter's honor." 
"Never.  It is not for his daughter that Fash is angered, but for himself.  In arranging a 
marriage not to be, he lost much face among his people, and now blames me for it.  I told him we 
were not prepared to wed, but he insisted." 
Epsilon shook his head sagely, "Being of the Rite, I cannot profess to understand the ways 
of a natural family, but this seems a sort of madness to me.  Why should he hunt his future son in 
law down to death, rather than be content to wait a mere year longer for matrimony." 
"As I said, Fash is a rich and powerful man.  He thought it foolish that I should have a 
desire to possess my own wealth, when he had so much of his own to share in dowry.  I told him I 
would not be a kept man, but would work to feed myself and my family, no matter how much he 
had to offer.  After all, m'sieur, a man cannot have respect from his woman when he must beg her 
father for every penny and pint." 
"I suppose you are correct in that." 

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Becker interrupted with, "Osgarthe has turned to follow.  I tell you now, he will not 
surrender the chase until that dingy of his is dashed all to splinters." 
"Then so be it," from Epsilon, who was suddenly impatient to be finished with this 
distraction.  "I have business to the east, not south southeast.  We must come further about to 
port." 
"I will discuss your destination with you presently.  For now, I am concerned only with 
settling this matter between myself and Osgarthe.  We will run yet a while longer before the wind. 
 There is no hurry, you see, as it is a broad wasteland, with plenty of room to maneuver." 
"As you would have it, captain.  Just remember that I have no time for silly games." 
"Ha!  You make me laugh, m'sieur!  Your life is naught BUT games!"  He consulted with 
Becker, who shouted orders for maintenance of the sails, then he turned back to Epsilon.  "What 
of this game you are bound to play across the sand sea.  Though they are lethal, they are games 
nonetheless.  You must think I am Ipani Emmal's Son, that would let you crown me king for a 
jest." 
The Warfarer frowned slightly.  "It was no jest!" 
"Then your wit is well hidden, for I found it funny beyond hysteria.  To think!  A halfling 
in rule of Oreset!  Oreset that is the most crime infested, criminal plagued port of them all!  It is a 
canary to lead a charging herd of olifants!  It is a chicken to take charge of jaguars!  They will 
have him for a slight snack, and shit his bones out their arses without further thought!"  He and 
Becker and several of the nearby crewman were laughing.  "And while we are on the subject of 

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your most recent coronation, I should tell you now that I did not like the way you handled my 
crew back there on the docks.  It is certain they did not enjoy it, either." 
"What do I care how such men regard me.  Men that would bate and spit upon a halfling. 
 A mere boy in body, if not in mind or character.  And what do you know of installing 
governments.  Have you some training from the Rite of which I am ignorant.  Your men know 
nothing of it.  You know nothing of it."  Epsilon lifted his helmet and wiped at his dripping brow. 
 "Only time will truly tell, but I think you might be surprised at how well your halfling fares in 
matters of dominion.  Have you never met a short man so unhappy with his stature that he can but 
conspire day and night for the acquisition of greater and greater power.  What I have done in 
setting Ipani upon Oreset's throne, is to strip away all that challenges him in life.  No longer is his 
will constrained by poverty or a diminished physical capacity.  All that holds him at present is the 
quickness of his mind. 
"You know him, Vespuzia.  Think about it carefully for a moment.  Of all the people you 
knew in that hellish town, is there any on a superior intellectual footing.  Hmm.  And if life is 
reduced to an otherwise equal battle of wits, who do you think will win.  Besides," he added, 
replacing his head cover before the setting sun could burn his hair dry, "He is protected by a 
powerful magic, I think." 
"Ah, now you are talking of matters that make some sense in this land.  Magic and steel 
are all the Wilderlands will respect from men." 
Quite suddenly, Epsilon was left to himself.  Becker had climbed down to the main deck 
earlier, and had returned carrying a worn velvet box.  From this, Captain Tipper extracted a finely 

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fashioned instrument and a small black book.  With these, he began taking some sort of esoteric 
measurement, which the Warfarer dimly recognized as a means of fixing their geographical 
position. 
A cry from above alerted him to trouble in that instant, and he glanced up to see a man 
dressed in loose white robes from head to toe.  He was dangling from a line strung between the 
main masts, and was apparently acting as lookout. 
Waving frantically and pointing east, he was shouting, "Illdross!  Illdross!"  His tiny voice 
was a hot poker to seer guts with fright, once its dire warning was deciphered.  All twelve men 
aboard the boat raised their eyes skyward in unison.  Several ran forward to get a better look from 
beneath the jib sail. 
Andrietti returned his astrolathe to its heavy case, and cursed.  "Martyrs' blood!  Osgarthe 
is in for it now.  Boatswain, lower the jib and arm the Lady, stern and bow.  Best you get below, 
Epsilon, the lookout would not have called an alert unless it is to be an attack!" 
The Ritesman nodded, understanding, and hurried to the ladder.  He was not bound for 
descent into the hold, however, but to tend Helmcleaver and retrieve his longbow. 

 

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13 

To Sail  Lady Luck 

Lucky Lady's decks were a bustle of activity.  Though there were only eleven crewmen 
besides Becker and Captain Tipper, it seemed to Epsilon there were one hundred.  Several men 
rushed forward to roll the jib down into its little compartment below the mast moorings, while 
others hurriedly fetched heavy guns from the forecastle.  These were hauled to fore and aft, where 
they were installed into ready made brackets, and armed to fire.  Epsilon noted approvingly that 
these guns each fired two six foot bolts from twin crossbow-like springs. They were, in fact, much 
like the guns that had saved him at Oreset's western gate. 
As he was retrieving his greater bow and quiver of arrows, a pair of sailors took the 
canvass stall down and offered Epsilon a length of cloth.  "Tie this around your animal's eyes," 
one commanded brusquely, anxious to clear the decks.  "We must bind its legs to lower it into the 
hold." 

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Without questioning, Epsilon did as he was told.  He helped one of the mariners hobble 
the hapless stallion one leg at a time, while the other fixed a broad sling beneath its perspiring 
belly. 
Now he noticed a heavy boom swinging about, which had lain straight alongside the main 
hull.  It levered over them and into place, and a heavy rope descended into the second sailor's 
ready hand.  The first darted aft to throw open a heavy hatch, and a way down to the hold was 
cleared.  At the illdross' first predatory screech, Helmcleaver was hoisted bodily from the deck 
and swung astern.  The horse tottered uneasily back and forth, side to side, as Lady rode out the 
gusts, and finally was situated properly above the hatch opening.  To the sounds of a smoking 
whipcord, the hoist lowered its burden at once, and Helmcleaver plummeted blindly into the 
depths. 
Epsilon hoped his beloved animal was safe, but had not the time to climb down to be 
certain.  Instead, he placed his great bow between his knees, and pushed down on its upper arm 
with all his might.  With a prodigious effort and a long practiced hand, he managed to string it 
alone on the first try.  Gathering his quill over his helm, he dashed back to the ladder, and climbed 
onto the poop deck. 
For the first time, he caught site of the illdross.  It was absolutely gigantic, much bigger 
than those that plied the forest.  Its wings were fifty sticks, tip to tip, if they were an inch, and it 
was gliding straight along the line of their main hull from the fore.  Though it was several 
thousand feet away, its bloodthirsty charge was an awesome site.  The beast opened its mouth to 
screech, and Epsilon glimpsed uneven rows of bristling teeth within the beaked maw.  Judging its 

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speed and altitude, the Ritesman determined the illdross would fly directly overhead without 
making contact with Lucky Lady. 
Becker was shouting, "It is not intent on us!  Osgarthe's boat has attracted the dragon's 
attention, I think!" 
"Aye, and he is doomed for it.  Why has the fool not lowered that skiff's jibsail." returned 
Vespuzia. 
"Perhaps he has not seen it!" 
"Impossible!  No, it is his damnable stubbornness!  He hopes to overtake us while our own 
foresail is down." 
"The madman!" declared Epsilon.  Secretly, he decided Vespuzia had not told the 
complete truth about this matter between he and Solwyn's determined brother.  No mere trifling 
of disaffected honor could drive a man so.  "It means his certain death!" 
"Undoubtedly.  Unless they can fight the monster off." 
"That tiny boat has no room for men, much less heavy weapons.  Stern gunner!  Make 
ready to fire on the dragon's pass!" 
Epsilon hastened to fit a poisoned arrow to his bow.  Flexing his knees to steady his stance 
atop the pitching deck, he drew a careful bead on the dragon's heart, then traced forward to lead it 
a bit. 
Becker protested, "Captain!  The beast will attack us if the first volley fails!  Let Osgarthe 
face this fate alone!" 

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But Vespuzia raised his arm in a ready signal.  The gunner tracked his target.  "FIRE!" 
bellowed the captain, and a hum of twin springs split the wind. 
With a quick eye, the Warfarer traced these first shots up and forward.  They sliced neatly 
between the main masts, but, even before they cleared the sails, Epsilon could see the shots would 
fall short. One missed altogether, while the other passed harmlessly through the webbing of the 
dragon's left wing.  It shrieked, and seemed to notice the sandboat for the first time.  Before its 
flight path could veer lower to intercept them, however, Epsilon drew back mightily on his bow 
and let its long, deadly shaft fly true. 
With a whistle, it was gone.  Thirteen pairs of eyes watched its blurred ascent, and thirteen 
throats cheered when it disappeared into the monster's breast scales. 
The effect was immediate.  The dragon cried out strangely, its serpent's voice pained.  Its 
long, sinuous body doubled over in mid-flight, and it tried to gnash the barb free with its powerful 
mouth.  Meanwhile, its membranous wings folded and no longer foiled the air.  As a thrashing 
lump of angry flesh, the illdross fell from the sky.  Nearly clipping the Lady's tall main masts, it 
crashed to ground just astern, where it struggled to right itself once more. 
By now, the stern guns were all but reloaded.  The monster managed to rise to its fore 
limbs, while its tail whipped about in search of purchase.  Its claws threw plumes of sand high in 
the sky.  Epsilon was dismayed to note that his poison seemed to have little immediate effect on 
this large specimen.  Resignedly, he fit another arrow and waited for the beast to rise and renew 
its attack.  Vespuzia was cursing the aft gunner to get his weapon ready faster.  When the bolts 
were in place atop their runners, Becker rushed to aid the man in cocking the springs. 

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"Fire at will!" commanded the captain, pressing up close behind his aiming crewman. 
One huge arrow shot off at a sound of whipping air.  It was low, however, and skipped 
across the dunes.  The shot was not utterly wasted, however, when it struck a glancing blow 
across the dragon's bowed left forearm.  And this just when it had finally found its rear feet.  Now 
the illdross crashed forward, its long neck snapping the head down hard against the sand.  The 
behemoth was enraged, and raised its wings threateningly, preparing to rise. 
Osgarthe had veered hard to starboard to avoid the thrashing monster, and now came into 
sight again alongside it.  The illdross took note.  It had found all four feet again, and was coming 
around to crush the smaller boat. 
Lucky Lady's gunner reset his sights, then let go another six foot bolt.  This one, at last, 
found its mark.  With a loud sound of impact, it embedded to mid-shaft in the beast's meaty 
haunch.  It screamed at once, and plucked the shaft loose.  Epsilon did not see the barbed point 
come out, though, and realized the creature would be left with a painful, never healing wound.  
Provided it survived his poison, of course. 
Now it reared up, sweeping its wings high and wide.  With a monumental heave, it lifted 
off in a single stroke, and hurried to add altitude with further beats of its broad wings. 
Something seemed wrong from the start.  The dragon was not flying evenly, but wheeled 
from side to side with each wing beat.  Its horny head lolled sickly.  Lucky Lady's crew watched 
with disbelieving eyes, as the dragon gave all appearance that it would soon plummet from the 
sky.  From time to time, it bent its neck to lick its wound.  Not the one inflicted by the gunner, but 

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that of Epsilon's poisoned arrow.  He, alone, knew why the monster was having such a hard time 
of it, which gave him cause to smile secretly. 
Though they were no doubt inept by Pandolyn's standards, Empirical mages were at least 
proficient in the manufacturing of poisons.  The massive illdross had not flown one thousand 
sticks before it crashed into the sands, never to rise again. 
A cheer went up from the sandboat's crew.  Andrietti was ecstatic. 
"We are saved!" cried Becker happily.  "By gods, perhaps it is good to have a Warfarer 
under foot, after all!" 
"Aye!" responded the delirious crew.  Then they cheered and came alive with surprised 
declarations of support for the Ritesman.  None of them professed to having doubted Epsilon's 
utility. 
But what of Osgarthe.  Epsilon sought his sails against the dimming light of the horizon, 
and found them, incredibly, around to the west.  The madman's superior speed had at last brought 
him abreast of the Lady, and now he was coming around to port, bearing sharply in at the bow.  
Was he going to ram.  It was madness!  Brutal madness! 
"Helmsman!" ordered Vespuzia sharply, "Hard a'port!  Hard a'port!  Let the port catch sail 
down!" 
The boatswain repeated through his megaphone, "LET THE PORT CATCH SAIL 
DOWN!" 

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"He is intent to ram!" from the excited Epsilon.  He was clutching his bow in one hand and 
the stern rail in the other, and his face was doughy, white.  Never in his life had he traveled so 
fast!  As Andrietti had said, it seemed they were fairly flying! 
"He will not ram Lucky Lady," returned the trader with surprising calm.  He was away 
from the abandoned gun now, and standing near the heaving wheelman. 
It was a hard turn that started gently enough.  Before it was finished, Epsilon was on his 
back and seemed to hang across the poop deck, strung from his one fixed grip.  A huge gout of 
sand shot out from the starboard skates, which bit to the wing planes and held.  Steel springs 
protested with an ear-ringing whine of metallic stress.  The port outrigger came up off the ground. 
Becker responded with, "Let out the port wing boom fifteen degrees!" 
The farthest mast was loosed from its hold at the outrigger's stern.  Force of the wind 
dragged it out and into the cut of their turn.  Its effect was stabilizing, and the port skates came 
back down again. 
Before they turned in against the wind, the helmsman let the sandboat's great wheel spin 
straight.  They were bearing nearly due east now.  At Becker's demands, the crew lowered the 
port mainsail to clear the starboard sails to take the wind.  Osgarthe shot around wide, missing his 
target, and could not close the circuit.  Now he was running before Lucky Lady. 
At the captain's order, the boatswain called out, "Standby the catch spurs!  Let down the 
starboard spur one part in twenty!"  When the lowered catch spur bit, the boat seemed to spin to 
the right, so tightly did it turn.  When it had slowed their forward progress all it ever would, the 
first mate called for it to be lowered one part in ten, then one in five.  Finally, when they were 

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pointed back to the south and slightly west, orders were given to raise it altogether.  Now both 
sets of sails were hoisted aloft, and the jib was set again. 
Osgarthe's little boat was turning back to the right, in another effort to ram from the other 
side.  But he had let his first pass drift too wide, and so could not recover from the sweeping arc 
of his passage.  By the time he had neared the Lady, she was jibed and surging forward at 
maximum speed. 
The bounty hunters passed slightly astern, and stayed there for the remainder of the 
evening.  Atop Earth's Rim, the declining sun was a dreary, half shielded eye to watch over the 
serpentine writhing of two sandboats coming to death grips in the wastes.  This far out, the bluff 
was nothing more than a dark line marring the horizon.  All too soon, it would fade completely 
from sight. 
From time to time, as the fickle winds changed and gusted, Osgarthe's skiff drew near 
enough for his men to shoot arrows into Lucky Lady.  Andrietti sent the crew below during these 
times, and took up the wheel, himself.  Epsilon stood at the inside rail of the poop deck ladder, 
and waited out the shots patiently, wringing wet with perspiration. 
From below, he caught Helmcleaver's distressed whinny, and at last turned his attention to 
the animal's care.  He found his way below, and climbed down into the aft hold. 
His stallion was yet bound and blinded, and lay helplessly on its side in the Lady's guts, 
though somebody had at least taken the time to remove his gear.  Epsilon was horrified, and 
hastily rectified the situation.  Once the animal was back on its feet, the Warfarer sought to sooth 
and calm it with a heavy brushing and soft, cooing words.  He never fully succeeded in the 

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attempt, but the animal was at least settled enough to take a bit of fodder.  Standing fast on all 
fours, it rocked back and forth with each swell, and the Ritesman decided the horse would keep 
well enough for the night. 
When he climbed back on deck, the Lady’s sandmen were dismantling her guns.  The 
boat's bearing was southeast again, judging by the fading light, and the Lady was yet running 
before the wind.  Night was coming on by then, and the sun was nothing more than a splotch of 
crimson and gold on the far western horizon.  As before, Osgarthe was there at the stern, weaving 
back and forth, attempting to slow the Lady by stealing as much of her wind as the tiny skiff could 
manage to steal. 
Andrietti called Epsilon back up on the poop.  With a hale clap on the Warfarer's shoulder, 
he welcomed Epsilon at the rail. 
"We are having water, soon," he called.  "And perhaps a bit of wine to celebrate.  I have a 
personal store set aside for such occasions.  What a prodigious shot, eh, First Mate Becker.  
Have you ever seen a man with a longbow take down a grown illdross." 
"Never, Captain Tipper.  I am duly amazed," came the cool reply.  His elation gone, the 
old sour Becker was returned. 
"Then be thrice amazed," boasted Epsilon, "For it is the third, and largest, such creature I 
have shafted and killed while on Exodus.  Perhaps I should start notching my bow, before I lose 
count." 
Andrietti laid back his head, and roared with laughter.  "Ah, toast Nars!  What a 
wonderful god, that he should spawn such a man!  Notch your bow, indeed." 

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"Do not forget, the Lady also had a stroke in the dragon's doom." 
The captain made a farting noise with his mouth.  "I have seen an illdross of that size 
pluck ten such bolts from its scaly hide, and still go on the attack.  No, it was the Ritesman and 
his longbow that slew the monster.  What sort of poison do you use.  Some Empirical brew, I 
imagine." 
"It is Empirical, though I know not what kind." 
"Well, your secrets notwithstanding, I long to have a hold full of it.  A pound, alone, 
would be worth more than the sandboat that shipped it!" 
"If I return from the east, perhaps I will fetch you a ton of it from Empire's damnable 
mages.  Though I believe them largely useless in most worldly matters, it is somehow befitting 
that they should excel at producing deadly potions.  Murder by poison is a popular pastime among 
those of the Royal Hierarchy.  It is a sort of game to those black wizards, for they are ever 
striving in the name of their masters to derive the deadliest mixtures, which kill in minimal 
portions.  I know of one poison that can kill at a pin prick's dosage.  It is derived from the skin of 
a tiny pink frog."  A bell sounded rapidly four times, then paused, then sounded again three more 
times. 
"A tiny pink frog, eh. Well, by her Ladyship's love, I will take your word for it, mate.  
And now, I think it is time for evening water rations.  Mister Becker!  Call out the cook!" 
On the forecastle, a little door slammed open, and a leathery skinned man of forty years 
appeared.  Though his skin was wrinkled, the muscles underneath were well preserved, and he 
seemed most healthy for his age.  This was the man everyone called Bean. 

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"Hey, Bean!" shouted the crewmen, "What have you in your pockets.  Bits of salt.  Or of 
sugar.  And where is our water, damn your worthless hide!" 
Bean tottered to the aft deck, and opened a hatch between the poop deck ladders.  This 
was a small storage locker, and from it, he withdrew a cylindrical device on a tripod.  It had a 
lever handle on one side, and a canvass hose on the other.  Setting this up on the main deck by 
fitting its feet into fixed slots, he cried, "Pump's up!"  The crew shifted anxiously in place, but did 
not mob the cook. 
Who now returned to the forecastle, returning with a slack, sloshing skin.  It was kept in a 
loosely fitting white coverall, presumably to keep the sun away. 
This was fixed to the pump.  Only then did he remove a rolled scrap of much warn 
parchment from his loose trouser pockets.  Clearing his throat, he read, "Mariner First Class 
Olietti!" 
Who was a scarecrow of a man with deeply brown skin.  His nose was a hawk's beak, and 
his hands and feet seemed over large. 
Olietti stepped up to the pump.  The cook produced a small tin cup, and pumped a shot of 
water into it.  The sailor eagerly sucked it down, and handed back the empty vessel.  Before he 
dashed away again, a young boy laden with a tiny wooden keg emerged from the captain's cabin, 
the door of which was positioned alongside the locker on the poop. 
Vespuzia declared, "In light of our first night on the sand and the slaying of that cursed 
illdross, I have declared a wine ration tonight!  One now, and one for your dinner."  The men 

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cheered gently.  "Drink to our good fortune and fair winds, and whatever else you think might aid 
our errand. 
"But I caution you not to invoke any fell spirits or black magic.  I have twice spied a 
creeping thing of shadow that seems to be ever on the verge of sight.  It paces us in the wastes.  If 
this is a private scourge, I should like to hear of it.  Accordingly, I will stand a blind watch on the 
foredeck at first bells.  Whatever you have to say of the matter can be said in confidence then."  
He cleared his throat, "Well, boy.  Serve up the wine!" 
The cabin boy carefully poured a portion into the cup.  He spilled not a drop, despite the 
vibration and pitching of the rushing tri-hull.  Olietti sucked down his drink, and smacked his lips. 
 "Thank'ee, cap'n!" he sounded.  (The crew responded with, "Hear!  Hear!") 
The cook raised the tiny scroll again.  "Mariner First Class Caspazia!" 
Becker stepped forward and announced, "Caspazia is aloft on watch.  Go to the next 
man." 
Bean nodded and tried to look official.  "Mariner First Class Alanetti!" 
Who was another thin man, but shorter.  He was of a wiry build, and shifty look.  
Alanetti's face and shoulders and every portion of exposed skin were covered with a scrawl of 
tattoos.  This sailor accepted his liquids cheekily, and hollered his thanks up to the ship's master.  
(The crew added the usual "Hear!  Hear!") 
Next was Mariner First Class Oglot.  Then the ship's carpenter, a man called only 'Plane', 
who was the man Epsilon had threatened on the docks.  After which came Boatswain's Mate 
Harald, then the cabin boy, who was called Block.  Finally, three lower ranking sailors that were 

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titled simply 'sandmen'.  These were named Tuggle, Vandiz, and Ork.  As it turned out, this last 
man was Oglot's younger brother, and the youngest of the crew, besides Block.  This voyage out 
from Oreset was only his third, if all the stops up from Bahia Sud were included, but it was his 
first time away from home.  By this late date, however, the youth was a hardened professional, 
and accepted his ration cavalierly like the rest, if his eyes did linger a bit on the empty cup. 
Finally came the first mate and captain, and lastly Epsilon.  Bean had to add the 
passenger's name to his list, and did so with much fuss and display of scholastic effort.  Before he 
disassembled the pump, the boat's cook took his ration, which was administered by the cabin boy. 
As he carried the water skin back into his little cabin, Bean declared that dinner would be 
served at four bells five for all those lucky enough to be off duty.  As for Caspazia stuck aloft on 
the crow's line, the crew was told to send him forward for his liquids as soon as he was lowered 
to the deck.  With that, Bean slammed the door and was gone. 
Epsilon could not help but lick his lips and wonder at the display.  He sauntered over to 
the trader, and enquired softly, "What is our daily water ration to be on this voyage." 
"On this voyage that has no destination.  Oh, I have allocated a generous ration to start.  
Each man will have fully eight cups standard each day, with one cup at each of two meals, 
morning and eve.  This level can be maintained for, say, six weeks.  If we have not made landfall 
by then, we shall be forced to tighten our belts and cut the dole to half.  Which is still a healthy 
portion, if you ask me.  Do you not agree." ribbed the captain, leering. 

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The Ritesman licked the sweat from his lips.  It tasted salty and sweet.  The wind was hot 
as the draft from a furnace.  Though the sun was all but gone now, the sand radiated its heat and 
the wind stirred that heat to suck all moisture from his body. 
"Do not worry, land lover," comforted Becker insincerely, "After a few days of sweating 
that water fat from your soft body, your ration will seem much larger.  It is enough to sustain life, 
you may be sure, more than enough actually.  Men have lived a long, long time on much less." 
"I can scarcely believe it.  My tongue is swelling." 
"It will pass.  Have you a small stone or a bead, a small coin, perhaps.  Yes, that will do.  
Place it under your tongue and suck on it for a time.  This will ease your discomfort a bit." 
Looking more than a little skeptical, Epsilon did as had been suggested.  He sucked on a 
button of polished jade for a shockingly long time before deciding the trader had been jesting.  
Still, the mere attempt had taken his mind off his thirst.  Could this be the treatment’s only 
intended affect. 
Before night could snuff the land altogether, the Ritesman had a glimpse of Osgarthe back 
there, coming on without abatement.  Greatly distant and receding to nothing, the Earth's Rim 
was all but invisible now. 
Andrietti ordered Becker to light the fast burning lamps when the sun's last light was gone. 
 These were two brass enclosed domes with glassed fronts.  Each burned flammable metal rods, 
that were heated from the scrubbing action of rapidly oscillating files.  These were, in turn, 
powered by the forward main skate's reciprocating motion.  At first dim, these lamps slowly 
obtained full strength and flared to an amazing brilliance.  A vast circle of sand opened up before 

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them, highlighted by a freakish, flickering arc-light glow.  Without that circle, the Desert Ocean 
was reduced to a wide, darkened expanse of nothingness. 
Behind them, Osgarthe's own single lamp came to a high glow, and chased along behind.  
As always, the madman was eager for the slightest mistake that would allow him to overtake his 
much desired prey.  He had yet to lower the skiff's towering jib sail. 
Vespuzia shook his head sourly, approaching.  "If he does not turn back soon, this voyage 
will not go well for him.  The fool!  What does he hope to accomplish in making this sacrifice." 
His parched voice a harsh croak, Epsilon returned, "This Osgarthe is a man on a mission, 
or I have never seen one before now.  Have you not tried to sit down in palaver with him, 
Andrietti." 
"Who.  That one.  You saw and heard the sum total of his conversation when he 
assaulted me at the Swooning Dragon.  So has it been from the start.  No, there is no talking to 
Osgarthe, once his mind is set.  Fash the Magnificent has sent his eldest son on a quest, do or die, 
and Osgarthe is nothing if not a dutiful son.  He will return me to Bahia Sud, or perish in the 
effort."  Suddenly angry, the trader made a fist and hammered the sturdy stern rail with it sharply. 
 "If only I could get away!  Martyrs, if it were any other man than him, I could have left the 
bastards in the sand weeks ago!" 
"Is he a skilled sailor." 
"Skilled.  If the sun is skilled at making light and heat, Osgarthe is a skilled sailor.  He is 
the best.  Excluding me, of course." 
"Of course." 

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"Did you see that little boat of his.  Nothing more than a skiff!  A harbor pilot's dingy that 
he has from down at Port Kyle, after we waylaid him there, scuttling the fine sloop he had from 
his father.  No man in his right mind would take it out of protected sands, but he has piloted it up 
the canyon and along Earth's Rim in chase of me!  That tiny open boat!  Gods, I would not have 
believed it last month, not even of Osgarthe, yet there he is, coming on still."  He shook his head 
sadly.  "Unfortunately, I think even that great captain will perish in the wastes, if he does not turn 
back soon." 
"It is a pity.  Such a man is worthy of the Rite." 
"A high compliment.  But perhaps you are judging the whole man by his courage alone.  
Osgarthe fears nothing, save an opened book.  He is brave and well skilled at mundane matters, 
the making of war and sailing of boats for instance, but he is not the brightest wick in wax!"  The 
Warfarer burst with unexpected laughter.  "Truth be known, this is likely the reason for his 
venturing into the Desert Ocean.  His wits are dulled by his rage, and he is beyond all reason.  By 
now, his crew must be verged on mutiny, but what can they do against so determined a fool.  
Osgarthe will have their ears off first, then pitch the bastards over the side if they keep him from 
me.  He would sail that bit of nothing alone to Hades and back again, if it meant he might throttle 
me when the trip was finished." 
"His must be an intense hatred.  Even I, a man of martial ways, have seldom seen such 
fierce intent in a single man." 
The trader shrugged neutrally.  "As I said, he is a good son to his father." 
"And brother to his sister." 

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Vespuzia nodded.  Just then, the ship's bell rang out four times quickly, then paused, then 
sounded five more times. 
"Ah ha!" gushed Captain Tipper.  "It is time for evening slop.  You are in for another first 
time treat, as I trust you have never before eaten of a sandboat's stores.  Certainly, you have never 
eaten from Bean's table." 
"Why." queried the Warfarer, following his mate down to the main deck and below.  "Is it 
to be a sumptuous meal." 
"Sumptuous." returned the captain, as he pressed forward and descended a steeply sloped 
ladder to arrive below decks.  Other members of the crew dashed down ahead of the slower 
Epsilon.  Something in the captain's tone told him the meal would be less than memorable.  His 
suspicions were confirmed almost immediately, for, once he was down, Vespuzia called out, “Tell 
me, men, would you say Bean's fare could be called sumptuous." 
A chorus of laughter was returned.  Epsilon climbed down to the next deck.  Two long, 
scarred oaken tables had been pulled down from overhead, suspended as they were by ropes, and 
the crew had pulled up benches alongside.  All except for Becker and the as yet unseen Caspazia, 
who were left on duty above.  Now the hungry men were rapping their spoons and forks atop the 
planks merrily.  One cried out, "Less than sumptuous, more than sickening it is!" 
More laughter.  More banging of the forks. 
Bean stuck his head out from between two swinging doors on the forward bulkhead, and 
screeched, "I heard that, you bastards!  Careful that I do not spit into your stew!" 

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"Stew." mocked the tattooed Alanetti. "Is that what he calls it.  Why I thought he was 
merely warming that which he scoops from the latrine!" 
"You bastards!" screeched the cook again, before he disappeared. 
Epsilon asked of Vespuzia, "Would he really spit into the stew." 
"No, this is simply our way.  It is the first night out, you see, and we all know the cook 
has prepared a special meal for us.  It will not be as rich as Empirical fare, but it will be the best 
mess of the voyage, of that you may be certain.  I expect to see the platter festooned with all 
manner of delicate perishables, which would not last out the night in this stifling heat.  So, 
happily, we must eat it all right away." 
But the Ritesman was reminded of Pandolyn's warning.  He was offered a seat on the 
bench next to Becker, which he refused for the time being.  "If it is all the same to you, Vespuzia, 
I will consume my own rations one last night." 
The trader seemed oddly disappointed.  "But we are having a feast tonight!  You will 
regret your abstinence." 
"Undoubtedly.  I have my orders, however, and orders must be followed." 
"I see.  It is some sort of ritual thing, eh.  Very well, fetch up your own victuals, but 
return to the table and eat with the crew.  This will doubtless be a long voyage, and you should 
acquaint yourself with my men." 
"It will be my pleasure."  He turned to start away, and came up short.  "I was wondering 
about my horse.  What of its water ration." 

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"Your stallion's ration was dispensed with the others.  Boatswain's mate tends to the 
cargo." 
"How much is Helmcleaver to receive." 
"When I looked at it earlier, your horse appeared to be the equivalent in weight to, say, six 
men.  So it will receive rations for this number, which is to say six times ten cups per day.  And, 
Ritesman.  When the water allotment set aside for the animal is gone, it receives no more.  Is that 
understood.  Men do not go thirsty on my boat to appease a dumb beast." 
"As you would have it.  I would not argue with you aboard your command." 
"Good.  Now hurry back.  Alanetti has a ribald tale to spill into our ears this evening.  
Have you not, Tattoo." 
"Aye, Captain Tipper."  The fancifully styled man rose in his seat to call after Epsilon's 
retreating back, "It is of a fat woman I met in Oreset!  You will not believe what she can do with 
her toes, m'sieur!"  The Ritesman smiled despite himself, and hurried aft, while behind him, 
another of the crew made a remark that sent the others bubbling over into good-humored 
laughter. 
Due to the cramped design of the Lady's lower decks, Epsilon was forced to crouch 
slightly wherever he went below decks.  The portals were too small to fit through all at once, but 
had to be approached in a sidelong manner, with one arm and leg preceding the other.  He barked 
his head painfully more than once while navigating back to the aft hold.  In order to penetrate this 
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and back down again.  It was dark.  A tiny storm lantern suspended from the rafters burned at its 
lowest setting. 
Sheltered beneath the lamp's uncertain and feeble glow, he found his mount sweating and 
panting, but relatively calm.  It seemed to have been watered a bit, as the captain had indicated, 
but the Warfarer vowed not to trust the boatswain's mate when it came to tending the animal.  
From now on, he would be present below, if he could, when Helmcleaver's rations were doled 
out.  It seemed a bit too easy for a thirsty man to take advantage of a horse that could not talk for 
itself.  At any rate, he shared a mouthful or two of his diminishing stock of wine with the stallion, 
and gathered up the gear he would take back upstairs. 
At the ascending ladder, he stated, "The passage east will be a sore test of your metal, 
Helmcleaver.  Have courage and take heart.  When this Exodus is completed, you shall have a 
large pasture and plenty of mares to stud!"  The horse blew and stamped anxiously. 
Epsilon climbed back to the hatch, tossing his heavy things over the rim before he crawled 
out onto deck.  Reaching out to gather up the cinch straps of his bags,  he encountered a hairy 
ankle and a sandal shod foot instead. 
"Master Warfarer, is that you." came Becker's soft call.  "Beg pardon, m'sieur, but I 
wonder if you would come up to the poop for a moment."  And he turned immediately to go 
there, without waiting for his guest's reply. 
Wincing to face into that blast furnace blow washing the high stern deck, Epsilon joined 
the first mate where he was standing at the rail.  Like a turkey intent on drowning in a rainstorm, 
he was staring up at the stars, head thrown back and mouth curiously agape.  The glow of the 

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fastlamps churned in the fluid whites of Becker's rolling, searching eyes.  It seemed a billion stars 
burned in the sky.  These, when combined with the moon's light were almost enough to illuminate 
the desertscape as brightly as if it were a gloomy day.  Epsilon was left wondering why the ship 
should employ such powerful spotlamps, then. 
Before he could ask, Becker snapped into animation, and thrust a long, well muscled arm 
up and starboard a'stern.  "There!" hissed the boatswain, excited.  "Do you see." 
The Warfarer reacted hastily, and peered into the glowing heavens with a squinted gaze.  
Try though he might, nothing was revealed.  But wait!  Was that a void of shadow skirting before 
the brilliance of the stars.  Did it have a shape of soaring raven's wings. 
"Martyrs' blood," he cursed softly.  "Another illdross." 
Becker shook his head, no.  "Caspazia called it down just after four bells five.  Since then, 
it has been content to pace us aloft, never descending or veering away.  Illdross do not hunt at 
night, so it is no dragon, but some sort of devil, I do not doubt.  Your devil, I think." 
"My devil.  Why mine." 
"Because it calls your name, Holy Warfarer.  It curses you from the heights."  Becker 
cupped his right ear.  "Listen.  It is soft." 
The Ritesman struggled to tune out the uneven 'wum-wum-wum-wum' of the dancing 
skates and the crackle of Lucky Lady's five sails.  Above it all, he heard a steady rush of wind, and 
nothing more... or was that a high pitched, peevish screech.  Was it forming words, or were the 
syllables nothing more than a random pattern of uncertain winds.  Then he dimly heard, 

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"...motherless bastard, spawn of the darkness, son of serpents, destroyer of dreams, despised holy 
one...” before the chaotic report faded away. 
Epsilon was alarmed at once.  If the men aboard this boat could hear that black wizard's 
voice, they might suffer enchantment and do unknown damage to the cause. 
Trying to sound calm, he hissed, "Call your master up right away." 
"He will not like it, not in the middle of Bean's feast." 
"I care not for any cursed feast!  Call your captain!" 
The boatswain was turning to leave, when the shadow simply disappeared from the 
heavens.  "There," he declared flatly, "It is gone again.  And with it, all need of disturbing Captain 
Tipper.  For all we can prove now, it was nothing more than a figment of our hot, thirsty minds." 
"You know it was not!" 
"As do you.  But what will the captain see.  Nothing." 
"Then why did you call me up here, Becker." 
"Merely to remind you that Captain Tipper has declared a blind watch for himself at first 
bells.  I am certain he would like to hear of this then, whether from me or from you." 
"That is all." 
The boatswain grinned smugly.  "No, that is not all, m'sieur.  I have further to say about 
this matter.  Out here, you see," he began, indicating the encircling horizon with a broad sweep of 
his left arm, "A sandboat's captain is god to his men.  God and father.  As such things often go, he 
can be a bloody, vengeful god, or kind and forgiving.  He can be a doting father, or ever ready 

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with the whip.  Whatever he is, Ritesman, a sandboat's captain is deserving of a certain amount of 
respect." 
Epsilon rolled his eyes to hear this, as he felt he could guess what would come next.  
While Becker spoke, the Ritesman was careful to keep his eyes on the sky and his short temper in 
check. 
"When you disrespect a pilot before his crew, you not only belittle the man, but the ship he 
sails and the men he commands, as well.  Thus, you diminish our world entire.  Look around, you 
can see for yourself how small we have already become.  The Lady and her crew do not need your 
high, superior vantage to further detract from our stature." 
"You are saying my tone is too sharp." 
"Too sharp, too arrogant, too self-satisfied.  Why.  Because you see Captain Tipper in 
flight before his beloved friend that would drag him off in chains.  You have heard unfounded 
rumors of his character, and have taken those falsities to heart.  Now you would judge the man 
while he stands crookedly atop your misconceptions.  You look back and see Osgarthe pursuing 
like a hateful shadow, and decide that Andrietti Vespuzia is worthy of contempt.  Do you know 
what I see, when I look back." 
Dutifully, Epsilon wondered what Becker had to say. 
"I see your flying demon up there, and deem it a more hateful shadow, still.  What have 
you done to deserve its wrath.  May I now judge you by the actions of those that hate you."  
Becker stuck out his chin defiantly, ready to accept the swordsman's death dealing blows.  He was 
unarmed, after all, as were all aboard the boat save for its captain.  And save fore the Warfarer, of 

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course.  “According to that devil's opinion, you are the most vile and detestable creature that ever 
oozed through a slimy gutter!" 
His pride wounded, the Warfarer bristled momentarily, and tensed his fists to deliver 
rebuffing strikes.  Then his posture abruptly relaxed, and a burst of merriment assaulted the 
stunned boatswain, instead. 
"By gods, you are right.  As I recall, Dellas Dembar's Son was fluently cursing me the last 
time I saw him, and it seems he knows no stopping.  Quite the colorful character is he." 
Becker grinned, despite himself.  "I have strained to record some of his insults, to be 
honest, as they were so damned insulting!" 
Epsilon shook his head, and took the liberty of clapping the first mate on his back.  The 
boatswain flinched unpleasantly at first, but accepted the contact affably enough and even 
returned it. 
Between gushes of mirth, the Warfarer sputtered, "But- but if you only knew what has 
passed between us, mate, you would better understand his bitterness!" 
"It must have been an unwholesome matter, for he seems excessively enraged.  More so 
even than the undaunted Osgarthe." 
That sobered Epsilon a bit.  He snorted a grit of sand from his nostrils, and mused, "Aye, 
Dellas is enraged, but it is a twisted sort of anger and misplaced.  He is not justified in it, you 
know." 
"Yet these are the most pervasive and long lived hatreds of them all.  It is the unreasoning 
loathing that lasts."  Becker turned a casual eye on the sails and rigging and the cut of Lucky 

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Lady's bow.  She was riding easily before the wind, her jib rolling back and forth gently while her 
main and catch sails rippled and popped.  The sandboat's great wheel was tied off, as there was no 
danger of collision this far into the wastes, and as Caspazia was seated high above, warily on 
watch for danger.  Thus they were alone on deck.  "Like envy, hate is a blind emotion, though it 
seems full of sight.  Take Osgarthe as an example," he said, indicating the pursuing fast lamp with 
a jut of his chin, "The man has already passed the threshold of death, but sees it not.  He has slain 
both himself and his three men, but cares not to hear of it.  His wrath is a mask clamped tightly 
about his face, with its own eyes to view the world, and its own ears to sift what is said.  When 
the man speaks, it is instead the mask-mouth that moves, and what comes out is never what was 
first intended.  And so the anger and frustration grow, the debt of hatred builds.  As a strangling 
constrictor, its hold is never loosened on its prey, but cinches tighter with each exhale, drawing 
closer with every intercourse.  If it is not discarded, the mask becomes the man.  Or perhaps the 
man becomes the mask.  Either way, it is the end of both and the birth of a new creature." 
The Warfarer nodded thoughtfully, and mentally chewed Becker's words for a time.  
Lucky Lady's dancing skates were a hasty heartbeat in his ears, and the hot desert breeze was the 
breath of a demon in his face.  He accepted that breath through his roasted nostrils, taking it into 
his body to make it his own.  And he held it. 
At last, he asked, "What is the nature of this new creature, do you think.  What is its fate 
to be." 
The first mate shrugged.  "Like all things born of this earth, it is fated to perish.  As for its 
nature, look back at Osgarthe and up at the starlit sky.  Its nature is to ever pursue, never 

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forgiving or forgetting, until one day the hoped for confrontation is manifest.  Then it slays that 
which it hates, or is slain, itself.  The end." 
Epsilon nodded somberly again, and grunted.  "Aye, that sounds about right, boatswain."  
And he turned to find his way back to the mess. 
"Holy Warfarer." called Becker softly after.  "Remember what you must do at first bells." 
"Of course."  He genuinely hoped this opportunity would not be long in coming, since 
Dellas posed a real threat to Lucky Lady while the boat sailed without Pandolyn.  His thoughts on 
these matters and many others, the Ritesman made his way below decks, and found his place at 
the crew's table. 
Distracted at first, he found himself joining in the revelry unreservedly before ten minutes 
had passed.  Alanetti's story of the fat woman and her toes was as shocking as it was hilarious, 
and it seemed each member of the crew had some tale of Oreset to tell, sometimes two and three. 
The meal, meanwhile, seemed both extravagant and delicious.  The men consumed it with obvious 
relish and much smacking of their lips, and Vespuzia was free with his store of precious wine.  
The Lady sailed, her inhabitants laughed and jested, the moon rose, and behind, hungry devils 
chased along after. 
Near the end of the hour, Andrietti called for a song from Oglot, who deferred and passed 
the invitation to his younger brother, Ork.  It was declared by all that Ork had a sweeter voice and 
better memory for the lyrics.  Besides which, he was in possession of a stringed instrument called 
a 'krill', and knew how to play it flawlessly. 

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Ork accepted their adulation vainly enough, and scuffled playfully with his elder sibling.  
His krill was passed overhead from hand to hand (somebody had brought it up secretly from the 
crew's quarters), and the youth strummed an immediate cord.  His mates settled in to listen with a 
rush at the last of the wine and a scurry to load bowls and jowls with jillroot.  Waiting for the din 
to still, Ork hummed and strummed pleasantly, without striking up any particular tune. 
Then an expectant silence filled the room, and he cleared his golden throat.  The minstrel 
sailor said, "Here is a song I have from Port Kyle.  It is new to me, so forgive my stumbling 
fingers." 
Whereupon he struck up a somber music with so many notes, it seemed to Epsilon that the 
boy must have three extra fingers on each hand.  He did not stumble in the playing, and he sweetly 
sang; 

he was a handsome young lad 
playing after chasing 
for his hours seemed long 
and his days undying 
though the red sun sad sinking 
was a slow dole of shadows 
that led him to play 
to carry on that away 

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in the same old fashion 
while his small heart fast beating 
stammered to a sullen halt 
how strange! 
 
and she was finely made lass 
that yearned for tomorrow 
sought her solace in sometimes 
in any slightest promise 
and carried on day to day 
in the same familiar fashion 
so her sunshine become hash marks 
and her nightfalls mere, empty nothings 
so her dreams become black stallions 
to, galloping, forge her a way 
and their hoofbeats all fleeting moments 
until had she her last moment raced 
how strange! 

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and he was a well liked man 
ever on time 
but no mind for time's passing 
ever at his bent back 
a clock's pale, brooding face 
to watch his every second 
with more care than he 
that, with a sallow, vindictive eye, 
at last deemed he'd had enough 
and was at long last happy 
to see him die 
for he had carried on in a way 
that left much unsaid and to say 
and now nobody would listen 
how strange! 
 
and she was a well served lady 
all peaked coiffures and spiced cups of tea 
life to her was money 
yet she carried on, they say, 

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in that same old-fashioned way 
counting her accounts 
to the last holdout penny 
while squandering her seconds 
with the impunity of a spendthrift 
'well', she often said inside her own head, 
'never mind the nothingness, dear, 
we've plenty of tomorrows 
like yesterdays', 
until yesterday would not run 
how strange! 
 
All stooped to their feet and applauded boisterously when Ork was 
finished.  They whistled and called for more, but the ship's bells chose that precise 
and inopportune moment to sound midnight. 
The hour was marked by a single note, followed by a pause, and another 
single note.  This was first bells. 
Captain Tipper stood reluctantly.  "And so sound the tolls of doom, 
friends.  Mess is at an end, and new watches must be laid.  Boatswain's Mate 
Alanetti, you will take the helm.  Mariner Oglot, take your brother's watch on the 

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crow's line.  Send Becker and Caspazia down for slop, and tell them that Ork will 
stay to play his song again for their amusement." 
"Aye," responded the crew simultaneously and at once, though their tone 
was less than enthusiastic. 
Vespuzia belched and finished the last of the wine.  "I will, myself, retire to the foredeck 
to stand a blind watch.  If anybody would address me, they will find me before the mast." 
Epsilon rose, and asked indelicately where he could find relief for his bladder.  Told to 
'pitch his arse over the gunwale', he dutifully turned to climb aloft.  Andrietti was headed for the 
kitchen, when a cry from above turned him quickly around. 
Shoving the Warfarer rudely to one side, Captain Tipper was up the ladder and gone in a 
hurry.  Curious, several members of the crew hastened to follow. 
Once on deck, Epsilon heard Becker saying that Caspazia would not come down.  Indeed, 
though they called repeatedly, the man made no response at all.  Andrietti went to the poop for a 
better vantage, and bombasted his errant crewman.  Epsilon could see Caspazia from the main 
deck, as the mariner was clothed in heat repellant white robes that were loose fitting and billowed 
with the breeze.  Like an obstinate cloud, he hung there between the main masts, suspended by his 
thin, all but invisible crow's line, and would not be gone. 
Epsilon heard the captain demand, "Gods' damnation, what troubles that wretch.  Has he 
thought in his head to die up there like some sort of foolish bird.  Harald, you are Caspazia's best 
mate, what ails him this night.  Is he pining for a favored whore left behind in Oreset." 

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"Not that I know of, sir.  He was all smiles and good humor when he manned the line." 
"Shall I go up and fetch him down, Captain Tipper." from Olietti.  "Perhaps he has 
blacked out." 
"No," stated Oglot, his tone puzzled, "He is moving around up there.  What sort of signs 
are those that he makes with his hands.  And what is he saying." 
"I hear nothing," replied Andrietti flatly.  Still, he cupped his hands to his ears, and listened 
more carefully.  Others joined him. 
Since he could hear nothing from the main deck above the rattle and bump of the skates, 
Epsilon climbed to join the crew on the poop.  Once there, he strained to hear what Caspazia was 
muttering.  Returned nothing at first, the mumble came up when the wind fell into lull, and 
Epsilon heard, "...cursed stygian beast, monger of evil, unloved murderer of small children, 
detested Ritesman, offspring of goats..."  Exchanging a quick, paled look with Becker, Epsilon 
cleared his throat to interrupt. 
But Andrietti had not missed Caspazia's allusion to the Martial Rite.  Immediately, the 
pilot turned to face Epsilon, and asked confusedly, "What quarrel has Caspazia with you, 
Warfarer." 
"It is the work of Dellas," he returned softly.  "Dellas Dembar's Son." 
"What." asked a further confused Captain Tipper. 
"The wizard from Oreset.  He has done this.  Crewman Caspazia is bewitched." 

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"Bewitched." gasped several men at once.  The superstitious Oglot added, "It is a fell 
omen!  Enchantment at first bells on the first full day at sands!  We are sailing a doomed voyage!" 
"Keep quiet, Oglot!" commanded the captain, "You will have the gods against us for sure, 
talking that way!" 
"But what of Caspazia." asked Olietti, his voice nervous with the start of fright.  "What 
are his intentions." 
"Ask the Ritesman." 
Epsilon frowned, and turned his palms up.  Experimentally, he shouted, “Come down 
Caspazia!  Come down!" 
High above, the robed figure stopped twitching and mumbling, and turned upside down on 
the line to face them.  The enchanted sailor pointed starkly, and Epsilon thought he caught a glint 
of flame burning at two bright points within his hooded countenance.  "YOU!" he raged insanely. 
 "YOU!  DESPISED ONE!  FILTH OF PUTO'S LOINS!  YOU!" and he became a monkey on 
the crow's line, scaling it fluidly to port, where he would find a way down from the mainmast.  "I 
WILL COME DOWN!  TO HAVE YOUR HEAD!  TO EAT OF YOUR LIVER!  YOU!  YOU! 
 YOU BASTARD!" 
Andrietti was dismayed to see the Warfarer draw his large dagger, and fall into a ready 
stance.  He bellowed, "Everyone below!  Baton down the hatches and make them fast!  On the 
double time!  Move!" 

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Soon, only the captain and Epsilon remained.  Watching Caspazia's erratic, lurching 
descent, Andrietti asked, "What will you do." 
"Defend myself, though I am loathe to kill him." 
"As am I.  Let us do this, then; I will string an empty cargo net up forward, near the mast 
mooring.  Let him chase you about until I have it in place, then lead him onto the net.  I will snap 
it up with the lift boom as he crosses." 
The Ritesman nodded sharply, then cried, "Watch ware!  He is down!" 
Caspazia came on at a dash.  Blustering, he climbed to the poop, and charged with his 
head down.   Epsilon danced away, and jumped down to the main deck.  Running forward, he let 
the maniac chase him haphazardly around Lucky Lady's superstructure.  All the while, the mariner 
raged, "...YOU!... YOU!... YOU!..."  Finally, Vespuzia managed to rig his snare and was ready to 
spring it.  When the berserker ran out onto the cargo net, its corners whipped up around his head 
and Caspazia was swept away. 
Struggling vainly, the hapless sailor dangled from the hoist, his arms thrust through the 
net's coarse weave, hands clenching relentlessly.  "TO HAVE YOUR NECK!  TO CHOKE AND 
CHOKE AND CHOKE IT!  TO WATCH YOU DIE SLOWLY, IN AGONY, BEFORE MY 
GLOATING EYES!  YOU BASTARD!  YOU MISERABLE, VILE, WRETCHED, 
IRREDEEMABLE BASTARD!" 
Andrietti approached the panting, winded Ritesman, and playfully stated, “This wizard 
must be very unhappy with you, Epsilon Three." 

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"No more so," he gasped, "Than your Osgarthe is with you." 
"Perhaps.  I suppose it was your demon I caught pacing us in the wastes, then.  Were you 
going to tell me about it." 
"At the first opportunity."  Epsilon succeeded in catching his breath, and now turned to 
find the writhing ball of vehemence that was Caspazia in the cargo net.  "We must have help in 
this matter.  Turn back to the west immediately." 
"What.  Back to Oreset." 
"No, back to Earth's Rim.  My master awaits me at an oasis somewhere south of the road's 
terminus.  She will know what to do." 
"Your master.  She.  Do about what." 
"Dellas, the black wizard of Oreset.  I encouraged his animosity, or so he believes, and he 
is promised to hate and harm me unto the River Styx." 
"Gods, you were in town but a day, Ritesman!  A day!  Yet you managed to install a king, 
resurrect a defunct army, rebuild the walls, and anger Oreset's only conjurer!  What else have you 
done." 
Amused, he retorted, "If the truth be known, Andrietti, these are all but symptoms of the 
same thing.  All my crimes are one." 
"Ah, now I see the pildon for the fast lamp!  You have robbed the wizard to set Ipani 
upon Oreset's jeweled seat of power.  Consequently, the mage would have his vengeance." 

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"Precisely.  It was a shockingly large sum that he stole and that I stole back, thus his anger 
must also be shocking in its proportions.  The last thing Dellas said to me was that I had made a 
black enemy of him.  Apparently, he was not greatly exaggerating." 
"Apparently not.  Still, I must wonder why he used Caspazia.  Why not attack you 
himself.  Surely a wizard so powerful could summon up a monster to rip you to pieces, if death 
was all he craved." 
They returned to the high stern deck, and Vespuzia called his night watch back to duty.  
The rest of the crew, he ordered, were to sling hammocks and get to sleep. 
When Andrietti had fallen silent again, Epsilon inserted, "He cannot harm me personally, 
as I am protected by some sort of spell.  This boat and its crew are another matter, unfortunately. 
 Any and all of you are susceptible to Dellas' whispering magic at this point.  We must seek help.  
Turn back to the west." 
"This is easier said than done.  Traveling at night, we have need of a high watch.  The fast 
lamps scare most of them off, but there is danger of collision without a watch.  Which danger we 
face even now, blind as we are." 
"What are you talking about." 
"The pildon, man!  The pildon!  Beasts of the sand, they supplant the illdross when 
darkness covers the desert."  Andrietti seemed surprised.  "Have you never heard of them.  But of 
course, I forget.  You are new to these Wilderlands."  The trader smacked his lips and sought the 
proper words.  "They are, ah, like insects, very large insects.  Have you ever seen a centipede.  

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Yes.  Well, that is what they resemble, only the pildon are not soft and fleshy.  They have a 
tough, resilient hide of armored scales, and many powerful legs, each ending in a savage pincers.  
Nocturnal flesh eaters, they abhor the light, any sort of light.  And so sandboats burn fast lamps at 
night.  Not to see, but to frighten the pildon away." 
"And they are large enough to damage a ship the size of Lucky Lady." 
"Large enough.  M'sieur, some of the monsters grow to be whole mountains of flesh.  I 
have seen them one hundred sticks long and three high.  If the Lucky Lady plowed into an adult 
pildon at full speed, her keels would come off, her masts snap, and her decking would be crushed 
to splinters.  The fortunate among her crew would be the dead, as the unlucky survivors must face 
the hungry pildon.  In absence of the fast lamps." 
"I see.  Clearly, you must have a watch.  And since I am the only one protected from 
Dellas' charms, it must be me." 
"You." scoffed the trader.  "On the crow's line.  I hope you ate very little, mate, for it is 
sure to come up again."  Then Vespuzia noticed Epsilon had spoken in deadly earnest.  "Do you 
know what line duty entails.  There are no certain holds.  It is but a five gauge rope strung 
between the tops of the mainmasts, and a single brace cord.  As the sails tug and give, the line 
may rise and fall by ten sticks or more.  And if a gale strikes when the line is slack, it can snap taut 
like a bow string and fling an unwary sailor out into the wastes.  I have seen it happen.  No, only 
the most experienced rope monkeys dare the crow's line at night." 
"Yet I must." 

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"And if you are lost." 
"Dellas will be appeased, you will be richer, and Lucky Lady will be freed.  You have 
nothing to lose, and everything to gain." 
"Now that you mention it..."  Vespuzia slapped his knee, unable to resist such an 
appetizing bargain.  "It shall be done.  But you shall be rigged with a geek belt.  It is a novice 
device and painful as torture, but it has saved more than one inexperienced sandman."  Cupping 
his hands, he bellowed, "Mariner Oglot!  On deck!  Fetch up the crow's dress and a geek belt!" 
Epsilon tilted his head back to find the crow's line against the stars.  He gulped and was 
afraid. 
"Having second thoughts." 
"Did you not have such feelings on your first attempt.  How do I get up there." 
"Carefully!"  Vespuzia laughed to see the Warfarer's face.  "Do not look so pained!  You 
have but to climb up one of the main masts to its pennant cap.  First, you need to know that the 
crow's line is really two ropes, a foot line and a brace line.  Get a’hold of the foot line, which is 
the lowest and heaviest of the two, then slide out on your knees, upside down, using your hands 
to pull yourself along.  Once you are in the middle, lay back against the brace line.  There, the two 
ropes are connected by a pair of binders to form a kind of platform.  I usually keep my knees bent 
over the heavier line, and lay back with the brace running beneath the pits of my arms." 
"What about this geek belt I am to be issued." 

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"It is nothing more than what it claims to be, a simple belt that can be fastened about the 
brace.  Cinch it tight and high about your chest, otherwise it may break your back on the bounce." 
Oglot's puffy red face appeared at the top of the ladder.  "What.  Is the Ritesman going 
up.  Has he ever pulled line duty before."  Andrietti shook his head dourly, accepting the geek 
belt.  The mariner turned a disbelieving eye on Epsilon.  "You must have no love of life 
whatsoever, mate." 
"Contrarily, I love life very much."  He took the proffered robes of the crow's dress from 
Oglot, and pulled them over his head.  The mariner fastened the voluminous cowl about his head, 
fixing it in place with a tightly tied headband.  "So much so, in fact, that I would risk it to save it. 
To save us all.  Your captain claims we must have a high watch, yet none of you others can take 
it.  This leaves only me.  I am all there is." 
Oglot opened his mouth to protest further, but Vespuzia ordered the sailor below.  
Alanetti, the night pilot, was standing at the wheel, his unreadable face turned on the presumably 
doomed Ritesman.  He, too, was ordered below, and went with a dismissive shrug of his tattooed 
shoulders. 
"It will be you and me alone, tonight, Epsilon Three.  If you die, I will pray to Nars for 
your soul."  But he did not add his customary bark of laughter. 
Instead, he helped the Ritesman unbuckle and remove his weapons belt and pouches.  
Holding out his hand for the swordsman's helmet, he exchanged it for the geek belt.  As Epsilon 

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struggled into it, wrapping it outside the loose fitting robes, Andrietti peered ahead into the arc 
radius of the powerful lamps. 
"You are bound to see a great many pildons, once you are on the line.  Do not be alarmed. 
 We are not concerned with those creatures that the Lucky Lady will pass to either side, only 
those that stand directly in her path.  If you see one of the beasts strung across the way, shout out, 
'Collision, ho!' then add the monster's position and bearing.  For an instance, if a pildon is 
slithering to starboard, and directly ahead, you would say, 'Collision, ho!  Dead on, bearing 
starboard!'.  And if it was off the port bow, you would say, 'Off the port bow!' then add the 
bearing, and so forth.  If the beast is not moving at all, the term is 'stopped', and if it is stretches 
so far to each side that the boat cannot evade, call out 'Brake!  Brake!  Brake!'.  Three times, then 
get a sure grip on the brace line.  Got it." 
"It sounds simple enough."  Epsilon had the belt in place now, and felt himself ready to go 
aloft.  "Anything else I need to know." 
"Yes, the most important rule of all."  The trader leered broadly, "Hold on tightly!" 
Epsilon grunted and made his way amidships.  Off the port railing, jutting sharply up into 
the starry sky and working back and forth with the wind, he found the port main mast head, and 
climbed out onto it.  From the start it seemed he had made a mistake, but the sacrificial warrior 
knew there could be no turning back.  Twice, he slipped and nearly fell off, and this before he had 
ascended five sticks.  A kind of rope ladder was strung to the top, which served as his only 
support, treacherous though it was. 

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After many long minutes of climbing, minutes that seemed hours, Epsilon found he had 
gone as far as he could go.  He was arrived at the pennant cap of the mast.  A flexible rod of 
wood was bolted to an iron ring and jutted high above the mast.  A flag should have flown there, 
but none was. 
From here, he was supposed to somehow get a grip on the dancing crow's line, while the 
mast itself bounced and rolled forward and back, side to side.  The Ritesman gulped dryly and was 
completely terrified.  Never before had his heart raced so fast or his breathing come with such 
difficulty.  Not even trial by combat could compare to the horror of this situation.  He had never 
been particularly fearful of heights or of falling, but something deep inside of his mind would not 
let go the mast to try for the crow's line.  As a stranded kitten, he clung to the wooden shaft in all 
fright, frozen in place.  All around, the desert was a luminous glow beneath starlight.  It stretched 
on forever, and might have been an ocean of water for all he could discern of it from this altitude. 
 The wind rifled and rolled his billowing robes so they popped and crackled noisily in his ears, the 
din of which was merely additive to that of the huge sails working just below.  Ahead and down, 
the Lady's fast lamps lit the sand brilliantly, so he could see the wavelets and ripples as they rolled 
beneath her bow.  It seemed they were going excessively fast.  How could something so large as a 
sandboat move so impossibly fast.  Now he could feel the jostle and jounce of the skates, 
vibrating as they were up through the masts and into his very bones. 
Epsilon's teeth chattered, whether from terror or the boat's movements, he could not be 
certain.  Before his dread could grow to overwhelming proportions, the Ritesman shut his eyes 

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tightly to practice a mental meditation he had learned from the monastery.  This calmed and 
soothed him through and through.  His grips relaxed and his tensed muscles unwound a bit.  He 
became one with the clattering ship, just as he might become one with a wrestling enemy.  He let 
the desert and its hot wind and its deadly creatures become his foe.  He let the Lady's sinuous 
oscillations and her excessive speed become his weapons.  I will use my weapons to slay my 
opponent.  Nothing and no one else exists.  I am a machine, and machines do not think.  THEY 
MOVE! 
And he opened his eyes slowly, let his breath out more slowly still.  His wits were 
collected.  He knew what he must do. 
With slow and deliberate motions, he released his right hand from the rigging, and reached 
for the crow's line.  One limb at a time, he made the transition, and was soon hanging upside 
down from the thick rope by his hands and the crooks of his knees.  Hand over hand, he made his 
way out to the center.  There, he positioned himself between the binders, stretching out atop the 
brace as Vespuzia had advised. 
Once in place, he fixed the geek belt around the brace, and made himself as comfortable as 
possible.  Up and down, up and down, up and down.  It was a constant bobbing jostle that had no 
abrupt terminations, but was as fluid and soft in changing directions as a slowly swinging 
pendulum.  After a time, he came to actually revel in the majesty of his lofty vantage. 
His eyes could eat up the night bound sands whole miles at a glance.  The illumination of 
the powerful fast lamps seemed as nothing when compared to the vastness of the Desert Ocean.  

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Theirs was a tiny, insignificant bubble of light, of life, amid an unreasonable void of nothingness.  
The Lucky Lady was a child's toy that rolls across a kitchen floor.  Greater things stalked the 
night, things that moved and called out like animals, but were so utterly alien in form that Epsilon 
could find nothing in his memories of earth's creatures to make a descriptive comparison. Indeed, 
more monsters than pildons could be seen scurrying back and forth out there. 
Lucky Lady's passage was a leaf skimming the top of a scummy pond.  Before her run, a 
vile, living chaff parted fluidly, only to come together once more at her stern.  Whole herds of 
black, insect forms roved back and forth down on the sands, and larger things hunted among 
them.  While larger beasts still hunted these hunters.  And then came the pildon, masters of all the 
desert's black obscenities.  These worms were massive and every bit as horrible as Vespuzia had 
said they would be.  One specimen that Epsilon saw early into his duty was as large as a city wall, 
but a wall that could crawl with amazing speed and agility.  It reared up at first noticing Lady's 
fast lamps, then laid down again at once and flowed away like a serpent, its many arms scarcely 
stirring the sands. 
So passed the night.  It was a horror of monstrous black bodies, of scales and skittering 
bug's legs.  It was a terror of whipcord motion and vertigo, of dizzying altitudes and unceasing 
danger.  And only last night, he had slept in a soft, linen covered bed. 

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14 

A Desert Ocean 

Sunrise in the midst of the Desert Ocean came in the color of blood.  An angry red god's 
eye, that shining orb peeped slowly over the eastern horizon to stare across the world at Epsilon, 
who was made to dance atop the crow's line and stare back at it with stinging eyes of his own.  
Before it, the shadowy hordes of darkness were swept away, fearful of the revealing light that 
would show those vile monsters what grotesque abominations they had become. 
Luck Lady sounded two-bells-one shortly after the sun was fully established in the 
brightening skies.  Andrietti peered up concernedly from the poop deck, and called the Warfarer's 
name. 
Epsilon could not force his dry throat to respond verbally, but his aching, wracked body 
stirred a bit at the ropes.  His muscles were spent beyond use by the night's efforts.  The Ritesman 
could scarcely keep his grip, much less tow his weight across to the port pennant cap.  A 
realization of new horror washed through his weary thoughts, this being that he had suffered the 

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torments of the line for naught, that now he was doomed to die anyway.  I could have just let go 
hours past, and been the better for an absence of vain suffering. 
The foot and brace lines had cut into his flesh, leaving angry red welts that would 
eventually blister and peel.  As a warrior, he felt absolutely useless.  At this point, he could not 
fight a small child for a drop of water.  As a simple man, he felt even worse.  The Ritesman was 
wondering why Vespuzia had not the decency to feather him with an arrow, thus relieving him of 
unbearable misery.  He must know by now that I cannot come down.  Why does the pirate leave 
me to suffer. 
With eyes swollen nearly shut, Epsilon faced into the burning heat of the rising sun and 
tried to lick cracked lips.  His tongue refused the task, however, swollen and raw as it was from 
the same lack of moisture. 
Overhead, a flash of shadow caught his dying attention.  Epsilon raised his gaze, and was 
drowned in the purple depths of fleeing night. 
It was a dream land up there, of cool, wet expanses and heatless starlight.  Wispy clouds 
boiled away at the sun's greedy touch, and their passing spoke of water not to be shed, of 
salvation so far out of reach that it might as well be borne of his dreams.  Yet exist it did, 
somewhere up there, visible and untouchable, taunting in its distant presence that was beheld but 
unobtainable.  If only he could sprout wings and fly.  If only he were a raven black shade, to 
wheel and soar, to climb higher and higher, to screech out curses at the desert that would slay its 
inhabitants with flame.  If only he were Dellas Dembar's Son, triumphant at altitude and vehement 

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in hate.  Epsilon longed to be a monster in the midst of this monstrous land, rather than the 
unobvious man that he was. 
For, if he were a monster, perhaps he would be winged monster.  Then he could raise 
sable foils and flap for the heavens, bound for those light, fluffy clouds that were even now boiling 
away in the oppressive heat.  And if he missed them, if they were gone before he could drink, then 
he could curse them blackly.  Even if I drank my fill, Epsilon decided, I would curse them.  
"...foul soil of a sty, misery of diseased loins, abhorred dimwit, stain of semen that should have 
perished in a barren womb, benefactor of ghouls, perverse idolater..." and so on, endlessly, as 
though there were no end to breath or breathing, no end to the darkly intended words that come 
when those hot breaths are expelled.  If only he were a devil... a winged devil... if only... if only he 
could fly... if only he could cut his own throat. 
Then the hand laid its touch upon his shoulder.  The hand of merciful fate.  The hand of 
Nars' rescuing angel… 
…that had the face of Boatswain Becker.  Who grinned peevishly, and said something lost 
to the wind.  More hands fell upon him, and a knife.  He was bound for sacrifice, and now came 
the first cut. 
He had a dream of falling, but of falling slowly, inch upon halting inch.  Down and down 
and down, head first, his arms and legs bound.  Down he plummeted without speed, leisurely, 
down, down into death.  It was not a death of darkness.  Rather, it was a death of light.  Of 

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blazing, burning, light, relentless light.  It was not a death of drowning in Styx' icy cold waters, 
but a death of heat, of frying, crackling, smoldering heat.  Everything was blazing hot. 
And when shadowed shapes came out of the blinding brilliance, when their puffy, red faces 
fell into the focus of Epsilon's dimming eyes, he found himself surrounded by hell's keepers.  They 
laughed and prodded him.  The sacrificial knife was redrawn, and another cut was made.  Two, 
three, maybe more.  Yet no blood issued forth from his sandy veins.  There was no blood at all. 
Save for the blood being poured down his throat.  It was steaming and burned his mouth.  
Some of it bubbled out from between his cracked lips, and one of the devils cursed.  Epsilon was 
reminded of ravens' wings and hateful epithets, except there was no time to think.  More blood 
was being dumped into him.  As a piglet at the teat, he slurped and suckled greedily, faster and 
faster, ever desirous of more, more, MORE! 
When the Warfarer came back to full life again, it was with a violent gasp and heave of his 
tortured body.  Several men fought to restrain the man, lest he pitch himself overboard.  Andrietti 
poured in more water when Epsilon's mouth was open and his body still again. 
"Drink slowly," warned the trader with surprising compassion in his tone, "It is only a 
swallow, but it will fill your gut like a gallon.  There.  Take a little more.  Slowly.  And a little 
more.  Now sit up and lean against the rail." 
"Della..." croaked the Ritesman, "Demons... deserts... Dellas... Dellas..." he had another 
jolt of water.  "Fetch me my bow and quiver!" though his arms burned like spent embers, "Fetch 
me my bow!  I would shoot the raven down!" 

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"No, no," soothed Andrietti Vespuzia.  "You have done your share of the labor.  It is our 
turn to work."  The captain glanced up and away to address someone unseen, "Rearm the stern.  
Load the guns with bundles.  You two, get the Holy Warfarer below.  He has earned a few hours 
in a hammock.  Take him down to my cabin." 
"What of your own rest, Captain Tipper." 
"What of it.  A night at the Lady's wheel is not labor!  It is love!" 
They laughed and were devils in hell no more.  Epsilon recognized the crew for who and 
what they were, and was glad to remember.  A pair of hands gripped him by his tender armpits, 
and another set grabbed his heels.  He was lifted, and borne away. 
But he protested weakly, "You cannot slay the wizard.  Your attempts will only anger 
him." 
To which Andrietti returned gallantly.  "Oh, I would never murder a mage, Ritesman.  
Unlike you, angering wizards is not a favored pastime of mine.  Still, I do not think a few warning 
shots will upset him greatly, and it may help keep the fell creature away." 
As Epsilon was carried to the captain's cabin, he saw the stern gun hefted up to the poop 
deck.  Behind it, several men labored to climb the ladder while carrying heavy bundles of long 
rods.  These, the Warfarer noted grimly, were dozens of long, thin arrows that had been bound 
together to fire all at once.  He tried to say something here, but could not find the breath.  A hatch 
opened before him and closed behind, and all was plunged into merciful, cool darkness. 

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Overhead on the high aft deck, Epsilon heard Andrietti Vespuzia give orders to tack 
around to the west.  They were headed back toward Earth's Rim at long last, and Pandolyn 
seemed near enough to touch.  Thus assured of their course, the Ritesman allowed himself to be 
laid down in a comfortable hammock, where he was gently rocked into delirium. 
The sacrificial hero slept fitfully.  And dreamed of foully outspoken shades. 

 

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15 

The Unreasoning Loathing 

A strident voice cried, "RIM HO!" and Epsilon was instantly awake.  Had he really slept 
so long. 
He rolled over to tumble free of the hammock, and hissed at the incredible pain stemming 
from his abused arms and legs.  They would not support him on first trial, and the Ritesman 
collapsed to the deck in a heap.  His knees, in particular, flared with agony.  He felt the points of 
twin daggers slowly sinking into the tendons beneath their caps, deeper and deeper, until the 
blades seemed poised to pry his joints apart. 
Before he could rise, the cabin door was flung open, and the sandman called Tuggle was 
there.  His eyes went wide, and he rushed to lend a hand.  “Captain Tipper!  The Warfarer has 
risen!" 
"Are we really come to the Rim, or did I dream it." growled Epsilon sleepily. 

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"No, the lookout has spied it far off and approaching.  We are arrived."  The sailor first 
hooked a hand beneath Epsilon's armpit, but quickly pulled it away at the swordsman's pained 
gasp.  When he was waved off, Tuggle gulped fearfully and stammered his apologies.  "I go to 
fetch the captain," he added, dashing back outside. 
Epsilon had only just managed to drag himself into a chair, when Vespuzia stuck his head 
through the doorway.  The captain seemed surprised to see him. 
"You are up so soon.  By Afrodyte's deep love, m'sieur, are you made of steel.  Eight 
hours on the crow's line would have killed most men!" 
"Am I not dead.  Is this not hell." croaked Epsilon, accepting a cup gratefully. 
The trader laughed merrily and unlocked a heavy cabinet.  From this, he produced a 
bladder of wine, and filled Epsilon's vessel to the rim.  Then he pointedly locked the precious 
liquid away again, as if to say 'this is all you get'. 
Nodding his thanks, the Ritesman sipped slowly, despite his deep thirst. 
"Aye, this is hell, right enough.  Unfortunately, you are not dead in it, but living."  
Vespuzia took a seat opposite the little table, which seemed to be permanently fixed into place, as 
were the chairs.  "Your devil has flown off, I know not to where, and we are drawing up to the 
Rim soon.  I suppose it is good you are awake.  Now you can tell us which way to go next." 
"North, nearly to Oreset, then back south." 
"Ah ha, you see, Andrietti Vespuzia is gifted with the second sight!  We are a mere ten 
leagues south of Oreset, now, and in sight of it from the line.  Soon, the Lady will come about, 

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and follow the Rim at a respectful distance.  I hope this sign you are seeking is visible from far 
away, m'sieur.  We must be careful of rocks, this close to the desert's edge." 
The Warfarer sipped his hot wine and nodded.  "Look for a large flight of carrion birds." 
"Carrion birds.  Carrion means illdross.  I do not like it." 
"I did not say look for carrion, but for carrion birds.  One does not necessarily require the 
other when a wizard is involved." 
"Very well, we shall see.  For now, rest and drink your wine.  Bean will bring along your 
rations, presently.  When you feel well enough, join me on the stern deck."  The captain fished 
among his pockets for something, and withdrew a bundle of leaves.  "The cook sent you this for 
your pain.  Chew the leaves slowly, but do not swallow.  Though it is bitter, let the juice soak 
through your tongue.  In minutes you will feel refreshed." 
"I thank you, captain."  Andrietti rose and started for the door.  Epsilon added, "And 
could you send someone down with my weapons.  I feel naked without them." 
Vespuzia waved his acknowledgment flippantly, and was gone.  Bean came around 
minutes later with a tin of water and Epsilon's victual sacks.  Only then did the Ritesman recall 
that he had left his baggage in the mess hall.  When asked, the cook directed him to a corner of 
the cabin, where he saw his things had been piled.  All was safe and in order on inspection, and 
Epsilon was further assured of the crew's honesty. 

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As he munched the last of Mary's dried venison (which had been softened by prolonged 
exposure to the desert heat), Block knocked at the hatch.  "Your weapons, m'sieur!" called the 
boyish voice.  "Shall I bring them in." 
"At once." 
The door opened gently, and the cabin boy appeared, his face uncertain.  "I have taken the 
liberty of polishing and oiling your steel, Holy Warfarer.  I hope you will find my efforts 
satisfactory." 
"Let me see," and he took the haft his sword, without taking the belt.  Jerking it, the blade 
popped free of its cover, and was drawn all but silently.  Epsilon worked his arm carefully in the 
cramped cabin, and was not displeased with the result.  Though his chest and back were sore, the 
cook's medicine had relieved most of his discomfort.  The Warfarer felt as though he was once 
more combat worthy.  Now he pulled the shining weapon up close, and examined it with a minute 
eye.  "It seems you have some skill with a whet stone, Young Block.  And this high shine speaks 
of hours at the rag.  You have served me well." 
The boy blushed, and glanced down at his feet.  "It was my pleasure, lord.  I have never 
sailed with a man of the Martial Rite, much less an Empirical Warfarer." 
"And I have never sailed with a cabin boy.  Well met, young man.  Close the door, if you 
will, and join me at my dinner." 
"May I." he gushed, drawing closer.  "No, I could not," stepping back again. 

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"Have you duty elsewhere.  Then join me for a minute.  Tell me of our passage since the 
dawn.  Does Osgarthe yet dog us." 
Block slid into the other chair and set his elbows eagerly atop the little table. "We have 
drawn far ahead, since the Lady sails across the wind better than Osgarthe's little dingy.  He has 
dropped back and many leagues to the south, though his sail is yet visible from the crow's line.  
What else.  Oh, yes!  We fired on your black wizard more than a dozen times this morning before 
the nasty thing would fly away.  Captain Tipper will not let us man the line continuously now, but 
sends a man up occasionally for a quick look around and down again.  Olietti has only just 
climbed down from there.  It was he that sighted the Rim." 
"How far off is it." asked the Ritesman around a mouthful of stringy meat. 
"Maybe twelve leagues.  If I know the captain, he will press up to within five or so, then 
hug the coast.  We catch the fastest winds that way, especially when they run due south like they 
have been of late." 
"But Osgarthe is situated to the south." 
"Far to the south.  He is of little concern.  Captain Tipper can handle that lot easily 
enough.  But what of your dark wizard.  Are we all to go mad like Caspazia." 
"Not if I can help it.  And Caspazia has not gone mad, he is merely enchanted." 
Block shook his head sadly.  "He seems a crazed animal to me.  Though he must be dry, 
the lunatic has not stopped cursing you since last night.  I fear he will die soon, if he does not get 
treatment." 

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"Never fear, lad, help is near.  Are we making good speed." 
"The Lady flies!  We-" 
But the boy was interrupted when Becker bellowed his name from the poop deck.  
Instructed to fetch up the captain's navigational gear, Block apologized, and scrambled to gather 
Vespuzia's sextant and log.  Epsilon finished the last of his meager meal, and followed the boy out 
on deck. 
He glanced forward first, and noted that Caspazia was yet swinging from the forward 
cargo net, his arms drooping through the weave.  On sighting his hated enemy, the sailor stretched 
out his clutching hands and croaked unintelligibly, but had not the volume to rage decently.  
Epsilon ignored the man, and turned to climb the ladder.  Doing this, he was faced with the 
masthead he had climbed, and was drawn to pause and examine what he had done in the night.  
Tilting his head sharply back, he gazed up at the pennant caps and the crow's line strung between, 
and was amazed by his own feat of daring.  Had he really done it.  Had he really spent the night 
atop that bouncing high wire.  Apparently so.  His muscles felt the rigors of it still, and his pain 
was real enough. 
Shaking his head in disbelief, he climbed to the stern deck and went immediately to the 
rail.  Becker nodded his greetings, as did Alanetti, who was standing at the wheel.  Vespuzia was 
there with Block, taking a sighting on the sun and a measurement from the boat's chronometer.  
After scrawling some notations in a tiny black book, Captain Tipper sent Block away and issued 
orders to come about due south. 

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The leering trader sauntered over casually, his floppy hat thrown to one side by the 
gusting wind.  "You seem well enough, my friend, for having been near death only hours earlier." 
"I heal quickly." 
Andrietti scoffed and shook his head.  "You are enchanted, more likely, or an immortal.  I 
have not yet decided which." 
Epsilon smiled and turned to watch the day crew working to make the Lady come sharply 
about.  In seconds, they were pointed south, and on the last leg of their search for Pandolyn.  The 
Ritesman sighed and smiled, thus reassured.  Then he noted a merest splotch of white on the 
horizon, far off the port bow.  So small it was that it seemed to be nothing.  A wisp of cloud 
perhaps, a stir of dust.  But, no, it was a sail, a straining sail full of wind. 
The captain caught Epsilon's gaze and nodded.  "Aye, we are in for another visitation from 
Osgarthe.  He must be exhausted after his jaunt into the wastes.  Perhaps he will make a mistake.  
Perhaps.  At any rate, we shall see." 
"How do you intend to outpace him.  Though slower, he has a significant head on you, 
being positioned so far south." 
"True, true.  Like as not, he will try to ram again.  He cannot come up alongside and hope 
to stay there, not while we have the wind, so he must cut in front and serpentine back into our 
outriggers.  Either that, or he must try for a direct impact on first pass, risking all his forward 
initiative at once." 

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The Warfarer considered the tactical situation for a moment.  "It seems to me this 
Osgarthe is an all-at-once sort of fellow.  He will want maximum speed, I think, in order to more 
soundly disable your craft." 
"Aye, you are doubtlessly correct.  The fool." 
"Can you evade him." 
The trader shrugged.  "As you said yester eve about drawing steel on another man, there is 
always a danger of injury."  Then his eyes sparkled with the shimmering desert heat, "But I would 
not bet on Osgarthe, m'sieur.  Like the angry man that has stumbled over a cat, he will strike out 
savagely, but so savagely that it will be a blind endeavor.  He will swing and miss, stumble then 
fall.  By sunset, he will be three leagues off my catch spurs and falling further behind." 
"Good.  We will make a stop, however brief, when we arrive at the first of my 
destinations. Osgarthe must be far behind by then.  Else we may be forced to fight in the midst of 
this oven, which prospect I do not relish." 
"Nor do I.  If need be, I shall loop the bastard off my tail all night long to be rid of his 
pestilence.  I think this miserable affair has drawn on long enough." 
"And no end in sight..." added the Warfarer wistfully.  He watched Osgarthe's approaching 
sail and was suddenly occupied with other thoughts.  Changing the subject, or perhaps following 
it further along, he asked, "Why did you send Becker up to fetch me down.  You might have let 
me hang up there for illdross bait." 

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Vespuzia's leer broadened.  "You forget about those unsigned vouchers.  Besides, I did 
not send him.  By the common code of mariners, a captain cannot send his men knowingly and 
deliberately into unnecessary risk.  As an unqualified novice, you should not have been up on that 
line in the first place." 
"So the boatswain volunteered." 
"Him and a few others.  There was a general vote, and you won."  The captain gathered 
up the loose fitting folds of his sun robes, and tucked them back into a broad belt.  "Simple." 
"Even though they knew what their potential profits might be."  The Ritesman was at a 
loss for words.  He choked silently a moment, his throat mysteriously locked and unresponsive.  
Finally, he declared softly, "You must remember to thank them for me." 
"Thank them yourself, tonight at mess.  Regale them with tales of Alcorde and Exodus." 
The sacrificial warrior brooded silently for a time, content to let his mind wander with the 
wind and his thoughts mingle with the sounds of billowing, roiling, snapping sails.  Before long, 
he mused, "They must be a naturally fearless and devoted breed, these sailors of the sand sea. Not 
at all like the people of Oreset." 
"Not the least little bit.  The citizens of that slum are a cowed, terrified folk, but one 
limping step away from utter oblivion.  Surrounded as they are by the incomprehensible 
Wilderlands, they must suffer many unanswered questions regarding their place on earth.  Not 
knowing their place, they are lost and without direction.  The pressure on that people is not to 

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survive, but to die meekly.  An unseen hand is clasped at the backs of their necks, which forces 
their heads down for easier decapitation." 
"The hand of Sin Apica." 
Andrietti hissed, "M'sieur!  Do not summon such darkness aboard this vessel!  Never 
speak that name aloud amid the wastes!" 
"I beg your pardon, captain." 
But the captain's face was suddenly suspicious and all screwed up as a curious rat's.  "I 
have just had a nasty thought, Ritesman.  As a slimy fish, it has brushed up against my flesh and 
left me with a distasteful feeling.  I must shudder and be rid of it at once, so let me ask you in all 
honesty; have you intentions of quarreling with that black wizard." 
"No.  None at all." 
Andrietti did not appear to believe.  "Yet you race to one wizard and away from another.  
I do not like this errand we are on.  Something tells me I should simply pitch you and your 
damned water-guzzling horse over the side, and be finished with it all.  Yet something stronger 
nags at me to continue.  Perhaps I, also, am enchanted." 
"Or perhaps, my friend, you are merely the sparrow drawn to alight upon the jeweled 
adder's back.  Is that not how you phrased it." 
Vespuzia made a dismissive motion with his hands.  "Either way it is the same thing, I 
think.  A black business and a black magic to bind me to its completion." 

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"Mine is not a black cause, Vespuzia.  I do not fight to prosper evil in this world, but to 
foster goodness." 
"Goodness, eh.  It is a foreign concept.  And how may a monger of war hope to foster 
goodness on earth.  What is good about warfare." 
"Nothing is good about the act, itself.  War is wanton waste of flesh, however you define 
it, a gluttonous letting of blood, and generally to no legitimate end.  Yet war may also be a 
purging event.  If the circumstances are right, it may even be justifiable, terrible though this seems 
on first consideration.  How can one justify ten thousand murders, for instance.  It is a difficult 
question to ask, but has a simple answer." 
"Well.  I would hear it," prodded Vespuzia impatiently, when the Ritesman paused to 
ponder. 
"Quite simply, ten thousand murders can be justified only by the prevention of greater 
bloodshed, greater pain and misery.  Ten thousand murders that save one hundred thousand 
others are justifiable sacrifices, I think." 
"You would.  It is ever the general that tosses his troops into the fray, only to smack lips 
at the outcome and grumble or gloat in either defeat or victory, as the case may be.  And always, 
the words 'justifiable sacrifices' are uttered.  But what of the men lying prone on the field.  How 
justified can they feel in their mortal persecutions.  And what of their little ones left un-sired at 
home.  What justification of their empty bellies.  Of their aching hearts.  Perhaps the greater 
cause was just, but the individual murders can never be sanctified." 

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But Epsilon was slowly shaking his head.  "In that you are wrong, Vespuzia.  Show me a 
father that would not gladly lay down his life to save his children, and I will show you a man that 
is not worthy of life at any price.  And if a shepherd spies a lion in the grass, slinking up close to 
the oblivious ewes, he does not stop to consider the consequences of bloodletting, but charges 
into the fray, swinging his sling to do the predator death." 
"Are you the shepherd, then.  And who, or what, is your lion." 
"I am the shepherd," came the unsmiling reply.  "These Wilderlands are become the lion I 
must slay." 
"And your religion will be your sling." 
"Precisely." 
"As I suspected," gloomed Andrietti, his face almost comically hopeless and pouting, 
"You are bound to combat with black wizards.  And we are bound to take you there." 
Overhead, the wind shifted subtly against Lucky Lady's canvass.  Her sails rippled and 
popped, and her keels turned slightly against her forward motion. 
Captain Tipper sighed, "We are losing the wind.  By tomorrow, it will be blowing due 
north.  There is a cycle to its changes, you know, just as there are cycles to the turning of the 
Desert Ocean.  A good pilot learns these cycles and uses them to his advantage.  A poor pilot 
disregards them to his own ruin, and the ruin of his crew.  We must come across your sign before 
nightfall, or your rendezvous will have to be postponed by two days and more." 
"I can ill afford the time." 

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"Well, do not worry.  I suspect your sign may turn up all too quickly.  We must, therefore, 
hasten to make speed and be shed of the dogged Osgarthe." 
"But how can we.  You ran before him all day yesterday, and gained mere miles." 
"No, we did not run all day yesterday.  If you recall, we caught the winds just before 
sunset.  Consequently, we could only work with our smallest jib sail, for fear of having to take it 
down in the night.  Now, we enjoy no such constraint, however, and will presently set a larger 
sail.  You will see what the Lady can do then, m'sieur!" 
As if on cue, Becker barked orders to take down the foresail and store it away.  Changes 
were made to the other sails and rigging, as they were prepared to accommodate the greater draw 
of the larger jib. 
While she was without a foresail, the Lady slowed measurably, and rode rougher atop the 
sands.  Osgarthe seemed to come on faster. 
Now several of the boat's best sailors mustered at the bow, and the largest sail onboard 
was dragged out of its locker and rigged to hoist.  With a shout and a monumental grunt, the sail 
went up, and up, and up, and up.  Slack at first, it roiled and rippled and finally sucked a deep 
breath when the boat laid across the wind.  Lucky Lady groaned and whined in protest of the 
sheer forces imparted by that gigantic stretch of canvas, and she leapt forward on her skates.  
Epsilon had never felt so much raw power.  Faster and faster the heavy boat flew, dragged 
forward by the grip of that massive sheet upon the wind. 

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Epsilon found he was grinning like an idiot, as were the other men atop the poop.  
Andrietti slapped his back happily. 
And declared, "By the gods, it is a feeling like no other!  Such speed!  What do you think, 
Holy Warfarer.  Can we evade the bountymen now." 
"At this rate, we could evade Zooth, himself!" 
Indeed, they cut through the sands so quickly that it seemed this was their intention.  
Ahead and to port, Osgarthe's sails loomed larger and larger on the horizon.  They returned the 
sunlight in dinghy shades of white, flashing brighter occasionally when they caught the hot beams 
just so.  Before long, something about their shape was altered, as Osgarthe corrected his bearing 
to intercept on a new heading.  Then they changed again, and again, as he continually sought to 
compensate for Lucky Lady's increased forward speed. 
After an hour of competition, the race was decided in Captain Tipper's favor.  For it was 
soon obvious that Osgarthe's little boat would pass well astern. 
Presumably frustrated, the bountymen fell into chase again.  The skiff's sails began to 
diminish as the smaller boat lagged behind.  Andrietti was leering happily at the end of the hour, 
and allowed an extra dram of water for his hardworking crew at watering time. 
The day progressed.  Osgarthe's canvass all but disappeared on the northern horizon, and 
was visible only from the crow's line by two-bells-four.  By two-bells-five, an hour later, he was 
gone altogether.  Andrietti rejoiced. 

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Then the wind began to change.  It swung around gradually, but was blowing sharply out 
of the northeast all too soon. 
 Epsilon was in the aft hold tending his mount, when Andrietti's face appeared at the 
hatch.  "We are about to veer away from the Rim.  I thought you might like to know." 
"Have you not sighted the carrion birds." 
"No.  I will send up a crow to take a final survey before we come about, but it seems we 
are delayed." 
The Warfarer cursed softly and was unhappy.  He was loath to spend an extra second in 
this hell, much less whole days.  The deadly heat was taking its toll on Helmcleaver, as well.  The 
beast was running with sweat and blowing piteously.  Epsilon tried to soothe the stallion as best 
he was able, but he was already having serious doubts as to Helmcleaver's future.  His only hope 
lay with the wizardess.  Hopefully, she would know of a treatment to ease the animal's suffering. 
Deciding there was nothing more he could do at present, Epsilon mounted the ladder and 
climbed out onto deck.  He left the hatch open to provide his horse with fresh air, but one of the 
sandmen hurried to shut it, muttering something about ineptitude and filling the Lady's guts with 
sand. 
A gale had come up.  Grit cut cross the deck to peck and sting his exposed face.  By now, 
the wind was coming from the east almost directly. 

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Tacking gently back and forth against the blow, Lucky Lady pressed on to the south, 
though her progress was much slower than earlier in the afternoon.  She labored and heeled with 
each gust that struck her abeam.  Her starboard skate protested noisily at bearing the load, but did 
not shatter.  A wake of sand was scored from the dunes as her keel bit deeply to make forward 
motion out of a lateral force.  Splashes of it washed over the boat's bucking prow.  The boatswain 
and his mate each worked a side of the vessel to keep all four sails trimmed for maximum draft.  
Andrietti stood on the lofty aft deck, his feet splayed against the pitch and roll and his sun robes 
covering all save his dark eyes and his large, floppy hat.  He oversaw the delivery of his officers 
and the service of his crew with a cool, professional eye, offering support to Becker and Harald 
when needed and aiding Olietti at the heavy wheel. 
Andrietti had just opened his mouth to call for a new heading, one that would take them 
back into the wastes, when he remembered his promise to Epsilon.  Glancing dubiously up at the 
dancing crow's line, he expertly deemed it would be dangerous duty, but not impossible if the 
right man was sent aloft. 
"Mariner Oglot!" he barked, calling the sailor over from his station on the starboard wing. 
 "Man the high line and get a sighting on Osgarthe.  Also, watch to the south for a circling of 
vultures." 
Oglot responded with a sharp 'Aye, aye!' and dashed down to the main deck and onto the 
port masthead.  Like a monkey, he climbed the rigging and made his way out to the sagging 
middle of the crow's line.  At once, he pointed forward and let out a cry that was lost on a gust.  

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They waited for a subsidence in the blow, and heard, "...-grees off the starboard bow...!"  Oglot 
pointed obliquely, and made a motion with his extended arm. 
"That must be your sign, Ritesman, and none too soon."  Cupping his hands to address the 
helmsman, Andrietti called for ten degrees right rudder, and held on a heading that would carry 
them back to the Rim.  "I believe I know your site of rendezvous.  There is a little spring some 
twenty miles south of here, and an oasis around it.  Is that where we are bound." 
"It or a place much like it.  I was not told exactly where it would be." 
"If I am right, we may have just enough time to make the pickup and get back to sea, 
before the wind comes around completely, and before Osgarthe rides up on us.  There is a dune 
wall surrounding the greenery.  We will draw up there and lower the canvas, while keeping readily 
to the wind.  You will have but minutes to get your wizard aboard before we must set sail again." 
Then the captain was concerned.  "Are you up to the run.  If not, I could send the boy." 
"No," asserted Epsilon a bit too hastily.  "I think it best that I go.  You will have need of 
all hands."  He did not mention Pandolyn's and Ubar's physical form. 
"As you would have it.  Just remember that our time will be limited.  If you do not return 
before Osgarthe draws nigh, then you will be left behind until tomorrow.  Or perhaps the day 
after." 
The Ritesman nodded soberly.  "I understand.  Lucky Lady's safety cannot be 
compromised, under any circumstances." 
"Good!  You are thinking like a sailor already.  It is an improvement." 

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Presently, Oglot joined them on the poop.  His face was flushed and raw from the 
sandblasting he had sustained while on high. 
He jerked back the cowling of his sun robes, and reported, "The bountymen are far back 
now, perhaps six leagues or more.  While the carrion birds you spoke of are circling above the 
Rim maybe an equal distance ahead.  Funny thing, that.  There are no illdross to be seen, only 
great, fat, black vultures.  What do you think died up there, sir.  An olifant." 
Andrietti only grunted.  "That is all, sailor.  Man your duty station." 
"Aye, aye!" and Oglot was gone at a trot. 
"Well," enthused the captain, leering, "There you have it!  No more than thirty minutes 
can be spared at the oasis.  It is not much time, I warn you.  Barely enough to climb the dune 
wall." 
"I must try, regardless." 
The captain shrugged, and turned to further tend the boat's needs.  They were cutting back 
to the west now, after a long, shallow tack east, and the helmsman was struggling with the wheel. 
Meanwhile, Epsilon retired below to dress down.  He hesitated at removing his armor, and 
was in a quandary.  He was not anxious to discard it while unprotected in the field.  Still, he 
would have need of every ounce of speed if he was to successfully recover Pandolyn.  Deeming 
there was little threat of assault out here, he ultimately decided to remove both his armor and the 
leather padding underneath.  Dressed only in sweat dampened blouse, trousers and boots, he felt 
fifty pounds lighter.  Jogging in place to test his muscles, Epsilon thought he was well ready to 

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run a long, long way, despite the unbelievable heat.  As an afterthought, he tucked his long dagger 
into his belt, then returned to the main deck, where he was issued sun robes for the first time. 
Earth's Rim dominated the starboard horizon now, and the Ritesman could see a high 
circling of large, black birds far ahead.  There was no indication of Osgarthe's approach, as yet, 
but Epsilon did not doubt the man would be along all too soon. 
Subtly, the boat's deck lifted at starboard and bow.  It was many minutes before Epsilon 
realized they had entered into a gradual grade.  
It steepened quickly.  Minutes later, they were running roughly parallel to a sizeable 
mound of sand that spread out from the cliff's base to form a semicircular wall.  It was too high to 
surmount by sail without much danger and difficulty, and so they would not try.  Instead, 
Andrietti followed it around to a point he thought might offer Epsilon the shortest run, and 
ordered the sails, all sails, lowered on the double.  Then the catchspurs were set, and the sandboat 
was still for the first time since leaving Oreset. 
Epsilon jumped down from the gunwales without waiting for the plank, and scrambled to 
mount the ridge line.  It was unbearably hot work.  The sands burned at the touch, and heated the 
soles of his boots to blistering temperatures.  Already running with sweat, now a torrent of it 
seemed to flood from his brow, though where all that moisture was coming from, his parched 
tongue could not say.  His sun robes billowed generously around him, keeping out most of the 
direct heat, but enough came up from below to roast him alive. 

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It seemed he struggled for an hour before he reached the summit of the dune wall.  Not 
daring to pause for a breath, he hurried on, cresting the top... whereupon he was stopped in mid-
stride.  He had stumbled into a sweltering paradise. 
Rainbow waterfalls spilled out of a horizontal gash in the Rim some twenty meters above 
the sands.  This water flowed down the cliff face to cascade from limestone abutments and 
projections, before pooling below.  Tall, green trees and high ferns surrounded the water's edge 
and helped protect it from the thirsty desert.  A slash of green filled the tiny, bowl shaped valley, 
and only now did Epsilon realize the dune wall was manmade.  Once, tall stone slabs had been set 
on end, side by side, in a vain effort to keep out the sand sea.  The wall had long ago been 
overwhelmed, however, and only the tops of the stones jutted from the dunes.  Still, it kept out 
the worst of the deluge, and so was not a complete failure. 
He hurried down the other side, calling for Pandolyn and Ubar.  Despite the urgency in his 
tone, he was secretly hoping that he would have a chance to dive into that cool, refreshing water 
before the wizardess turned up. 
In fact, he was mere sticks away from a plunge, when his master appeared at the crook of 
two conjoined palms.  She called his name and declared herself ready.  Ubar soon joined her, a 
large, wet fish in his mouth, its gills yet working spasmodically.  He said something around the 
mouthful, but Epsilon did not hear.  The Warfarer was already running for Lucky Lady, his boots 
kicking up plumes of grit, his sun robes awash in the changing winds. 
When Pandolyn arrived at his shoulder, Epsilon asked what she would do about alarming 
the crew.  He was told that a spell was in place that would take care of everything. 

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As she was speaking, Pandolyn's face seemed to melt into smears of colors and mixed 
textures.  Then the background of his vision was also awash with blinding colors, and he found 
himself face down in the sands.  Without pausing, the wizardess stooped to right her fallen 
general, and helped him up the steep grade of the dune wall.  He apologized, and said he had no 
idea what had gone wrong, but Pandolyn could sense Epsilon's hidden pain and fatigue. 
Renewed as she was from her long swims in the oasis' deep pools, Pandolyn had little 
trouble in escorting the frailer man up and over the dune wall.  Once he was on the descending 
side, Epsilon's feet started working again, and he was able to proceed under his own power.  As 
he stumbled along, his head burning beneath the sun's declining wrath, Epsilon thought he had 
never seen a more stunning and awe inspiring sight than Lucky Lady sitting ready upon the Desert 
Ocean.  Like Helmcleaver, she was a lean beast and fierce, perfectly suited to speed and at home 
in her preferred environment.  And she was waiting patiently for his return, her decks shaded and 
inviting beneath the blind sheets. 
Sucking his tongue anxiously, he hurried to reunite with her.  Somebody had lowered the 
gangplank, and he clamored up onto it, stumbling weakly in his burning exhaustion.  He all but fell 
forward onto the main deck, and lay there on his back, gasping miserably.  Pandolyn and Ubar 
were slower coming aboard. 
Upon sighting her, several members of the crew whistled shrilly and made vulgar 
comments regarding what sorts of duties women were best suited for.  Those that were stationed 
on the far side of the boat came running over, and also began sounding off like rutting beasts. 

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Epsilon managed to raise his flushed face a bit to get a view at the controversy, and was 
stunned when a beautiful maiden mounted the plank.  She was finely dressed and perfectly made.  
Behind her came another maid, smaller but nonetheless gorgeous.  The Warfarer's mouth open 
and shut a few times impotently.  Then he gathered his wits and stammered, "P- Pandolyn.  Is that 
you.  Ubar.  What has happened." 
"Shhh!  Fool!" hissed the wizardess.  For a merest moment, her human mask was dispelled 
and her scaly monster form was manifest.  Then all was set right, and in blurry colors the beautiful 
maiden was returned. 
Ubar added unhappily, "This was not my idea, you know.  If it were my conjure, I would 
be a warrior three sticks tall and built like a fortress." 
The Ritesman laughed, despite his prostration, and lay back to the deck giddily.   
Overhead, the blind sheets rippled and stirred. 
Becker raised his megaphone and began upbraiding his crew for abandoning their stations. 
 He ordered the main sails up first, then the catch sails, and finally a smaller jib.  This would carry 
them out into the eastern haunts and into the night.  Men were dispatched to service the fast 
lamps in preparation for the coming of darkness.  Already, the shadow of Earth's Rim was 
devouring the oasis and dune wall and was racing for the Lady in leaps and bounds. 
Slowly at first, then faster, she came up out of the mire and onto the edges of her skates.  
Her timbers creaked and moaned, her rigging sang in the gale. 
Presently, Becker shouted, "Brace for impact abeam!  She is ramming!" 

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And Epsilon was finally brought to his feet.  He came to the starboard rail only just in time 
to see Osgarthe drawing in uncomfortably close.  His tiny boat was skipping and hopping across 
the dunes, running before the changing winds.  Apparently, he had passed by the Lady while she 
was stopped, and now had come back around to recover the pursuit.  Having the advantage of the 
gale, however, the bountymen was making much greater speed than the Lady, and so had 
overtaken her on the diagonal.  Too late, the Lady's prow started to swing around northward, but 
it would not avoid the collision. 
Unseen on the poop, Andrietti bellowed for abortion of the port turn, and ordered the 
starboard catchspur to be lowered one part in ten.  The response was immediate and violent.  
Epsilon was nearly flung overboard.  Startled and bewildered by the scurry of crewmen and the 
crackle of rising sail, Pandolyn and Ubar huddled near the stern ladders, their claws biting into the 
wooden decking for a firm hold.  The Ritesman fought to recover his feet, but was prevented by 
the angular forces of the incredibly tight turn.  She had cut back sharply, directly into the face of 
Osgarthe's mad charge, her forward motion dropping off noticeably.  While she came about, the 
crew struggled to trim her sails and keep them in the wind.   Now her decks leveled again, and 
Becker shouted for the catchspur to be raised.  Lucky Lady surged forward abruptly. 
Osgarthe passed narrowly to port.  Epsilon ran over to that rail, and had a glimpse of the 
lunatic standing at the stern of his little boat, cursing and shaking his fist at them.  Only two men 
remained in his service, the third having been apparently lost. 
The Lady was sailing into the wind now.  Andrietti was forced to heel over one way or 
another, back toward the Rim, or out into the wastes. 

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As the boat was already angled slightly in that direction, he chose to complete the circuit 
back around to the west.  He would pick up the wind again on the far side of the circle.  Orders 
were issued and men scrambled to comply.  They worked Lady's rigging like the experts they 
were, striving for speed and control in the same instance.  Within short minutes, they were sailing 
laterally to the gusts.  Osgarthe was attempting to complete the same circuit in the opposite 
direction.  His little boat paced the Lady several hundred sticks to the north.  The smaller craft 
was more maneuverable, however, and it was immediately obvious that the madman would get 
another chance to ram his prey. 
Incredibly, Epsilon watched Osgarthe and his two remaining men lower their boat's 
foresail!  The bountymen were slowing!  Did this mean Osgarthe was surrendering the chase. 
No, it did not.  The Ritesman quickly realized that the bountymen were only laying off the 
Rim, waiting for their quarry to make a bolt for safety.  Lucky Lady had to ride before the south 
wind now, since the only other alternative was tacking against it and exposing herself to 
Osgarthe's more responsive craft.  It was only a matter of choosing the right moment to come 
about to the north. 
Andrietti held his hand, and they made way laboriously to the west.  They passed back 
beneath the Rim's shadow, and the bluff reared higher and higher up ahead.  It seemed the Lady's 
master would smash her nose into the rocks!  Then he turned with the wind and ordered 
maximum canvass.   Osgarthe raised his jib again in response, and plied the sands at all speed.  He 
angled his bow to cut Lucky Lady in half.  Though they had been separated by two miles or more, 

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the distance between the two boats closed all too quickly.  It seemed Osgarthe would at last have 
his way. 
Except the Lady's deck pitched up sharply and abruptly at the port side.  Again, Epsilon 
was nearly tossed from his feet. 
When he was standing again, he saw that Andrietti had driven his vessel onto the dune 
wall of Pandolyn's oasis.  And this just when Osgarthe was ready to ram again.  Now the madman 
was forced to veer off, as his own tiny boat could not hope to mount the wall bow-on.  The 
bountymen could do nothing now but run alongside, and they began to fade further and further 
astern.  Epithets and curses were exchanged.  Lucky Lady's crew jeered the three imbeciles that 
thought they could better Captain Tipper and his superior boat. 
One of Osgarthe's remaining men raised his sun robes, bent over, and insulted them with 
his bare buttocks.  Shortly thereafter, Osgarthe's skiff ran across Lady's earlier wake and jumped 
high into the air, nearly tossing this half naked man into the sands.  More jeers sounded from the 
Lady's decks, and Osgarthe responded with a bellow of rage and frustration that could be heard 
despite the rising gale.  "VESPUZIAAAAAA!" 
Captain Tipper could be heard cackling crazily from the high stern deck, taunting his 
tormentor.  Stick by stick, Osgarthe fell back, and finally was passed altogether. 
Lucky Lady ran down off the angle of the dune wall, then and back out into the wastes.  
As her shadow, the smaller boat raced along after. 

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16 

A Rage of Raven’s Wings 

When the Lady was at last running straight and true again, and the danger had passed, 
Pandolyn gathered herself together and demanded, “What was that business." 
"Osgarthe," responded Epsilon evenly, crossing the deck to help her gather her scattered 
bags.  "Captain Tipper's future brother-in-law."  At her puzzled glance, the Ritesman made a 
dismissive gesture with his hands.  "Forget it for now.  I will explain later." 
Her all too human head nodded, and she straightened, her gear in tow.  Ubar appeared at 
her back, his own feminine face uncertain. 
"I do not like the way those men are looking at me," stated the youth softly, his tone 
concerned.  "Is my masking spell in place, master." 
"Aye, and that is the trouble, I fear.  Perhaps you are too comely."  The wizardess sighed 
heavily, "I suppose I might have thought this disguise through a bit more thoroughly, but it is 
certainly too late to change things now." 

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Vespuzia appeared at the rail with Becker at his back.  The furious first mate bombasted 
his crew for their inattention.  "There is another lady that demands your attention, mates!  And 
she is a jealous lover!  Pay her no heed, and she will strike out to murder you!  Now then, look 
lively on the bow and wings!  We have a need for speed, ye lazy bastards!" 
The captain leered unevenly, his floppy hat folded by the wind.  "Forgive my boatswain, 
m'selles, he is a roughly hewn plank and full of splinters."  Vespuzia turned a sudden lecherous 
eye on the Ritesman and growled playfully, “Epsilon, you scaly pildon, how could you neglect to 
mention the beauty of these lovely ladies.  I had envisioned a bent old man with bowed legs and 
whiskers down to his arse, but now you have recovered two fair goddesses from the wastes!  
What are their names." 
"This is the Lady Pandolyn," returned the Warfarer, indicating the larger of the two 
females. "And this is, er- uhm, Ubar." 
"How pleasant," returned Andrietti flatly, his leer yet in place.  "And which is the wizard." 
Epsilon was uncomfortable beneath the captain's pointed gaze.  The Ritesman squirmed 
and fidgeted as a schoolboy caught drawing nasty pictures. 
Pandolyn saved him the lie by speaking up for herself.  "I am the mage." 
Whereupon Vespuzia's leer dropped in an instant.  "Then I should compliment you on 
your choice of camouflage, m'lady.  It is most effective, and most provocative.  We should have 
trouble on board before sundown, I think."  Captain Tipper turned to his mate, and said, "Let it be 
known among the crew that these two are both magicians.  Caution them not to be fooled by 

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what they see, and to keep their rivalries in check.  The voyage will be unbearable with the men 
fighting over nothing the entire way." 
"Aye, captain, I shall spread the word." 
"And get them busy purging the tri-hull of sand. Empty the bilges and scuppers to the last 
grain.  I want their minds on other things this evening." 
Becker nodded and turned away to muster a cleaning detail.  The men grumbled but did 
not revolt. 
Andrietti, meanwhile, went to the stern ladder and climbed down to his vessel's main deck. 
 There he faced his three passengers squarely, and appraised them with a casual eye. 
"I must be enchanted," he declared presently, "To have accepted such travelers as 
yourselves on board.  A Ritesman and two false maidens.  Gods!  It reeks of deviltry and smacks 
of the queer arts."  He shook his head sadly.  "Try as I might, however, I cannot find the impetus 
to shrug off my apathy and toss you overboard.  So the next logical thing to do would be invite 
you all into my cabin for a palaver and a bit of wine.  Will you join me."  And he opened the 
hatch. 
Ubar led the way, eager as he was to be shed of the crew's lecherous stares and lusty 
attentions.  Once they were all inside, the captain pressed in after and bolted the door.  Without 
speaking, he went to his locker and removed four cups and a skin of wine.  This he served up 
sparingly, and they all toasted Lucky Lady's good fortune. 
Epsilon and Pandolyn sat at the little table, while Ubar reclined upon the floor, his 
imaginary skirts spreading out around him in an avalanche of chiffon.  Andrietti reclined into his 

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hammock with his feet dangling free, which forced his body upright into a comfortable sitting 
position.  He loosened his sun robes, and removed his large, gaudy hat.  Now he swept back the 
cowl and ruffled his sweat dampened hair.  From its place in the locker, the ship's chronometer 
worked noisily, while Andrietti swung gently in his hammock, staring at them without speaking. 
Pandolyn stirred slightly, vainly seeking a softer spot on her perch.  Ubar kept his gaze 
focused ashamedly on the deck, and seemed to be praying intently for something undetermined.  
Given the circumstances, Epsilon decided the boy was beseeching the gods for another physical 
form. 
"It might be a good thing," stated Vespuzia abruptly, startling them individually out of 
their reverie, "If you told me where the Lady is bound on this voyage." 
The wizard's response came in a carefully couched tone.  "Unfortunately, I cannot say 
until we are in sight of Midpointe Rock. You should take us there, first." 
"And afterward." 
"We shall see."  Before the captain could protest, Pandolyn raised a single finger and 
stilled him to silence.  When she next spoke, Epsilon found her voice was curiously altered.  It 
was still the same musically feminine voice he had come to know, except now it was edged with a 
sinister undertone.  Now it was paralleled by another voice of base resonance and gruff 
pronunciation.  This second speech was commanding beyond the slight power of words, and was 
rife with authority.  An eery echo of '...obey, obey, obey, obey...' seemed to softly fill the gaps 
between her words.  "We are deathly ill," she stated in that odd, dual tongue of hers 
"The ladies are deathly ill," repeated a spellbound Vespuzia.  "I should tell the men." 

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"You will quarter us in your cabin for the remainder of the voyage." 
"The ladies can have my cabin.  For the rest of the voyage." 
"While you, Captain Tipper, remove yourself and your things to other accommodations." 
"I shall bunk with Boatswain Becker," he drawled sleepily, his eyelids drooping.  "Do not 
concern yourself with my well being."  Andrietti tried to raise a flippant hand to wave away 
protests they were not making, but the effort collapsed prematurely.  He began to snore slightly, 
and his eyes closed completely. 
"I think it best we make all speed to Midpointe Rock." 
"We are bound for the Rock already.  I set the course before I came down."  He smacked 
his lips drowsily. 
 Pandolyn grinned her toothy grin.  Epsilon glanced at her and shook his head for a double 
take.  The mask of a beautiful young maiden was coming free of her physical form.  Like a picture 
poster, it curled at the edges and peeled away, leaving only a two dimensional screen in front of 
her, which was cast in the shape of a woman.  Vespuzia, however, did not seem to notice. 
"Good," she returned huskily.  "Be careful with your questioning of us from this point 
forward.  You already know too much," and she cast an accusatory gaze on the Ritesman, who 
shrugged and glowered. 
"I think I know too much, you see," repeated the charmed pilot.  "Far, far to much.  It was 
Bloody Doole.  Doole that done it." 
"Of course it was, darling,   But let us forget your friend Doole for the moment." 
Andrietti snorted and stirred sharply.  "Not my friend!" 

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"Still, let us forget him.  For now, you must sleep.  Sleep deeply, and awaken when you 
are called." 
"Just go away," he grumbled softly, his voice dropping away to nothing.  “Let me get 
some gods forsaken rest..."  After a shocking burst of flatulence, he rolled over to snore more 
loudly than before. 
Immediately, Pandolyn turned on Epsilon and hissed unhappily, "Why did you not slay 
him, as I instructed." 
The Warfarer shrugged, his expression neutral.  "Your instructions were flawed." 
"In what way." 
"In many ways.  In the first place, his crew are not slaves.  They are free men, and 
extremely loyal to their captain.  In the second, Vespuzia appears to be imminently qualified to 
command this vessel, and has given me no reason to kill him, in the third.  I hired on as your 
general, after all, not as your assassin." 
"I have underestimated that soft spot in your heart." 
"There is nothing soft about my heart, m'selle.  I performed as the tactical situation 
demanded, and have survived to prove that my ploys were not unsuccessful." 
She scoffed.  "Your ploys."  Now her mask was all but disappeared.  It lingered before her 
as a dimly seen vapor, ready to snap back into place on an instant's demand.  "I know what you 
did in Oreset!  You squandered the people's wealth and power to no end." 
"Did I.  It was my impression that I left the city with a king and a unified armed forces." 

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"A king!  What king.  You left an infant to guard a vast fortune!  Those flesh feeders will 
have your halfling's head off inside of a fortnight."  She fumed, and shook her sharply angled 
reptilian head.  "The Treasury will be raided, its vaults emptied, and all the good that might have 
been done will be lost." 
"Do not be so quick to judge.  Ipani Emmal's Son might surprise you with his lust for 
power and his respect of decency." 
"And he may surprise you with his short life."  Rit Merdian exhaled forlornly, and let the 
straps of her bags settle to the deck.  "Whatever happens now, it is done.  I have not the time to 
go back and set it straight." 
Epsilon frowned.  "There is nothing to set straight.  It was done better than any other man 
might have done it." 
"You say nothing of what a woman might have done.  Still it is finished, and we have 
other business before us."  She paused to toss back the last of Vespuzia's warm wine, knowing 
how precious liquid was aboard a desert bound sandboat. 
Exploiting the gap, Epsilon hastily inserted, "Aye, we have other business before us.  Not 
the least of which is Dellas Dembar's Son.  That devil is a plague of unprecedented proportions." 
"What do you mean." 
"Dellas has vowed to see me dead, and I am beginning to doubt my own future." 
"But surely you have nothing to fear from one so pathetic and weak.  Why worry about a 
meager clerk left behind in Oreset." 

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"He is no meager clerk, m'selle, and I have not left him behind anywhere.  He follows 
along even now, I think, pacing us from on high, waiting for the right moment to strike, for a 
vulnerable ear to fill with his foul curses.  One of the Lady's crew is nearly mad from 
bewitchment, and seems radically intent on causing me harm.  All of it Dellas Dembar's doing." 
Pandolyn seemed stunned.  Her befuddled mask dispersed confusedly, and the lizard lady 
was returned to her natural, or unnatural though familiar, state.  She leaned across the table 
intently, her tone edged with alarm.  "How has he followed you into the wastes.  Aboard the skiff 
that tried to ram us earlier." 
"What.  No, not by boat.  The wizard has no need of such earthly contrivances when he 
can soar like a bird of prey." 
"A wizard, you say.  That can fly." 
"Like a bird.  Great, black wings he has, black as a raven's.  And a mouth more foul than 
his appearance."  Now it was Epsilon's turn to be concerned.  Judging by Pandolyn's slack 
expression, he realized she had been unaware of Dellas' true identity.  "You did not know he was 
a mage." 
"No.  I had no indications at all.  I thought him merely extremely clever."  Her long, 
forked tongue snaked out from between her fangs and licked at the scales of her jowls 
thoughtfully.  "This is not good news.  If he is powerful enough to conceal himself from me, then 
he must be a more advanced magician than myself.  Which is impossible, since there are only three 
sorcerers in all the land that exceed me in ability.  I know for certain that two of these mages are 
occupied far beyond the Desert Ocean, and could not possibly be posing as a clerk in Oreset." 

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"And the third." 
Pandolyn's soft, sick reply was, "Sin Apica.  It must be." 
Epsilon's stomach heaved over inside his guts, and Ubar gasped.  A dark pall settled over 
the room, and seeped into their hearts. 
The Ritesman demanded, "Are you certain." 
"How can I be certain.  This is merely my best guess." 
Ubar groaned more loudly still.  "And just when I thought I might actually survive the 
Wilderlands." 
"Be quiet, child, this does not portend our doom," hissed Pandolyn hotly.  "If this stalking 
demon is, in fact, the Apical wizard, then he must have some ulterior motion in play that he dare 
not jeopardize.  Otherwise, he should have slain the Warfarer back in Oreset.  Sin Apica would 
never have allowed my spell to run its course unless something was forcing him into it." 
"But what could threaten the most powerful man in all the lands." asked Ubar. 
"Vandegarte," answered both Pandolyn and Epsilon simultaneously.  Rit Merdian added 
unwholesomely, "The Sin Supri wizard has long hunted his master." 
The Warfarer shuddered involuntarily.  "Martyrs' blood!  To think I drew steel on that 
black hearted necromancer!  It chills me." 
"It should.  And I apologize most sincerely for sending you into that Treasury.  Had I 
known who was waiting within, I would never have done it." 

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"Yet you did, and I was not slain.  Do not worry over the past, but let us dwell on the 
problem at hand, instead.  What are we to do with the Evil One, now that he is bent on my 
destruction." 
"Do.  We can do nothing about him or to him, save protect ourselves from his advances 
as best we can.  You said he had enchanted one of the crew.  I will treat this man as I am able, 
and provide this craft with a more powerful protecting spell.  It was enchanted earlier, but only 
weakly so.  Now I shall have to devise a spell that draws on the center forces, which will betray 
Apica to the Synod if he should try to break it.  Sin Supri will know at once where his master can 
be found." 
Epsilon was dubious.  "You are betting that Apica has not moved against us because he 
fears exposure to his inferior.  It is far from a sure wager." 
"It is all I can do for now." 
The room fell silent, save for the creaking and groaning of Lucky Lady's timbers, which 
permeated the boat.  She raced along, and the steady 'wum-wum-wum-wum' of her busy skates 
was a rapid heartbeat.  Almost, the boat seemed eager for the raging depths of the sand sea. 
And suddenly the Warfarer had a nasty thought.  "What will Dellas do when he discovers 
our destination.  Since he hates the same enemy, who would he support." 
"It is difficult to say what he might do.  All depends on whether or not his hatred of you 
can overcome his fear of Vandegarte.  Which loathing is stronger.  Who can say."  The wizardess 
paused to collect her thoughts.  "Now that I know who he is, it is plain to see why Apica should 
pose as someone like Dellas, the clerk.  From such a lowly position, he managed to wrest a 

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sizeable fortune from the Treasury, and was poised to seize control of another walled city.  He 
was obviously intent on having a new fortress, one situated near Empire and its crumbling Great 
Barricade.  He was but minutes away from the choicest conquest in all the lands, and a conquest 
fit to fall on its own, without the intervention of an invading army.  Had I only known!  Had I 
only known..." 
"It is too late now to second guess yourself, m'selle.  We must focus on the troubles at 
hand.  Lucky Lady is plagued.  Our first consideration should be the general safety of this boat and 
its crew." 
"Of course," she returned vaguely.  "I will awaken the captain and order him to send his 
deranged crewman in to be healed.  Then I shall concentrate a better protecting spell.  It will have 
to be most cleverly devised and powerful, if it is to evade Sin Apica's circumvention.  I must tie it 
to the center forces.  I must." 
"Master," protested Ubar, his tone nervous and afraid.  "If you bind it with the center 
forces of the Synod, will that not attract unwanted attention.  Just as Apica must expose himself 
in its undoing, so must you expose yourself in its fashioning." 
"This is true," replied Rit Merdian resignedly.  Now she was searching her kits for the 
tools of her trade.  "Unfortunately, I know of no other way to save ourselves.  At this point, on 
this side of the Desert Ocean, Dellas has more to lose in betraying himself than have I.  Sin Supri 
is well aware that I am resolved to see him undone, and so my movements are ever under 
scrutiny.  He will soon know that I have boarded Lucky Lady, no matter what I do to conceal the 
fact." 

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"Then to hells with Sin Supri," spat Epsilon vehemently.  "We are beset by a more 
powerful wizard that is close at hand, and should not be concerned with a mage five thousand 
miles distant." 
Ubar gulped and made a strangling sound far back in his reptilian throat.  “I suppose I 
must agree, when you state our position so bluntly." 
"Your agreement is irrelevant, child," dismissed Pandolyn sharply.  Then she turned to the 
sleeping Andrietti, and her dual tongues were returned.  That same odd echo filled the gaps of her 
speech.  She said, "Captain.  It is time to go out on deck, now.  Send in a brace of seamen with 
your stricken crewman, and give them orders that they should trundle your belongings off to 
wherever you will be sleeping.  I want you gone from here posthaste." 
Vespuzia grumbled and stirred.  Drowsily, he mumbled, "I should get my things together 
and go.  It is getting late.  Time for the night watch..." 
"Yes, it is time for the night watch.  Set your duties as usual.  There is no need to worry 
tonight.  Tell your men." 
"I will tell my men.  There is no need to worry.  Not tonight." 
"Good.  Now, rise and sort your belongs.  Then go." 
The captain snorted awake and sat up abruptly.  He smacked his lips and blinked his eyes 
and scratched himself groggily, as though he had been sleeping for hours.  "By the gods!" he 
declared, yawning.  "I have never felt so refreshed!  How long was I asleep.  Days, it seemed!  
What a laggard!"  Vespuzia rolled from his hammock and stood uncertainly.  "I should gather my 

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gear, now, and be going.  I must set the night watches, duty as usual."  And he turned to empty 
his locker. 
Just then, the deck lurched, and the sandboat heeled over sharply.  There were sharp cries 
of alarm from the men on deck, and a sound of hurriedly shifting canvas.  Becker was raging, and 
Harald, the second mate, was banging on the door. 
"Captain!  Captain!  Come quick!" he demanded loudly, though with surprising calm.  "It 
is a turning event dead ahead!" 
Andrietti was already at the hatch.  He flung it back and dashed outside. 
Epsilon was on his feet.  "They will need every hand," he declared, "None will be spared 
to fetch Caspazia in, yet he must be saved.  Go to him now, and do what you must!"  Then he, 
too, was out the door and climbing to the stern deck. 
Though he could be of no service at the rigging or any other intricate matter, it was 
possible that he might be needed at the wheel.  He was right in his assumptions, as events 
developed, for Olietti was struggling at its spokes, fighting the draw of the skates against the 
crosswind.  Epsilon levered himself into position, and shouted for the mariner to tell him what 
needed doing.  Olietti nodded, and together they steered the ship, freeing Vespuzia for other 
needs. 
A storm had come up with surprising speed.  Looking ahead, Epsilon saw a mountain of 
dust rising from the flat, sandy floor of the desert.  The sky was clear and blue behind it, and the 
sun was setting obscured before it, but somehow, from somewhere, the tempest was finding 
winds and strength to grow and prosper.  Even now the sandstorm was rising and spreading and 

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swelling to overwhelming proportions.  The Lady seemed to shrink before its awesome might.  
Her once daunting sails became a speck of white fluff that was driven before a sky-high wall, 
which would topple forward to crush her at any moment.  Epsilon was reminded of the sandboat 
he had spied racing for Oreset on that first bright morning in the city, and he shuddered. 
Unfortunately for them, the desert had started turning downwind from the Lady.  Thus, 
they were blocked from running before the south wind, and had to tack slightly into it. 
While Vespuzia had been below, Becker had brought the boat's prow around ten degrees 
to starboard, taking them more sharply against the natural gale.  Captain Tipper countermanded 
his first mate's orders, and instructed that the Lady swing around ten degrees north of due east.  
Which seemed a certain sort of madness, as the boat was now pointed more directly into the heart 
of the churning sands. 
Becker noted this, and remarked.  Whereupon he was informed that the captain intended 
to use the south wind to get abreast of the growing sandstorm.  Then he hoped to ride the 
outbound shockwaves of the hurricane when it was full grown and capable of overcoming the 
opposing blow.  It was, he declared, a safe enough maneuver, since the heart of the turning event 
was many miles off their bow yet. 
It did not seem so safe to Epsilon, but then he was a novice.  What did he know. 
They pressed on into the mounting wall of spewing grit.  The dying sun lighted its highest 
elevations in shades of pink and gold that were as beautiful as they were deadly.  Now the 
Ritesman could see what was causing the disturbance.  It was not a storm driven by the winds or 
borne of the sky, rather it was driven by hot, sulfurous, belching gases and was born of the earth. 

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From time to time, they were struck by what sounded to be thunder, which assault was instead the 
detonation of vast deposits of flammable gases.  Mushroom clouds of flame lit the interior of the 
marching sand columns, and blast waves shot out in concentric circles from their epicenters.  
These further upset the placid desert surface, and added to the fine dust that was tossed high into 
the sky. 
Before long, the towering mountain had blotted out the northeastern horizon, assuming a 
curiously odd shape.  The highest aspects of this vast cloud had stretched high into the upper 
reaches of the atmosphere, and were picked up by unfelt winds there, which winds carried the 
displaced desert loams to the south.  This was in direct opposition of the ground winds, and the 
resultant display was awesome to behold.  On a nearly smooth, semicircular front some three 
hundred miles wide and expanding, huge blossoms of sand bolted up into the heavens.  The 
heavier particles settled back almost at once, but the lighter soils were lofted on hot thermal 
updrafts and borne high into the air.  At lower altitudes, the updrafts were urged back to the 
north, but the opposing jet stream then turned back to the south.  It was a massive, heaven bound 
sculpture, a study in abstraction of absurd proportions.  Like the tall, peaked hat of a mage, the 
sandstorm had a broad brim, a conical, rising center, and was tipped over at the top.  Its peak 
elongated high over their heads, and flowed away to find the darkening southern horizon. 
As the Lady pressed closer and closer to the turning event, further and further northeast, 
the storm's detail grew, and Epsilon realized the wall was advancing at a phenomenal rate.  Its 
speed made Lucky Lady seem a crawling tortoise! 

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Glancing back, the Ritesman noted that Osgarthe had closed the gap between them, 
having advanced on a sharper angle to intercept, anticipating his prey's tactic.  The madman was 
running more squarely before the as yet prevalent south wind.  He had eight knots or more on the 
Lady, and his largest foresails was still sucking great droughts of air.  Martyrs' blood, cursed 
Epsilon silently, Would the lunatic ram us even in the grips of this deadly theater. 
Andrietti seemed to be chasing the same line of thought.  He shouted to Becker, "Damn 
that fool!  Why will he not turn back." 
"He is committed, as are we!" came the first mate's dispassionate reply.  "If he turned to 
run now, the sand would overtake him in a few hours!  He must hope to get south of it, and run 
before the surge." 
"Aye!  This would be enough, but that idiot would have more!  Look at him!"  Epsilon 
removed his eyes from the pitching bow to see what they would see.  Captain Tipper was pointing 
over the stern rail at a blotch of dinghy canvass that was riding the western horizon and the Rim's 
racing shadow.  "He is not content to gain a life saving position.  No, he has swung out far to the 
north, risking his craft unnecessarily, just to get a few miles on me that he will quickly lose, once 
we turn southeast again." 
"Then he does not intend to let us make the turn." 
"Of course not.  He is bent on ramming again." 
Becker seemed exasperated.  "Sir, we cannot continue to play these games.  Whatever 
Osgarthe might have once been, he is vowed to slay you now, and the rest of us with you, it 
seems.  We must arm the Lady and shoot his little skiff all to Hades on the next pass.  We must!  

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To do otherwise is to risk a crumpled wing and a disabled skate.  To do otherwise is to murder us 
all!" 
The captain almost made a hot return, but held his tongue in the last instant.  Instead, he 
cinched his sunrobes tighter to keep out the biting sand, and wrapped his face with a protective 
fold.  Reluctantly, he relented.  "Very well.  Arm her astern.  Load bundles." 
"Aye, captain!" and the boatswain turned to give the orders. 
Mile by mile, the raging tempest neared, and the Lady ran headlong to meet it.  Mile by 
mile, the south wind was dampened by the increasing ferocity of the hot shockwaves blasting 
down from the north.  From time to time, a massive rush of air was thrown from the guts of the 
hurricane, and sent to smash against Lucky Lady's full, straining sails.  Which collapsed 
momentarily, then refilled with a deafening chorus of snapping fabric.  Their little sandboat 
pitched and rolled.  Showers of hot sand were tossed over rail and bow, and streams of it were 
born on the rushing, conflicting gales.  Epsilon and Olietti fought the wheel.  Becker raged and his 
deck crew scrambled.  Bean and Block struggled to fit the aft gun in place, while Vespuzia stared 
morosely back at the pursuing Osgarthe and was downcast. 
Closer and closer neared the defiant bountymen.  They were many hundreds of sticks 
north and west of the Lady, when their lighter boat was swung around by the outbound winds of 
the turning desert.  Osgarthe let the skiff have its head, and now pressed nearer at an alarming 
rate.  At such speeds, he would be on top of the beleaguered Lady in minutes.  At his back, the 
northern horizon was gone, and the sandstorm was swelling out and around to eat up the western 
and eastern skies.  To the west, a bloody red, violently angry sun was poised to set.  The light was 

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half gone, and that burning orb was a half-eye to cast a dispassionately piteous gaze upon their 
dying struggles.  On and on they ran, until the south wind surrendered the debate and was 
supplanted by the artificial gales belching from the northeast. 
As Becker prepared the boat to come sharply about, Osgarthe closed to within fifty stick's 
distance of the Lady.  This was closer than he had been since leaving Pandolyn's oasis. 
Epsilon's eyes narrowed suddenly.  What was different about the little sandboat.  It 
seemed larger, somehow, and more agile.  Then the Ritesman realized Osgarthe was alone.  His 
last two henchmen were missing.  It was no wonder he had made superior time, since his skiff was 
probably five hundred pounds lighter.  Still, it was large and heavy enough to do fatal damage to 
the Lady at these speeds. 
Before long, the gunner, Sandman Tuggle, announced, "The enemy is in range, captain!" 
and was immediately ordered to hold his bolts. 
Osgarthe sailed closer and closer.  Lucky Lady pressed deeper into the hurricane.  They 
were at its farthest edge, now, and the air was thick with ash and dust. 
All at once, Becker shouted, "Tack!  Tack!  Tack!" and Olietti spun the wheel.  Epsilon 
threw his own weight against it when it balked, and the sandboat heeled over, its prow nosing 
around to the south.  Overhead and unseen for the blindsheets directly overhead, the ship's crew 
struggled to keep the sails trimmed and flying true.  The foresail fell slack, then took a draft on its 
other face. 
Olietti shouted something that was unheard for the raging winds and showering sands.  
Raising his voice, the experienced mariner repeated, "You are doing a grand job at the wheel, 

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Holy Ritesman!  But you might want to take a moment to fleece your robes.  Seal your face.  
These gusts will blast your skin right off!" 
Epsilon nodded his thanks, and rigged his outer garments to fit more snugly, much as he 
had seen Andrietti do earlier.  When he thought he had finished, Olietti pointed out details that he 
had overlooked, then declared the Warfarer fit for storm duty. 
And it came none too soon, either.  A monstrous blast of burning hot wind struck them 
from directly behind, forcing the Lady's nose down and her stern high, while a river of grinding, 
cutting, stinging sand flowed beneath the blind sheets to scour the deck.  Epsilon was instantly 
grateful for the protection of his tough linen sun robes.  Streams of grit flowed from around his 
neck, where it parted the stern blow, and from around every other aspect of his body.  He was 
outlined for many feet forward by an absence of dust.  Then his little personal wake came together 
again, and his image was erased.  Harder and harder, faster and faster, hotter and hotter came the 
storm surge, forcing them forward.  Lucky Lady wallowed a bit at first, but righted on her springy 
skates, once she had accelerated to speed. 
Glancing back, Epsilon saw Osgarthe coming on faster than ever.  He was crossing astern, 
and riding a bit to the east, as though he was intent on coming alongside. 
The Ritesman quickly realized this was exactly what the madman intended to do.  It was 
the only ploy that would allow him to ram abeam, as an aft impact would do nothing more than 
mar the Lady's massive catchspurs. 
Epsilon watched the lunatic press close enough to discern his demented facial expression, 
and see that his mouth was open and working, shouting unflattering epithets at Vespuzia, no 

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doubt.  Still, the captain held his command to fire, though Becker demanded unhappily that they 
should render the skiff's canvass full of holes.  A debate ensued, and the boatswain was sent 
forward to tend the crew at the threat of Vespuzia's hand upon his sword. 
As Osgarthe passed around the port wing and drew abreast, a new clamor of alarm 
erupted from above.  Epsilon's attention was drawn to a brilliant flash of light slightly forward and 
east of the boat.  This was accompanied by three louder reports, which came in quick succession 
and from all directions.  Flashes of flaming light preceded the sound of each, which was in turn 
followed by a series of concussions.  Towers of dark, rich desert sand rose into the sky, their 
peaks jagged and nasty, their sides sheer and terrifying.  Ripples of force spread out through the 
surface of the fluid sea.  Forward and back went the shockwaves, alternately blowing and sucking 
against their sails and frail bodies.  The Warfarer's ears were ringing painfully, his mind was 
stunned.  He rocked uncertainly on his feet, and his eyes rolled to their whites.  Then snapped 
back into focus. 
Fighting to understand what had happened, Epsilon struggled to see through the flying grit 
and dust.  In a line that crossed their keel, a series of swells and explosions had stretched out 
before the gaining fore of the tempest.  More and more plumes of soil were blasted into the 
darkening sky.  In the light of the falling sun, Epsilon was treated to a distasteful first glimpse of 
genuine hell.  Flame spouted and roared.  Blasts rocked and rolled them, assaulting already 
deafened ears with painful impacts.  Another erupted just off Lucky Lady's starboard rail.  It sent a 
tower of sand thirty sticks above the decks, and a radiating blast wave that shook the very earth. 

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Still, the Lady rolled on, undaunted.  At her wheel, Olietti fought to steer their vessel 
between the gushers of churning desert.  So many flashes of flame surrounded them now, that 
Epsilon failed to note the sun's disappearance.  By hells fire light they waged a war to survive, and 
quickly found themselves on the losing side. 
At the stern, Lady's guns were abandoned, and a six foot high shield of canvass was strung 
to protect the poop deck and its pilot from the worst of the sandblasting.  Regardless of the effort, 
Epsilons ears and neck burned and stung.  His sun robes flapped and rippled loudly about his 
head, the din of which competed with the greater cacophony of the gaining typhoon.  Another 
wave of uprising belches spread out around them. 
Directly in front of the Lady's blunt nose, a mound of sand began to bulge and rise.  In 
slowed motion, it bubbled up and broadened at the circumference.  Its center reached higher and 
higher, and became sharper and sharper.  As a serpent rearing back to strike, its ugly black body 
roiled and writhed, thickened and lengthened, towered above them.  
Epsilon's mouth and eyes were dark 'O's of horror.  His face was pale.  Less than a 
hundred sticks separated them from the deepening crater and its attendant plume of hot, burning 
soil. 
A massive flash of light blinded their eyes, and a burst of impossible thunder smote their 
ears.  The shockwave was immediate, and it rocked the Lady sharply back against her forward 
motion.  Only seventy five sticks remained to evade certain doom. 
Men screamed.  The wheel was suddenly spinning in his hands.  He heard fragmented 
shouts of "...come about!..." and "...port catch sail, damn you!..." and "...fifteen degrees!  Fifteen 

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degrees!  Fifteen degrees!..." which seemed to echo forever; and finally, "...starboard catchspur 
ONE PART IN FIVE!..." when the catchspur came down to bite deeply into the desert floor. 
Lucky Lady tipped over to port and went down hard at the bow.  A wave of loamy sand 
blew over her foredeck, while a scalloped wall of it rose up from the port wing.  The sandboat 
added her screams to the screams of the crew, and her timbers bent savagely against the sheering 
forces of so violent a maneuver.  Scooped up by the gouging spur, a stream of sand sprayed over 
the right wing from behind, scouring the decks.  Men scrambled to get free.  One lost his sun 
robes in the melee, and was instantly rendered raw and bleeding.  While his mates sought to 
rescue the stricken sailor, Epsilon and Olietti were striving to both keep their footing and their 
grips on the heavy wheel.  It strained against their efforts, and fought to spin straight.  Beneath 
them, the guide skates planed through the sands, angling her around by stern and bow, despite the 
drag of her lurching masts. 
In the last instant, they had avoided the geyser.  It passed to port with but fifty sticks to 
spare, and now Osgarthe was come up hard against it.  Glancing back to follow that towering 
specter of doom, Epsilon watched the plume of sand collapse in upon itself from apogee.  The 
lighter dusts were left behind, while the heavier material piled onto the bountyman's decks, filling 
his tiny boat in a instant.  Its skate springs snapped, as did its cantered masts.  The hull struck 
ground and splintered, as a continuing rain of searing, smoking, flaming grit settled all around. 
Was that a man's screaming.  Or just the wind. 

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Vespuzia was at the stern rail, beyond the canvass shield.  He held his head with his hands 
and raged indecipherably.  When he turned around, his face was livid and blistered, its cowling 
having been torn away. 
"Come about sharply Olietti!  Come about!" he screamed, his voice shrill as a horrified 
woman's.  "Maintain the starboard turn!  Boatswain, prepare to tack around in a circle!  We have 
a man overboard!" 
"No!" returned Becker hotly, "By the gods, I will not allow it!  We are slain, as it is!  
Circling is madness!" 
"There is a man overboard, damn you!  Turn!  Turn about!" and he rushed over to the 
wheel, despite the tossing deck, and grabbed hold of the spokes.  “Give the orders, Mister 
Becker, or, by Afrodyte's Great Love, I will have your tongue out on the spot!" 
The first mate was disgusted, but he raised his megaphone, regardless, and issued the 
orders to work the rigging.  Lucky Lady swung about tightly while her catchspur was down, but it 
had to be raised quickly in order to preserve forward speed.  She made ninety degrees of three 
hundred and sixty the easy way, but must finish the loop against the raging blow.  Under the first 
mate's expert command, it was accomplished in a single fluid tack, with the sandboat first coming 
crosswise to the winds and finally running before it once more.  They pushed up close to the 
lingering plume of destruction that had been Osgarthe's skiff.  Grit and sand was still settling in a 
wide circle, and a flame was burning at the heart of the dust cloud. 
"Reef the mainsails by three quarters and dampen the catchsails, boatswain!" called a 
crazed Andrietti.  "I will search for the survivor!" 

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Becker was stiff with anger.  "There are no survivors, you fool!  The boat was lost with its 
master, as will ours be, if we reef those sails!" 
Vespuzia drew his sword and advanced menacingly.  "Lower them, I say!  Lower them at 
once on pain of execution for mutiny!" 
The first mate bristled at first, but backed away in the end.  "Bah!  Have it then, Captain 
Tipper!"  The phone snapped up to his lips.  "Take down the foresail and reef the gods forsaken 
mainsails, ye merry corpses!  Make them three quarters fast!  Let go the catchsail winches to 
slack!  Standby the catchspurs!  We are coming up to anchor!" 
To their credit, not a man hesitated in completing Becker's orders, though all of them must 
have known the danger.  Lucky Lady slowed considerably as her foresail was removed, then again 
when her mainsails were drawn in tight.  She slowed to a crawl, and eased into the shallow crater 
of the blast.  Now her outrigger sails were left to flap loosely, and both spurs came down in 
unison. The Lady was fully stopped. 
Vespuzia was gone at a dash, down the poop ladders to the main deck and over the rail.  
Epsilon turned an eye on Becker, who was standing behind the aft shield, his face unreadable.  
The man seemed absolutely resigned to die. 
Deciding the boatswain would not leave them, Epsilon hurried to follow Vespuzia.  "This 
is madness!" he called after, shunning the ladder to leap down to midships.  "Madness, you 
lunatic!  You will kill us all!" 
"Then die, I care not!"  Vespuzia was at the rail, and poised to leap over the edge.  "I am 
worse than dead without that man!" 

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And so saying, he went over the side.  Epsilon bellowed and roared his frustration, and 
cast about for something to do.  He saw a neatly coiled pile of small gauge rope and noticed 
Block standing uselessly in the shelter of the stern deck. 
"You, boy!  Grab one end of that rope and make it fast!  I go after your captain with the 
other!"  He dashed over to scoop up a coil and hefted it over his shoulder.  Block was only just in 
time to get a grip on its trailing free end before the Ritesman was disappeared.   Up from the 
depths of oblivion, he called back, "Make certain Becker does not give orders to raise those spurs, 
Young Block!  If he does, go to  the captain's cabin and fetch the ladies.  Tell Pandolyn to shoot 
the bastard with my cr-" but that was the end of it.  A howling wind and another round of 
deafening blasts took the rest. 
Letting out a constant length of rope after his advance, Epsilon pressed into the deadly 
wastes and into a hot spot of belching gases.  A strong smell of sulfur and char filled the 
Warfarer's nostrils.  He drew his cowl closer and leaned against the gale.  His feet sank deeply 
into the loamy grit.  This portion of the desert floor was much different than that of the oasis 
where he had first stepped into it.  Out here in the sea, it was a coarser, rounder grain that flowed 
like tiny marbles.  Once the miring dust was blasted free by the turning events, the individual 
grains worked together as liquid ball bearings, easing passage of the sandboats.  Unfortunately, it 
was torture to a walking man.  It seemed to take five normal steps just to make a single pace out 
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Epsilon worked until his muscles burned.  He called Vespuzia's name until his throat was 
raw.  He could see nothing.  He could hear nothing.  Nothing but a scrambled whirl of sand and 
dust. 
Then he came to the end of his rope.  Captain Tipper was undoubtedly lost now, if he had 
not been before.  Despite the unbearable heat that burned his flesh and fried his booted feet, 
Epsilon stretched the line to its maximum reach and continued to call his friend's name.  No 
answer was returned, nothing more than the screaming, moaning, wailing, raging wind.  And the 
flapping of his cowl against his head.  And the continued concussions of the detonating desert 
floor. 
The Warfarer called and clung to his lifeline until he could stand the intense heat no 
longer, until his vision was blurred, his thoughts befuddled, and his own hopes of returning to the 
Lady were greatly diminished.  He had started back to the boat, when he stumbled over something 
at his feet, and fell. 
It was a squirming mass of flesh he had encountered, and it wriggled out from under his 
bulk.  It coughed and sputtered.  It moaned and babbled.  It gasped, "Epsilon!  By the gods, you 
have saved me!  Haul us back!  Haul us back to the deck before we are burned alive!" 
"Can you stand." 
"I can, but Osgarthe cannot.  He is sleeping!" 
"Sleeping or dead." asked the Ritesman, though he was already bending to aid the captain. 
"Sleeping!  He will awaken!  He will live, I say!" 

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They managed to heft the large man between them, and stumble back along the lifeline to 
the tri-hull.  It seemed a journey of lifetimes, a shared voyage into infinity that was a torture of 
blasting sand, raging winds, ear splitting explosions, and infernos of flame.  The turning event 
neared.  The hurricane leaped closer.  Escape fled with a hare's gate.  Epsilon and Vespuzia 
strained and heaved to catch it.  Fleeting though their salvation seemed, they would not give it up 
easily. 
"I am all but finished," announced Captain Tipper near the end.  "My legs are bending to 
break." 
"Just- just a bit- a bit further!" panted Epsilon.  "Do not quit!  Keep marching!" 
"It- it is no- no use at all any- any more."  And Vespuzia fell into the roasting sand. 
Epsilon fell, too, and screamed to feel the desert's searing touch.  He was up on his feet 
immediately, and struggling to right both Osgarthe and Vespuzia.  He cursed the former and 
kicked the latter savagely in the ribs.  "Get up, you filthy beggar!  You roast alive where you lay!" 
The captain stirred sluggishly.  Epsilon kicked the man again, and bellowed, "What of 
Osgarthe.  He will die with you!  What of your precious Solwyn of Bahia Sud." 
That did it.  Andrietti struggled to his feet heroically, and shouldered his share of their 
burden.  "What of her." he tried to demand flippantly, but it was a pathetic, dying attempt.  "What 
of her." he repeated, lurching forward.  "She- she is the most beautif- ul maiden in all the- the 
lands!  Never forget that!  Nev- er!" 
"Keep going!  We are nearing the Lady!" 

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"It means-" choked the captain, dragging Osgarthe's daunting bulk forward.  "It means 
'Flower of the Sun'!  Flow- Flower of the S- Sun!" 
But Epsilon no longer had the breath to reply.  He felt himself falling forward to collapse 
again, and was dreading the burning sands.  His arms shot out to fend off the worst of it, but 
something caught him halfway down.  Something soft and giving and white, something that 
rippled and flapped sharply in the gusts. 
Hands came out of the tempest to clutch his prostrate body, to help his aching legs carry 
his own weight.  Other hands took Osgarthe, and still others relieved Andrietti.  Somebody had 
lowered the plank, and they clamored up onto it in an anxious tumble.  Becker was shouting at 
once for the catch spurs to be raised and the catchsails to be made fast and the mainsails to be 
drawn out and the jibsail to be laid on.  All was a swirling collage of movement and hot, roasting 
devil's breath.  Epsilon was suddenly sick and retched emptily.  It felt as if his guts might come up 
at any second, and he was patiently awaiting the sight of his own stomach. 
Then Block was there, forcing a hot cup between his lips.  Water!  Life!  The very thing 
that damnable desert had sucked out of him by the quart!  He was given three doses from the 
boat's medicinal stores, and that was all.  Osgarthe and Andrietti received the same. 
Laughing, he and the captain drew themselves up to the stern bulkhead to recuperate well 
out of the way.  Osgarthe was carried below, and the Lady's crew returned to their duties in her 
rigging or at her capstans. 
Becker shouted from the rail above him, only his megaphone visible.  "Let out the fore 
boom.  Rig another foresail!  Damn you, make those catchsails taut!  Olietti, keep us squarely 

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before the gale!  Squarely before the gale, do you hear.!  We have need of speed, boys!  Great 
need of speed!  Lay it on!  Lay it on!  Lay it on!  All the canvass she will hold!  Oglot, let out that 
port mainsail to the pennant caps, and draw it down to the blind sheets!  All the way down!  We 
want every scrap of wind!" 
The men hustled back and forth to comply.  Andrietti and Epsilon gasped and panted, 
desperate for oxygen.  All around, the desert was burning.  The darkened evening sky was lit with 
a pyrotechnical display, the likes of which Epsilon had never seen.  Back and forth danced the 
flashes and shockwaves, forward and aft, until the din was a single, unending peel of thunder that 
shook the Lady to her finest timbers and numbed the bones of her crew mercifully.  Ever at their 
backs, the rising squall sent a river of scouring grit to add to their collective misery. 
They ran through the inferno for what seemed to be hours, but might have been only 
minutes in reality.  Blossoms and geysers and plumes and mushroom clouds of dust burst up all 
around them, in front of them, behind them, but, thankfully, never directly underneath them. 
A final sulfurous belch let loose before the Lady's bow, and sent a thrusting arm of dirt 
high above them.  Becker skillfully evaded it without employing the spurs, however, and in so 
doing preserved their forward speed. 
This was enough to see them clear of the sandstorm's marching outer fringe.  They at last 
passed beyond the threshold of raging explosions, and were released to the open sea.  Faster and 
faster the Lady flew, seemingly fearful of so violent and fiery a fate as that which raced behind. 
When the second jib sail was readied and lofted, her prow dipped slightly, and her rate 
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and prosecute their collective survival.  As they emerged from the roiling, churning, rising front of 
the sandstorm, a soft cheer was raised by the Lady's men, for they were lucky indeed.  Lucky to 
serve aboard the fastest sandboat in all the wide Wilderlands. 
"A good man, that Becker," declared Andrietti, his voice raw from shouting.  "He always 
knows just what to do.  He will make a fine captain some day."  
"Unlike you, Vespuzia.  What sort of fool are you, to go rushing off into the wastes like 
that."  From an all but slain Epsilon. 

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The captain smiled, and raised a knowing finger to his unmasked nose.  "You were there, 
no.  I knew you would make certain I returned to the boat." 
Epsilon disbelieved.  "Did you, now." he enquired sarcastically. 
"Possibly.  But I thank you just the same, my friend.  This is the second time I have 
amassed a debt with you." 
"No debts, friend."  (He added this last word with some difficulty.)  "And no need to keep 
score."  They shook hands, and that wall all they ever said about this affair. 

 

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17 

This Gift More Potent Than Dreams 

"If I live ten thousand years," huffed Pandolyn in her maiden's guise, "I will never 
understand the nature of a man."  She was stooping over Osgarthe in the first mate's cramped 
quarters, tending his burns with salves and enchanted potions. 
"Nor I that of a woman," leered Vespuzia through cracked and blistered lips.  He was laid 
out alongside his future brother-in-law, waiting his turn at the sawbones. Ordinarily, Bean would 
have acted as ship's doctor, but he was no more skilled in the practice of medicine than he was at 
the culinary arts.  Pandolyn was the obvious alternative.  "Especially that of a beautiful woman." 
Standing at the hatch, Epsilon made the mistake of asking her to clarify herself.  The 
doctor huffed, and wiped her hands on a scrap of cloth.  "It is the nature of a man to burn and 
break.  It is the nature of a man to love steel and hate soft, pink, living things.  It is the nature of a 
man to be coarse and uncouth, ill mannered in all regards.  And it is the nature of a man to hate 
his rivals.  Yet toss two together into an arena then threaten both with death, and a strange sort of 

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love develops instantly between them.  No, do not deny it," she quipped, waving away Epsilon's 
masculine protests.  "It is a love.  A strong love, easily as strong as the love of a man for a 
woman.  Perhaps it is a love of brother for brother, I cannot say, yet it is love.  Tell me, if you 
can, what else would send one man into the face of certain death for the sake of another." 
The Ritesman's reply was quick.  "Honor." 
"And what is honor, but love.  No, you are caught, Epsilon.  This man, this Captain 
Tipper," she uttered in a most derisive tone, "Is your friend.  You would die for him now, I think, 
and he for you." 
Vespuzia exchanged an abashed glance with the Ritesman, and sprayed laughter.  "But 
how can this be, m'sieur.  Only two nights ago you were so enraged with me as to have my head 
off at a thought." 
But the Warfarer only shrugged, and turned his eyes on his boots.  Presently, the 
wizardess finished treating Osgarthe, and moved her medical kit to Vespuzia's hammock. 
Rolling him over roughly onto his side without a word, Pandolyn hoisted the man's shirt to 
first get a look at the burns on his back.  She gasped when she saw the writhing scars that covered 
his flesh there.  "Martyrs' blood!  What has happened to you." 
The captain grimaced and pursed his lips.  He was obviously unhappy that his ugliness 
showed, and fought to roll over.  But Pandolyn's grip was deceptively strong.  Behind the maid's 
mask, the reptilian monster remained. 
"You have been whipped, Captain Tipper, and to within an inch of your life, it appears." 

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"Forget that for now!" he declared angrily.  "Tend me, if you must, then leave me be.  
Those other wounds that you see... they are too old to be healed, and too deep." 
"In the face of such hate," she muttered, cleaning Vespuzia's boils and blisters, "Such love. 
 I will never understand the nature of a man.  Not if I live to be ten thousand years." 
Andrietti fussed and fidgeted while Pandolyn applied her magic potions, which were rife 
with the power of healing.  "By Afrodyte's deep love, madam, what are you doing back there." he 
hissed, sucking his tongue to quiet groans of pain. 
"Peeling off your skin.  It is necrotized and will soon rot.  I must remove it to save the 
flesh below.  Hold still, damn you!  I have treated small children less capable of squirming."  She 
worked until she was finished, exposing the naked flesh of his back where the skin had been 
boiled away.  "You are lucky, captain.  One minute longer lying in that sand, and your guts would 
have begun to steam inside you." 
"How pleasant," he growled between clenched teeth.  "Are you finished yet." 
"With the painful part.  Next come the salves.  Hold still."  And she scooped out a double 
finger full of the green jelly from a large jar. 
As soon as it touched his raw muscles, the captain screamed shrilly.  He jerked and 
jumped.  At Pandolyn's motion, Epsilon dashed in to hold his friend down.  "I am tortured!" he 
shouted.  Instantly, someone was banging on the locked cabin door, demanding to be let in.  But 
all inside the little room were too busy to release the bolts. 
Before his amazed eyes, Epsilon watched Pandolyn repair Vespuzia's injuries so perfectly, 
that they seemed never to have been at all.  New skin grew up beneath the green jelly in only 

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seconds.  The salve, itself, hardened into a crust that was easily flaked away when the treatment 
was finished.  Beneath, the captain was whole again.  Even his long time scars were removed. 
The wizardess exchanged a meaningful look with her general, then applied a bit more of 
the jelly to Andrietti's scars, in a place where he had not been burned.  The result was a patch of 
unmarred flesh amid a wide swath of hard, wrinkled scar tissue.  In that moment, Epsilon realized 
that Pandolyn was asking him if she should erase all evidence of Doole's tortuous memories. 
Stricken, the Ritesman cast about inside his mind for the correct answer.  Should they, or 
should they not.  Why ask me, he wondered.  Why not ask Vespuzia.  But he knew the answer to 
that question, just as he knew what Vespuzia would say.  No.  He would not like to be deprived 
of the badges he had won.  Those scars, ugly though they seemed, were symbols of his survival… 
of his having survived such terrific experiences with Captain Doole aboard the doomed 
Nefarious…  of his having survived the Rock and his beloved (and yet accursed) Desert Ocean. 
No, the trader would not voluntarily have the scars removed.  If asked he would go into a 
rage.  He would want to know why they thought  them so damned ugly, when he lived with them 
every day.  He would become indignant in his self awareness, and would defensively brush aside 
all doubt as to his love of the scars. 
But was the victim the best suited to decide in this situation. Epsilon thought he knew a 
bit about the Sudanese.  Vespuzia was a vain, proud man.  He wore high collars to hide the marks 
at the back of his neck, and long sleeves to cover those on his upper arms.  Though he might seem 
proud of his trophies from Doole, the Warfarer thought Andrietti would be secretly relieved to be 
purged of them. 

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With a stern frown on his face to show how carefully he had considered the situation, 
Epsilon nodded.  Pandolyn's oddly beautiful face smiled humanely.  And she plied thick streaks of 
the jelly to Andrietti's abused back. 
The man tossed and squealed.  His mates pounded more loudly at the door, so it rattled 
savagely in its frame, and they demanded to be assured that their captain was safe. 
When it was finished, Epsilon let the trader go, and stepped away.  Andrietti sat up 
angrily, and used both hands to awkwardly take stock of himself.  Feeling along his spine, 
Vespuzia's eyes went wide.  His fingers searched higher and his eyes went wider.  Now he 
reached up to inspect the back of his neck and his shoulders.  All was smooth and whole again.  
Though he was still burned badly on every other aspect of his body, the trader's oldest and 
deepest wounds had been erased.  His mouth opened and shut a few times impotently, but 
Vespuzia found no words suitable to the situation. 
A kaleidoscope of emotions flashed across his face, from deepest rage to deepest praise, 
from amazement to abhorrence, and finally to a blank, slack expression mitigated only by a slight 
upward curve at the corners of his lips.  He was apparently satisfied with the change. 
Stiffly, he rose from the hammock, and went to the door without first donning his shirt, as 
had been his long habit.  Unbolting it, he threw the hatch and stood in the doorway, his fists upon 
his hips.  "Well." he demanded playfully.  "Have you never heard a barber pull a tooth.  Get back 
to your stations, now.  The serenade is over."  And he turned around to slam the door.  Behind 
him and unseen by the captain, Becker and Olietti gasped, amazed.  Then the hatch was sealed, 
and Vespuzia was returned to his bunk. 

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Holding out his hands and arms for the remainder of his treatment, Andrietti said to 
Pandolyn, "I do not know what sort of wizard you are, m'lady, and I will not ask.  But I will thank 
you with all my heart for this gift more potent than dreams.  And thank you again.  My world is 
now yours." 
The wizard's human countenance blushed, but her fingers did not fumble in their work.  
"You may keep your world, Captain Tipper.  A doctor does not heal for reward." 
Suddenly returned to his old self, Vespuzia made a farting noise with his mouth.  "And 
men ply the Desert Ocean for the sheer joy of the sun!" 
Epsilon chuckled despite himself.  Then winced when a large blister on his heel popped.  
Thinking it best to prepare for his master's treatments, since his own human hands would be so 
much more delicate than hers, Epsilon sat on the deck and fought to remove his boots. 
As she worked, the doctor said, "I have already treated your enchanted crewman, 
Caspazia.  He must sleep until morning, but should be ready for duty again by then.  The man that 
lost his outer garments suffered only minor injuries, and lost no time in returning to service.  
However, I noted that he had suffered from the sailor's scourge in the past.  Curby is nothing to 
ignore, captain.  It is not an immediately lethal disease, but it will sap the health and vitality of 
your men in a way that no other illness can demonstrate." 
His treatments complete, Vespuzia reclined in the hammock and drowsed, "Every dog of 
the sea suffers from curby.  Especially on long voyages."  He shrugged, "What else can we do.  
There is no known treatment." 

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"But there is.  Fresh fruit is the answer.  I would suggest you store an abundance of limes 
the next time you ship out.  You may be amazed at the difference.  Since you have not taken such 
measures on this voyage, however, I have brought along a healthy supply of... well, you would 
not understand.  Suffice it to say, I have brought a jar of crystals, which should be added in 
portions to your daily water rations.  We will all be the healthier for it." 
"Whatever you say, doctor." 
Now she stooped to heal Epsilon's feet and hands and (shamefully) his buttocks, all of 
which had been badly burned during the rescue.  He felt a deep, intense pain while the potion was 
working, which subsided eventually to leave a lingering glow of warmth and tingling vitality.  In 
the aftermath, he felt an extreme sense of calm and inner peace.  He felt a need for long, 
uninterrupted sleep. 
"I have also seen to the care of your stallion, Ritesman.  He is enchanted and sleeping, and 
will remain in such a state, except to take water and fodder, until we are arrived at our 
destination.  This is the good news."  She sighed, and stored her gear away.  "The bad news is, I 
do not harbor great hopes that the animal will last so long.  He is quickly fading." 
"Helmcleaver is tough," mumbled the Ritesman sleepily.  "Fret not for him." 
"I do not fret for the horse, but for you, my general.  I fear your morale will be sorely 
effected without your mount, once we reach the far side of the sea.  In consequence, I vow to 
dutifully attend the beast, and do everything in my power to preserve the animal's strength until 
we disembark." 

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His head nodding, the Ritesman replied, "I could ask for nothing more, my lady."  And he 
was fast asleep.  Vespuzia and Osgarthe were already snoring loudly. 

 

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18 

Angry Night 

As Pandolyn's healing potions were heavily drugged, the three injured men slept through 
the night without stirring, and awakened as refreshed as they had been before leaving Oreset.  
Vespuzia was angry that he had been down for so long and his boat without its skipper, but was 
mollified once he learned that Becker had taken them skillfully away from the turning event and 
deep into the heart of the sand sea.  The boat was safe.  Its crew was safe.  These things were all 
that truly mattered to a trader of the Desert Ocean. 
Happily, Vespuzia returned to the poop deck, his sun robes and floppy hat flapping in the 
wind.  But not before he had come out onto deck shirtless to berate the crew playfully once, thus 
parading the absence of Boone's legacy for all to see.  The Lady's men were duly impressed, and 
whispered quietly of the mysterious Pandolyn's benevolent power. 
The following days passed without notable incident.  The sandboat hopped and skipped 
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down relentlessly.  And the wind cycled back and forth between north and south every few days, 
though it was never chill, regardless of its origination.  Miles fled daily by the score, but the 
horizon never seemed to change.  There were no landmarks to mark the passage, only sand and 
sand and sand as far as a man on the crow's line could see. 
Epsilon occupied himself with learning the rigors of a sandboat, its physical operations as 
well as the attendant skills of navigation.  Before they made Midpointe Rock, he was an old hand 
at the rigging and the little black books, and stood watch with Becker every evening as part of the 
standard duty rotation.  He was never left in command, but Andrietti quickly came to trust 
Epsilon's cool head and quick wit enough to leave him at the wheel for long stretches at a time. 
Osgarthe awakened with the rest, but he said nothing in the days that followed, and 
refused to leave Becker's cabin.  His meals and water rations were brought in, and he sulked.  
That was all. 
On their twenty third day at sea, at exactly five bells, the high watch called out, "Rock, 
ho!" and they were arrived at the unspectacular midpoint of their long voyage.  The crew cheered 
lightly.  That was all. 
Later that same night, Sin Supri's black hordes staged the first of many future attacks.  
Fortunately for them all, Epsilon was standing watch with Becker on the high stern deck of the 
Lady when it came.  And he was wearing his gear of war. 
The first sign they had that something was amiss came in the form of an odd nocturnal 
noise.  Softly at first then louder and louder, it pierced their ears at a high frequency, much like an 
incessant cricket's chirping, except the noise achieved such deafening proportions in so short a 

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time that Epsilon quickly realized this was no cricket calling for a mate.  Curious but nonplused, 
the Ritesman turned his gaze on the dark desert flowing to either side of the rail, and strained to 
see into its shadowy flesh.  Above their heads, the high watch remained silent, while before them, 
the fast lamps betrayed no dangers. 
Slowly, his hands unconcernedly held at his sides, Epsilon strolled over to the port rail, 
and looked overboard.  He could see nothing save shade and a dim hint of fleeting sand ripples.  
The skates bobbed and danced beneath the tri-hull. 
Epsilon was puzzled.  The sound was increasing to unbearable proportions within his 
skull, and its source appeared to be quite close.  Regardless, he could see nothing out of place. 
Now his hands came up to cover his ears.  Turning to find Alanetti at the wheel and 
Boatswain Becker at the opposite rail, Epsilon shouted, "What is it.!" but his voice was lost to 
the greater din.  Neither of them heard.  Wincing, the Ritesman stumbled over to the stern rail.  
The cricket's chirping continued to increase in ferocity. 
Just as he reached the aft barricade, the boat jumped noticeably, and a loud crunching 
noise sounded from the bow.  The Lady's center skates sprang up and down roughly, and the boat 
felt as though it had passed over something.  The chirping stopped at once. 
"We hit something!" shouted the Ritesman.  He had just enough time to think of running 
forward, when yet another strange sound met his hearing.  This sound, more so than any of the 
others, was sinister and ominous and terrifying, for it was a sound of claws on wood, of many 
rasping limbs climbing, climbing up the stern bulkhead at his back.  Epsilon spun and leaned out 

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over the void.  In leaning out, he could look straight down along the transom to the ground 
below. 
Strangely, his view was obscured by something dark and solid.  Was it a shifting shadow, 
or a lethally alien insect form.  Epsilon was about to call for Becker's attention, when the form 
moved fluidly, climbing higher, and he was left no further doubt about the object's nature.  He 
drew his sword instinctively, even as Alanetti shouted in surprise. 
Epsilon had no time to turn around.  A black claw was thrown over the rail, then another, 
then two more.  The monster raised itself up to climb aboard, and was cut neatly in half for its 
effort. 
The Warfarer spun on his heel upon hearing further cries for help, and found another of 
the sinister black shapes standing, limbs all a scuttling fuss, near the wheel.  Taller than a man, it 
was a great six legged apparition, with a multi-segmented body and a high domed head that 
sported bulbous eyes and a huge set of lethal mandibles.  These snapped open and shut hungrily, 
and the creature lunged for Alanetti, who yet clung to the critical wheel.  Epsilon was across the 
deck at a shout of war, his steel arcing overhead.  When his sword's edge fell, it was with such 
force that the blade cut through the top of the monster's black head and deeply into its uppermost 
segment.  It screeched that same high pitched screech they had heard earlier, and collapsed 
twitching onto the deck. 
A series of thuds followed his final stroke, and suddenly the high lookout was shouting 
hysterically, "CHUM!  CHUM!  CHUM!  CHUM!..."  More black bodies descended out of the 

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night, landing on the decks, in the rigging, thumping into the sails.  Some of these impacted with 
the hulls and bounced harmlessly away, though most caught hold and clamored onboard. 
Now the Ritesman raced forward to repel the assault, and had a glimpse far ahead into the 
blazing light of the fast lamps.  "My gods," he breathed, dismayed, even as he chopped a crippled 
insect form to bits.  There were so many!  Hundreds!  Thousands!  All crouching in the desert, 
ready to hop onto the hapless Lady and devour her crew.  As she neared, they leapt in waves, 
striving to get a hold on her ropes or planks.  Were those jetlas mixed in with the chum. 
He had no time to consider.  A half dozen of the monsters had infested the main deck, and 
he labored furiously to discharge them.  By now, Becker was at the ship's bell, beating it 
relentlessly and calling for arms.  Above, the crow was screaming and pointing wildly, "CHUM!  
CHUM!  CHUM!" Cut off as they were and unarmed, Alanetti and Becker fought bare handed to 
keep the stern deck free.  Using capstan wedges as clubs, they smashed arms and legs and crushed 
skulls.  Epsilon had a glimpse of Becker standing over one particularly large chum, his feet 
splayed and arms clenched above his head.  The wedge he held came down again and again and 
again until the first mate was well splattered with a greenish clot and ichor gore. 
Shouting "To arms!  To arms!  Attack!  Attack!" Epsilon fought his own losing battle to 
hold the midships. 
Already more than a dozen of the vile monsters had climbed over the gunwales, and 
perhaps twice that number clung to the rigging and wings, waiting for a chance to leap into the 
fray.  The Warfarer wielded his weapon expertly, never pausing in its slicing, cutting, stabbing 

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motions, and still it was not enough to stem the tide.  More and more of the dark monsters leapt 
out of the wastes onto the beleaguered sandboat. 
He caught one in mid-air as it jumped underneath the blind sheets from the starboard 
outrigger.  Its two halves arced into the scurrying mass at his back, and knocked several of the 
awkward predators to the deck.  Epsilon took advantage of his opportunity to press his offense 
home.  Using a series of powerful downward hacking blows, he chopped the wriggling mass into 
large chunks of oozing shells, but had no opportunity to gloat, as one of the creatures managed to 
hook a claw around his neck from behind.  Another of its arms encircled his midriff from the right, 
and another from the left, while a fourth claw scooped up a pincer of his tunic.  Before he could 
respond to this newest, most dangerous threat, the Warfarer was forced to react first to another of 
the monsters that was charging in to gut him, its mandibles snapping.   Using his right hand and 
the sword, he swept off the charging chimera's head, while simultaneously drawing his huge 
fencing dagger with his left.  This he expertly reversed in his grip and drove backwards.  It met 
something hard and punched through.  The injured beast screamed.  Its arms let go and flailed 
uselessly.  Epsilon jerked his big knife free and spun agilely about to finish the cut, severing its 
bulbous, black thorax in twain. 
It seemed he fought alone for hours.  The press of his enemies forced him back up against 
the stern ladders, and there he would have died, had not the cabin hatch been flung open in the 
same instant.  A savagely enraged Pandolyn emerged, her mask of humanity inexorably dispersed. 
 Using a single massive claw, she gripped a marauder by one of its thoracic joints, and flung the 

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loathsome thing over the rail, crushing it bodily in the process.  It screamed, but could protest no 
further.  She charged full force into the contest, and turned the tides single handedly. 
Behind her, Ubar's head emerged at the door, his tiny blow gun at the ready.  But Epsilon 
stepped up between strokes and kicked the hatch shut.  "Stay put, boy!" he shouted, "Your toys 
will have no effect on these devils!" 
When he turned back around, the deck was filling with armed men.  Vespuzia was there, 
his own sword arcing wide.  And Olietti.  And Tuggle.  And Bean, who was wielding an 
impossibly large cleaver that might have been a battle axe.  One by one, the remainder of the crew 
issued forth from below, and the main deck was quickly retaken.  Somebody had tossed weapons 
up to Becker and Alanetti, who was wounded but yet held the wheel.  They fought off advances 
to the command deck as best they could until help arrived. 
From there, it seemed they had but to clear the creatures from the wings and rigging.  
Except it would not be so easy. 
The Lady ran through another wave of chum.  And another.  Successive flights of black 
devils alighted upon her decks, while the men were still spread out purging the first attack.  The 
result was bedlam.  Each man and his cutlass became an island of conflict amid an apparently solid 
mass of black, writhing bodies.  From on high, the crow screamed shrilly.  He was up there 
without weapons, and all alone.  It was the hapless Caspazia.  As he fought, Epsilon kept an eye 
on the starlit crow's line, and thought the mariner stood a fair chance of survival.  Then a handful 
of dark forms streaked across the face of the moon, and several of them impacted with the high 

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wire.  Two caught hold securely, blocking Caspazia's retreat to the starboard mast.  At the port 
pennant cap, a brace of the creatures waited, hungry mandibles snapping. 
Men were shouting for support and crying out in pain.  The deck was a mass of confusion. 
 Caspazia screamed again.  The monsters stalking him were approaching closely, menacingly, their 
bristling claws sure on the thin ropes.  Without aid, he was doomed. 
A quick survey of the bedlam indicated there would be, could be, no aid for that 
marooned, sky bound sailor.  If only... Epsilon was reminded of the ship’s idle guns! 
He fought his way through to the forecastle and managed to get the hatch open.  Before a 
horde of insect forms could press inside, he heaved himself through the doorway and slammed it 
shut behind.  Block was there, terrified and cowering in the corner, shivering in a heap.  The boy 
squealed when he saw Epsilon shed of his sunrobes, dressed as he was in glinting mail and sable 
garments. 
"Ah," declared the Warfarer, his voice calm though winded, "Just the man I was seeking.  
The Lady cries out for her guns, and I have need of your assistance.  Gather up a few bundles and 
follow me up to the forward mount."  When the youth balked, Epsilon added softly but sternly, 
"You cannot hide from fate, Block.  Cowering or fighting, the end comes when it is your time.  
So get up, boy.  The Lady has need of all her men." 
Without checking to be certain the boy followed, as checking would only invite hesitance, 
Epsilon hefted the smaller forward gun onto his left shoulder and kicked the hatch open once 
more.  He led with his great sword, which sang and rang as it sliced and chopped, and forced a 

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space for himself on the main deck.  Block pressed up close behind, his arms filled with bundles of 
arrows. 
Together, they managed to climb the foredeck and wrest the weapon into place.  As 
Epsilon fought to clear the guns for service, he tossed his dagger, point down, into the wooden 
deck.  Block understood the meaning of this at once, and used the knife to cut a bundle of arrows 
open.  Selecting two of the straightest, he loaded them onto the runners, and Epsilon cocked the 
springs. 
His first shot saved Caspazia.  The second and third finished clearing the foredeck, and the 
rest were dispersed equally between the rigging and the after decks. 
Time and time again he loaded and fired.  He and Block worked together as a well trained 
crew, though they were both novices. When the last bundle was opened and spent, Epsilon left the 
boy with his large knife to hold the gun, and ran out onto the starboard wing to aid a stricken 
crewman.  It was Tuggle.  A triad of black devils had cornered him at the end of the outrigger.  A 
gash had been opened in the man's stomach by a gnashing pincer, and a loop of his intestine was 
protruding.  Tuggle had a sickly, pale, doughy look to his face, which Epsilon recognized at once 
as the first signs of defeatism and death.   He yelled for the man to hold his ground, that help was 
coming, but the mariner's cutlass dangled slackly, his arm unanimated.  Tuggle retreated further 
back along the length of the outrigger, and was well past the safety of the cargo nets now.  
Another gash was opened in his face and another on his thigh.  A gusher of blood sprayed from 
this last wound, and Epsilon realized it was mortal.  Tuggle wavered unsteadily.  His weapon was 
lost to the jostling deck of the starboard wing.  He fell back against the gyrating boom and lolled 

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weakly between the lifelines.  The devils advanced, their mandibles working greedily, arms and 
legs skittering and clacking. 
Epsilon was behind them, his sword raised overhead to deliver a double fisted blow.  
Down he cut, slicing one of the creatures cleanly in half.  With a savage kick, he forced one of the 
others over the side, and ran the last one through and through.  This, however, was far from a 
lethal blow, and it was the Warfarer's first tactical mistake of the evening.  For now his blade was 
arrested and wedged into place.  His opponent had nothing to lose by reaching down to get a grip 
on the protruding length of steel.  It pincers grated against the metal, while its five remaining arms 
and legs readjusted its position and sought to grapple the Warfarer.  One of its claws clamped 
down on his midriff, presumably to open another hole like Tuggle's, but found its purchase 
repulsed by Tesla's finest chain mail armor.  Epsilon struck out with his left elbow then both knees 
in rapid succession.  Its armored hide dented and gave.  Still, the monster held his weapon fast 
and would not let go. 
Something black and bristling with spines fell out of the sky to land atop Epsilon's 
shoulders.  He lost his grip on the haft of his ceremonial blade, and his heart sank.  Visions of its 
loss flooded his thoughts and obscured his reason.  It was all he could do to win the physical 
struggle that followed.  Dimly, his mind realized the fact that this latest opponent was armed with 
a cruelly curved scimitar.  This was strange for a chum.  The Warfarer struggled to keep his foe at 
close quarters, to prevent it from swinging its blade against him, as the first blow would 
undoubtedly be the last. 

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In the course of this contest, Epsilon managed to get his feet between himself and the dark 
attacker.  Heaving with all his might, the Ritesman kicked the black terror away from him, and 
sent it tumbling along the outrigger toward the bow. 
Somehow he had become turned around, and now had his back to the aft of the vessel.  
Tuggle lay sprawled at his feet.  The dying man was holding forth his retrieved cutlass like a 
sacrificial offering.  But the Warfarer wanted his own blade.   Before he could locate it or the 
chum he had left it in, the form before him attacked again.  Only now did Epsilon understand that 
he had been fighting a jetla at close quarters.  Uttering a foul, guttural stream of foreign curses, it 
came on, its face unseen behind a black iron mask.  As it neared, Epsilon realized the devil was 
laughing.  It was facing an unarmed threat, after all, and was thus greatly assured of victory.  Or 
so it mistakenly thought. 
Surrendering the search for his own Teslan blade, Epsilon accepted Tuggle's cutlass and 
advanced.  "By Nars' blood!" he raged, fearing his sword was lost, "I am angered now!  That 
weapon was worth ten thousand vile jetlan lives, and you shall be the first to repay Vandegarte's 
debt!"  The jetla spat and cursed and sprang forward.  Their dissimilar blades met again and again, 
so the clash of steel was a symphony of cymbals and gongs.  Larger and more vehement, the jetla 
first drove Epsilon back toward the starboard catch spur.  The Ritesman was only biding his time 
and studying his opponent's tactics, however, and, at just the proper moment, he went down low 
and let out a sweeping kick, which dropped the jetla neatly to the bouncing boom.  Before it 
could recover or raise its sword to parry the stroke, Epsilon stepped forward and hacked it in 

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two.  He was accustomed to his own weapon's weight and keen edge, and found the cutlass to be 
a less than desirable weapon.  On the last blow, it broke. 
He tossed the useless pommel over the side, and kicked the twitching jetla after it.  Tuggle 
was gone, too, he noted, presumably lost in the melee.  As was the chum that harbored the 
Warfarer's blade.  Lost and gone forever. 
All just when the conflict was coming to coda.  Bean chopped the last living insect form to 
bits with his great cleaver, and pushed the remains disgustedly over the side. 
In the aftermath, they saw that Lucky Lady's decks were littered with black, spiny corpses. 
Well over a dozen were pinned to the bulkheads and decks by bolts fired from the forward gun.  
Scarcely a monster remained whole.  Bits and pieces of bodies were strewn everywhere, some of 
them, grotesquely, were human. 
A quick head count told of three dead men.  Tuggle.  Harald.  And young Ork.  They 
found the head of Oglot's brother held by the hair in a severed pincer, as though it had been taken 
for a trophy.  Oglot was distraught and beside himself with grief.  Pandolyn (who had 
transcorporated unnoticed back into her stunning human form) produced one of her enchanted 
potions to calm him, and prevent his going over the rail with a cutlass to do vain battle in the grips 
of the wastes. 
"Get that man below!" ordered a harried and clot splattered Vespuzia.  "The Lady has lost 
too much blood already!"  He shoved a severed chum body beneath the rail with a disgusted kick. 
 "And clear these gods forsaken decks!  Scrub them down with sand." 

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Becker was instantly at his side.  The first mate was lacerated, bruised, and bleeding.  He 
conferred with the captain, then hurried off to issue the orders and put the boat back into shape. 
Epsilon had returned to midships, and was leaning against the rail, alternately sucking deep 
breaths and cursing vehemently.  He wiped the back of his gauntlet across the underside of his 
nose, and it came away streaked with blood.  When he spat into the fleeing darkness, his spittle 
was marbled with blood.  Hmm, he mused absently, Must have taken a shot in the face back 
there.  The Warfarer was at a loss to say just where or when, however, and was unable to muster 
the courage to care.  He rubbed the worst of it away and cursed all wizards everywhere for the 
loss of his weapon. 
At his back, Becker was shouting for the boat's carpenter, Plane, to tend the steering 
skates.  Something seemed to be jammed into the springs, announced Alanetti from the wheel.  It 
was difficult to turn to starboard. 
After many long minutes of cursing himself and the world in general, somebody tapped on 
Epsilon's shoulder from behind.  Snarling, he rounded on the intruder, ready to snap his head off. 
It was Block.  The boy glanced at his feet and held forth a wrapped bundle. 
A jostle of the decks dislodged a fold in the linen, and a familiar gleam struck the 
Ritesman's eyes.  Suddenly inspired, he tossed the remaining linen aside to expose his presumably 
lost weapon. 
"Beg pardon, sire," hedged Block, "We tried to call you from the opposite rail, but you 
seemed engrossed in some sort of prayer.  Plane found it lodged in a chum body that was caught 
on the steering skate.  See.  Nothing bent, nothing broken.  Good as new!" 

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Epsilon seized the haft and extracted the lethal blade from its makeshift coverlet.  Indeed, 
the boy had spoken truly.  The everwear steel was unmarred and un-notched.  With a short bark 
of relieved laughter, the Warfarer swept the weapon back into its scabbard and tossed Block's 
hair.  "It was a good fight, after all!"  He turned to wave his thanks to Plane, whose head was 
swathed in bloody bandages.  The carpenter waved back, smiling, just before he went back over 
the side to finish inspecting Lucky Lady's undercarriage. 
Lamps were lit all over the decks to better illuminate them while the cleaning was 
underway.  More than one hiding interloper was prized from crooks and crannies in this time, 
apparently having taken refuge aboard the boat during the fighting.  These unwise beasts were 
quickly eliminated, and the Lady's decks were scrubbed clean several hours later.  It was a long, 
wearisome labor, but a necessary one, it was said, since chum blood stank horribly and was 
impossible to remove once it dried in the sunlight. 
They had just finished their chores, and three hours remained before dawn, when the 
second wave of attacks laid on.  Successive flights of the horrific chum dived out of the night to 
alight upon the rigging and canvass.  The battle was renewed at a trebled ferocity. 
Early in the fight, a great rip was opened in the port mainsail, which was soon rendered to 
tatters by the relentless wind.  By way of compensating for the uneven drag of Lucky Lady's sails, 
Becker somehow found the resources and opportunity to lower the starboard mainsail, thus 
saving them from running in circles through the amassed and waiting insect hordes.  Though she 
was sailing straight again, however, the loss of canvass greatly slowed her forward motion.  More 

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and more chum subsequently leapt on board, and more of those that leaped managed to keep their 
grip and stay on board. 
Before long, the odds against Lucky Lady's human defenders rose to six to one, and were 
climbing well into the realms of hopelessness when Osgarthe threw back the first mate's cabin 
hatch, roaring as a lion.  "Ah, ye gods damned idiots!  Have ye never battled chum before.!" 
And so saying, he snatched up a slain jetla's curved scimitar and hacked a path across the 
main deck to the forecastle.  Broken, twisted, shattered and severed chum bodies were left in the 
wake of his passage, so violent was his hasty advance.  When he reached the foredeck ladders and 
made motions that he would come up, even the senseless insects knew enough to fear him and 
fled en masse.  More than one simply sprang out into the desert. 
Epsilon watched the madman's charge from where he was fighting on the port wing, and 
shook his head.  He thought Osgarthe was making for the forward gun, which was empty and had 
no bundles laid by.  But, no, it was not the gun that held the lunatic's interest.  It was the 
fastlamps! Osgarthe fought his way clear to the portside lamp and began fumbling with its 
anchoring pins.  Freeing one of these, he was forced to face about and hack a black chum to bits. 
Then he freed another and another.  Before he could unfasten the fourth and final catch, a 
jetla scrambled down the sharply angled port mainmast and dropped onto the oblivious man's 
back.  The jetla raised a cruelly fashioned dagger that had a serpentine blade, and plunged it 
down. Osgarthe screamed and Epsilon thought the man was surely slain.  Except corpses do not 
lash out like craven, murderous fiends.  Osgarthe's body pitched and bucked and rolled, while his 
weapons slashed left and right, back and forth.  Now his booted feet came up and forced the jetla 

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up and away from him, hammering its back up against the curve of the mast.  Thus holding it up 
with his foot, Osgarthe used his left hand to hold the jetla's weapon at bay while his right 
disemboweled the creature with his scavenged scimitar.  The black monster let out a howl of 
unprecedented proportions, which howl seemed to form the vile words of a twisted, guttural 
language. 
In seconds, reinforcement was on the way, and Osgarthe was quickly facing three more 
armed and armored jetlas.  A gash was opened on his brow and another on his leg, and it seemed 
the lunatic must finally be slain.  Bellowing with anger, pain, and bloodlust, Osgarthe abandoned 
all thought of swinging the fast lamps around, and was forced to concentrate on the fight before 
him. 
Epsilon, realizing the big man's need was now mortal, dispatched a chum with impunity, 
and then started forward along the bouncing port outrigger.  He fought his way through the 
deadly mire one stroke at a time, and arrived at the mastheads just as Osgarthe was collapsing 
under the weight of his foes' attacks.  Issuing a shrill cry of defiance, the big Sudanese kicked a 
black jetla away from him and took off its head.  Before an unseen chum at his back could rush in 
and loosen Osgarthe's bowls with its savage mandibles, Epsilon jumped in and cut the monster in 
half.  Spinning agilely, he maneuvered around to Osgarthe's side and took up his fight. 
"Get to the fast lamp!" shouted the Warfarer breathlessly.  "Do what needs doing!  I will 
hold here!"  When the Sudanese seemed pridefully reluctant to surrender the contest, Epsilon 
added, "GO!" and Osgarthe went without further hesitation. 

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As Epsilon's blade danced and sang, the bountyman pulled the last catch pin, and heaved 
against the heavy brass lamp housing.  With a shrill grate of metal grinding against metal, its 
mount gave way to swivel slowly.  Osgarthe grunted and groaned and blew and cursed, his face 
red and swollen, his every muscle taut and straining.  Slowly, slowly, the lamp came about.  When 
its powerful illumination was pointed backwards and fixed on Lucky Lady, herself, Osgarthe 
quickly reset the catch pins and retrieved his scimitar. 
The effect of this tactic was immediately realized.  The chum hissed and rattled their black 
carapaces in disgust.  Ebony arms of bristling spines and pincers were released from the fight to 
shield huge, bulbous nocturnal eyes.  Even the jetla were effected by the brilliance.  They called on 
their grotesque gods and all the corrupt magic of their infantile abilities, but could not match 
Pandolyn's own power in this regard.  Helpless in the glow, Sin Supri's dark hordes cowered and 
shrank and were slain by the score.  Fewer and fewer interlopers leapt in to join the fray, and 
many that had already gained the decks now clamored to the rail and jumped overboard, some of 
them landing directly beneath the Lady's oscillating skates. 
Inexorably, as the Lady's men fought for their lives individually, the tide of battle turned, 
and men once more became a majority atop the sandboat's decks.  Just before sunrise, the last 
jetla was hacked to bits, and the contest was finished for the night. 
When the sun finally peaked over the horizon, all the lost creatures of darkness were 
exposed nakedly, and so were forced to scatter and scurry for cover.  Only the flat, seemingly 
endless expanse of an empty desert remained to greet them in its full light. 

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While his men labored to once more scour the boat's decks before all that chum blood 
could bake hard, Andrietti approached Epsilon at the stern rail and clapped him on the back.  "We 
are blessed, my friend, truly blessed this day!  Never before have I witnessed such concentrated 
numbers of chum, nor seen them driven by black hearted jetlas into so organized an attack!" 
"Aye," returned Epsilon wearily, wiping at his splattered armor with a bit of rag, "We 
were blessed.  The decision of this contest was a narrow thing.  If not for Osgarthe..." and he let 
the sentence fade away, knowing as he did that nothing more need be said. 
Vespuzia squared an elbow on the rail, and turned to find the bountyman on the decks.  
Osgarthe was standing on the foredeck with Becker, conversing as though they were old friends.  
Without warning, the trader shouted out, "Three cheers for Osgarthe Fash's Son!  Three cheers 
for Lucky Lady and all her fine men!"  The crew responded appropriately though wearily.  
Osgarthe blushed, and offered up a flippant wave of his right arm, the hand of which yet clung to 
his borrowed scimitar. 
Epsilon arched his brow at the display, and asked, "Does this even the score between you 
two." 
To which the trader shrugged neutrally.  "No, but perhaps it is a sign that he has at least 
decided to see this voyage through without further conflict or pouting.  I doubt seriously that he 
has forgotten his father's charge, or absolved me of my perceived crimes, simply because I saved 
him from the sea.  More, I think he has grown bored with sulking in Becker's cabin, and this battle 
was just the excuse he needed to come out of his shell."  Vespuzia removed his wide hat and 
wiped the sweat from his brow.  "I will tell you freely, Ritesman, that I am glad of his decision.  

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Though we lost no one to the last contest, we lost three vital hands during the first.  Harald, 
especially, will be sorely missed.  If he will have it, I will offer the second mate's title to 
Osgarthe." 
"What.  Osgarthe.  Master of your deck crew." 
Andrietti nodded soberly.  "But for Becker's long service, I would make him first mate.  
Again, if he would have it." 
"Though he is sworn to return you to Bahia Sud.  What will you do, I wonder, when the 
lunatic turns Lucky Lady about to run south while you are sleeping." 
"What else could I do but whip him and face the boat back to the east.  I understand what 
you are implying, friend, but you are wrong.  Above all else, perhaps even above being a son, 
Osgarthe is a sailor of the sand sea.  One of the finest I have ever known.  If he should accept my 
commission, he would accept it with all good intentions, understanding as he does the penalties of 
mutiny or disobedience.  Besides," he added, his tone waxing foreboding, "Last night's was a 
plagued passage.  Plagued and peculiar.  We will have need of all our luck and experience, I think, 
to see ourselves safely home again.  Osgarthe must have realized this, as well." 
"What do you mean, plagued and peculiar.  Have you never encountered chum before 
now." 
"Never in such numbers.  Never in such determined, concentrated numbers.  At most a 
dozen or so, never hundreds.  Then there are the jetlas to consider.  I have never seen so many 
this far out.  In fact, I cannot clearly recall ever personally seeing a jetla more than a hundred 
miles off shore.  They are land creatures, and loathe the shifting sands." 

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"Then where were they coming from." mused the Warfarer, instantly and intently curious 
to resolve this most burning question.  "It was my belief that they roamed the deserts freely, much 
like the pildon." 
"Pildon and chum belong on the sands, this is true enough, but jetlas do not." 
"Were they based on the Rock, do you think." 
"A base.  On the Rock.  It is an interesting idea, but not a very probable reality.  One 
thing I forgot to mention about that lump of a granite mountain, Ritesman, is the fact that it burns 
all year long.  It burns hot enough to roast a pildon in a single day.  Nobody and nothing could 
make a permanent sanctuary in the Desert Ocean, not even lizard men.  For this reason, and many 
others, it is my guess that the jetlas have a boat somewhere nearby, perhaps two or three.  Even 
now, as the sun rises, they must be running for the horizon to hide their sails from our high 
watch." 
Epsilon was alarmed.  "Boats.  What sort of boats."  This revelation opened all sorts of 
implications and possibilities. 
"Big ones, probably.  Big as the Lady, perhaps bigger." 
"Sent by whom.  What government." 
"Government."  The captain laughed harshly.  "No government ever sent a jetla anywhere. 
 You think too much in Empirical terms, my friend.  One day, it may be the death of you."  He 
laughed again to see Epsilon's consternated face.  "All the Wilderlands' myriad inhabitants know 
there is but one master of jetlas, Epsilon.  And that dark wizard's blighted name shall remain 
forever unmentioned aboard Lucky Lady."  He was referring to Sin Supri, of course. 

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"A boat, hmm."  Epsilon fingered the stubble of his chin, and swabbed at the absorbent 
band of his padded helmet.  "This certainly implies further attacks to come." 
"Assuredly.  Especially if more than one vessel is pacing us out there."  Andrietti squinted 
into the hidden but brightening western horizon intensely, as though the seeing of his eyes could 
illuminate the fleeing darkness more rapidly.  “And did you notice their method of attack.  They 
herded the chum together somehow, probably by magical means, and used the hapless monsters as 
a sort of army.  Very few jetlas were required to guide the assaults, which means that many more 
remained behind, ready to guide tomorrow's assaults, and the assaults of the following day, and so 
on.  A hundred could easily equal a hundred thousand before all is finished." 
"We could never stand against so many with so few.  Something must be done." 
"Aye." 
"But what." 
"Turn and fight, ship to ship, during the hottest part of the day, if possible.  Take them by 
surprise and head off all further insults.  It is the only way." 
"But our mission will be delayed." 
"By many days, perhaps, but it cannot be helped.  I will wait until the crew has scoured the 
decks clean before issuing the orders to come about."  His right hand suddenly stabbed out into 
the wastelands, its forefinger pointing toward the lightening skies of the northwest.  "I wager we 
shall find them there!  They will sail northwest, then north, then east just beyond sight.  We will 
let them think they have run successfully, until the sun is full and bloated in the eastern sky, then 

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we will pivot to intercept just where they would turn back to pace us.  The sun will be blinding at 
our backs, and our sails thus hidden from their high watch." 
Epsilon cursed to hear it.  Pandolyn would not like the news, either, but the Ritesman 
could see no other way.  Andrietti was correct in forcing a daylight confrontation on the Lady's 
terms, when the sun's light might compensate somewhat for their opponents' greater numbers.  
Without such an initial confrontation, the Lady and her crew would be undone bit by bit, night 
upon night, until the men were exhausted and could no longer fight.  At which time there would 
be a final battle, and all hope of seeing the far side of the sea would be extinguished.  Though it 
would cost them valuable time, chasing after the marauding jetlas would be quicker and more 
certain than facing them piecemeal at night. 
"It is this wizardly errand," postulated the trader, as he turned to watch his crew clear the 
gory decks.  "Or the wizard onboard.  Never again will I have truck with mages." 
"A sound philosophy, I agree.  Except my experience with mages has taught me that 
choice is rarely a factor in their dealings." 
"More reason to avoid them."  Saying this, the captain was drawn away by some need of 
his boatswain's, and was soon busy with the mending of his beloved ship. 
While the lesser seamen scrubbed her down fore and aft, the mariners cut away the boat's 
savaged mainsail, and set a new one.  Both mainsails were up again, and the Lady's speed greatly 
increased, when her steering skate bit deeply into the sand and Becker shouted, "Tack!  Tack!  
Tack!"  In a gut wrenching heave of motion, the massive vessel came sharply about and pointed 

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its blunt prow at the far northwestern horizon, which was only now facing the first burning touch 
of the sun. 
Having apparently accepted Vespuzia's offered commission, the new Second Mate 
Osgarthe oversaw Lucky Lady's preparations for the coming combat.   He was, apparently, a 
military sailor, as well as a commercial one.  Of them all, he alone had faced similar threats and 
knew what tactics might be successful and which would certainly fail.  The big Sudanese ordered 
bundles for both guns, bow and stern, and had each separate bolt swathed in linen.  These were 
then dipped point first in pitch and set into buckets of sand to be safely ready for firing.  When the 
time came, nearby braziers would be lit, and each volley would be ignited before it was fired. The 
intention was, obviously, to set the enemy's rigging and sails alight on the first pass, leaving them 
crippled in the desert.  Once immobilized, it would seem as nothing to circle the stranded pirates 
and burn their hulks painlessly.  Or so they hoped. 
Once the boat was cleaned and the guns readied, Andrietti sent his men below for a much 
needed and long earned rest.  The one good thing about their losses was an increased water ration 
for each man, which they enjoyed before descending to the hammocks. 
As it turned out, their respite was a brief one, as the high watch called out a sighting of 
sails dead ahead scarcely one hour later.  All hands mustered at the armory, then turned out on 
deck with cutlass or saber or pike (or cleaver) at the ready.  Osgarthe manned the forward guns, 
while Alanetti had assumed control of the larger aft weapon.  Block and Vandiz, respectfully, 
were standing ready at the braziers. 

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Stationed strategically throughout the tri-hull, the Lady's crew watched for the approach 
of their intended prey.  At first invisible, the jetla's strangely painted sails pressed nearer and 
nearer and subsequently grew larger and larger in their field of vision.  After a time, it became 
apparent they were facing three ships rather than one, and that the enemy was riding in tight 
formation.  Lucky Lady had neared close enough to make out individual forms on their foes' 
decks, and still no alarm had been raised against their approach. 
At a silent signal from Osgarthe, the braziers were lighted.  Block and Vandiz worked at 
the bellows to get the coals as hot as possible as quickly as possible, which would hasten the 
lighting of the bolts when the time came to open fire. 
Andrietti pressed in closer and closer, to within a thousand sticks, at the most distal range 
of the guns, to five hundred, to three hundred, to one hundred.  Standing nearby Olietti, who 
manned the wheel, he issued silent orders that brought the Lady around further west.  She would 
pass nearer to the western most boat of the triangle, while letting the eastern boat slip by at 
greater distance and more obtuse angle.  Word was passed that the smaller gun should fire on the 
lesser distance, while Alanetti at the aft would fire to starboard at the eastern most vessel.  From 
there it was apparently the captain's intention to run on through the formation, firing on the lead 
boat with both guns before peeling off. 
In the last instant, even as sudden alarms were sounded and the Lady drew abreast of her 
first two targets, Andrietti gave the silent command to start firing.  As quickly as they could, 
Osgarthe and Alanetti loosed flaming arrows into their opponent's rigging and sails.  Both men 

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being expert at the working of the guns, much damage was done to their foes, who were caught 
unawares and in no position to return the assault. 
Lucky Lady surged forward of the two burning sandboats to either side, as these latter 
craft succumbed to the flames and lost their sails.  Now the lead boat was attempting to evade, 
but Andrietti had the element of speed on his side.  This last vessel was a massive specimen, 
however, and was easily two of the Lady.  It was armed fore and aft, as well as at the gunwales 
on two levels.  By the time the Lady had neared to within range of her smaller guns, the opposing 
gunners were at their stations and readying their own weapons.  It would be a close contest, but 
the Lady seemed destined to loose the first volley.  At the same time, it was painfully obvious that 
no matter what else happened, the Lady would take return fire this time. 
Fortunately, the jetla gunners were surprised and nervous, their gun sights were not yet 
adjusted to the range.  And they had no time to light braziers or prepare torches. 
Osgarthe fired first.  His fiery arrows streaked through the opposing sails, splattering 
burning pitch as they passed through.  In seconds, the hot canvass was a roiling mass of flames.  
The rigging parted with whipcord snaps in places, sending booms careening wildly about and 
masts lashing un-tethered in the wind.  Still the monstrous vessel sailed on, as it was well provided 
with multiple masts and much sail.  Osgarthe was ready with his second round and Alanetti had 
just fired his first, when about half the enemy's guns spoke at once.  Lucky Lady was not badly 
damaged, however, and her men escaped serious injury, since most of the jetlan missiles fell wide 
or short.  Osgarthe fired again, directly into the opposing top gallants, which ignited in a rush.  
Alanetti reloaded, and fired into the foresails.  Osgarthe's third volley ignited a pile of hemp rope 

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amidships (though he had been aiming higher for his foe's mainsails), while Alanetti's fell wide and 
was lost to the desert. 
As Lucky Lady surged forward of her stricken rival, the jetlas loosed a final coordinated 
volley, which speckled the smaller boat's decks with bristling arrows.  Oglot, who was all but 
suicidal since Ork's beheading, took a shaft in the meaty portion of his thigh, but Pandolyn (in her 
woman's guise) quickly tended his wound. 
Before the black bastards could reload and take aim again, Andrietti had piloted his boat 
well ahead of their bow, so only their two forward guns could be brought against the Lady's 
fleeting stern.  Behind her, three ships burned merrily.  Thick, black smoke billowed up into the 
heavens, marring an otherwise perfectly blue sky.  Flames plumed thirty sticks and higher into the 
air, while beneath them jetlas sizzled and fried and struggled heroically to douse the flames with 
sand. 
The foremost and largest vessel, obviously a flagship of some kind, was quick to be shed 
of its burning canvass and hemp, thus saving the superstructure and vital booms from the greedy 
fire.  Before the trader had come back around, the jetlan flagship was no longer so obviously 
aflame, though it yet burned in many places.  Before their foes could re-string their rigging and set 
fresh canvass, Lucky Lady passed again, setting her decks alight and receiving another dose or 
two of bristly shafts in return. 
Now the Lady was running south and east, and passed between the two smaller boats, 
which were still burning.  One was already shorn of its masts, while the second soon would be.  

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Another volley here would do little good, as both sandboats were far beyond saving.  Osgarthe let 
them be, and shouted for Vespuzia to make a third run on the flagship. 
But the jetlas had managed to light their own braziers and rig torches for the next pass.  
Seeing this, Andrietti deemed the risks greatly outweighed the benefits of another attack, and so 
veered away at the last moment. 
Epsilon drew up close to the master of the boat, and hissed softly, "Is there nothing more 
we may do here.  Plainly, we have left the largest and most threatening of the vessels intact.  The 
jetlas will make repairs and be at our throats again by midnight." 
"Possibly.  All depends on how many hands were lost, and how quickly she can make sail 
again.  I warrant we have gained hours here, at the least." 
"Hours are not enough.  We must make another pass." 
"We will do nothing of the kind!  Lucky Lady is no match for that vessel while she is fully 
armed and aroused.  If need be, we shall suffer the brunt of her infantry assaults in the night, then 
try to hit her again in the morning with the same tactic and element of surprise." 
"By morning you will not enjoy the element of surprise.  That jetlan skipper will be ready 
and waiting for you tomorrow, and you know it.  Now is the time!  Now, while she is crippled 
and cannot maneuver." 
Andrietti rubbed his whiskers and pondered the situation quietly.  "I am uncertain..." he 
hedged at first,  "But, no, you have no experience in these matters.  You do not know sandboats." 

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"I know tactics and strategies," came the sharp retort, "Enough, at least, to know you are 
at a grave disadvantage here.  Any future contests will be decided all the sooner if you run now.  
And the odds of Lucky Lady surviving are lessened with each minute that passes." 
"What would you have me do, Ritesman.  Turn about to charge through a hail of flaming 
brands.  You saw what happens to a sandboat in this heat and wind when even a touch of fire is 
applied.  We are riding kindling, sir, and I will not have it ignited needlessly.  The matter is 
settled.  Stand down now, if you will, before we have trouble between us." 
Grumbling, longing to say more but thinking wiser of it, Epsilon returned to his place on 
the main deck's port rail and cursed Vespuzia's stubbornness silently.  None of the other crewmen 
seemed to share his disappointment, however, and most effected a contented attitude when they 
learned the Lady would make no further passes.  It had been, after all, a most successful fight, and 
they saw no need to press their luck. 
Epsilon felt differently.   He, alone, realized that Lucky Lady had just foolishly spent her 
one chance of destroying the enemy flagship.  Never again would the jetlan crew be caught so 
unawares.  Never again would their damage control measures be so lax, their combat routines in 
such disarray.  Epsilon, alone, realized that he and everybody aboard the Lady had been rendered 
to prey status by her premature flight, with little hope of ever regaining the offensive or of 
maintaining an active defense.  From this point forth, Lucky Lady was at the mercy of her 
enemies.  She would fight when they demanded, and suffer at the whims of their fickle, sadistic 
will.  Her crews would no longer know security in their slumber, but would dream restlessly of 

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great shadowed behemoths that stalked the sands in search of human flesh to devour.  And what 
of the flagship's superior weaponry. 
If properly managed, the jetlas might sit well out of range of Lucky Lady's pathetic guns, 
while lobbing torch after torch into her superstructure and rigging.  The ensuing contest would be 
much like the giant that holds the violently swinging dwarf harmlessly at arm's length, suffering no 
blows himself while landing many of his own with stark impunity. 
In effect, barring intervention of benevolent gods or benign nature, the contest was over 
and decided.  Lucky Lady had lost. 

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19 

An Eyestone’s Reward 

Later that same day, as the sky was dimming once more in the east and a color of fresh 
blood was rising in the west, Vespuzia and Epsilon stood at the port rail, each eyeing the northern 
horizon suspiciously.  They were, of course, searching for the sails of that jetlan flagship they 
knew must be out there somewhere. 
Block tugged at the Warfarer's sun robes and cleared his throat.  "Her most excellent 
Ladyship has sent this up to you, Holy Warfarer.  She commands that you put its smaller end to 
your eye." 
Epsilon accepted the device and held it up in the fading light.  "What is it." 
"She called it a tele- tele- something.  Here, she showed me its use in private."  The boy 
retrieved the ocular device and extended its collapsing, interconnecting cylinders.  Greatly 
lengthened now, one end was much smaller than the other.  Block placed this smaller end to his 

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eye, and turned his gaze unsteadily on the distant, fleeting sands.  "Gods unspoken!" hissed the 
boy, stumbling backwards.  "I am gone fifty miles in an instant!" 
"Give me that toy, boy!" instructed the captain, snatching the telescope rudely out of 
Block's stunned hands.  "I have seen such a device before.  Its use is simplistic."  Nevertheless, he 
also was much amazed when he raised the glass to his eye.  Gasping and cursing, Andrietti nearly 
dropped the instrument in his haste to recover, and would have lost it over the side if not for 
Epsilon's quick hands. 
Lifting it in turn to his own eye, Epsilon enjoyed a detailed and close up view of the far 
northern horizon.  Indeed, it seemed he had leapt forward fifty miles in an instant.  Still, his 
reaction was steady and somewhat more collected than that of his mates.  He used the telescope 
to conduct a slow scan of the dimming western and northwestern skies. 
Into the captain's disturbed silence, Block having been dismissed, Epsilon stated coolly, 
"There," and he pointed.  "Our enemy approaches." 
The captain bristled impatiently, but made no move to snatch the glass away from 
Epsilon's clutches.  After a second, longer sweep of the wastes, the Ritesman released his prize 
and settled his elbows onto the rail. 
Andrietti mirrored Epsilon's unconcerned air and also scanned the distances.  "Ah, yes," he 
declared softly.  "I see.  She has piled on every scrap of sail, by the looks of it." 
"How long before they can overtake us." 
"They might have done so hours ago, I think.  So it seems likely they are simply waiting 
for darkfall." 

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"What then." 
Vespuzia shrugged and lowered the scope.  He raised it again, lowered it, raised it, and 
lowered it again before he next spoke.  "Gods, but this is fantastical.  Not even our high watch 
can see so far!  What could I envision from the crow's line with such a bauble, I wonder.  The far 
edges of the world."  The captain rounded excitedly to face the Ritesman's stern gaze.  Recalling 
that he had been questioned, Vespuzia coughed lightly and turned back to the telescope.  "Yes, 
well, it is my belief they will pass us by before moon rise, racing to our fore in order to establish 
further ambushes of chum.  I do not think they will stage a direct attack.  Not at first." 
Epsilon was nodding sagely.  "Aye.  They will want to wear us down a bit first." 
"We can expect the worst of it just before dawn," interrupted a third voice from behind.  It 
was Osgarthe.  Menacing in his stature and bearded, unkempt wildness, the big Sudanese 
approached and hooked his peg-like thumbs into a broad, heavy belt.  "And it is bound to be more 
than chum, this time around.  Last night's attacks were probes, skirmishes if you will, staged for 
the sake of gauging our strength's and weaknesses."  Leaning on the rail and staring intently into 
the Ritesman's eyes for whatever reason, Osgarthe growled, "The black hearted bastards will hit 
us with everything they have left tonight." 
Andrietti asked, "Can we hold." with a curious amount of respect in his tone. 
"With these numbers and these weapons." Osgarthe was shaking his head slowly.  "I 
cannot say for certain." 
"Of course we will hold!" declared Epsilon at once.  "To do otherwise is to die horribly!"  
When neither of the other two seemed immediately convinced, perhaps knowing better as they did 

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the potential terrors of the night bound Desert Ocean, the Warfarer added recklessly, "Do not 
forget our wizard!" 
Osgarthe scoffed, and made to spit but thought better of wasting the water.  Instead, he 
returned sharply, "A woman." 
"And a powerful wizardess.  More powerful than anything on yonder black ship.  She will 
keep us whole." 
"What of her then, last night." 
"She fought but you did not see," assured Epsilon without hesitation.  "It is her way.  And 
be glad you did not see, for she is a brutal and merciless slayer of Sin's minions.  I have personally 
seen her snatch a jetla in half with her bare hands, and saw no slightest flinch of daintiness in the 
way she did it!" 
The Sudanese grumbled a bit, but made no response immediately.  At length, he relented a 
bit.  "I am loathe to sail with masters of the black arts, but it seems I have no choice in this case.  
What, if anything, can she do for us." 
The Warfarer shrugged.  "Truthfully, I cannot say.  We should ask the wizardess, herself." 
"Agreed," from Vespuzia.  "Let us retire to my cabin at once."  He was already striding 
toward the ladders.  "I, like Osgarthe, do not enjoy a mage's company, but we are forced into it 
now." 
Epsilon trailed along, wondering what Pandolyn would have to say on the subject.  She 
had largely kept to herself during the long voyage, emerging only under cover of enchantment, 
and rarely so even then.  Last night, she had intervened in the thick of both assaults, while her 

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human companions were otherwise distracted.  Hers had been the greatest portion of the tally, 
outweighing even Epsilon's bloody contribution to the cause of their defense, yet it was an effort 
that passed unseen for her bewitched invisibility.  The Ritesman had glimpses of her in his 
memories of the night's battles, glimpses that were flashed images of her fierce, scaly form 
working relentlessly to clear Lucky Lady of obsidian parasites.  Yet he had not seen her use 
magical fires, as she had during that battle in the forest.  And none of these other men, the captain 
included, had seen her do anything at all.  They remained completely ignorant of her abilities. 
As Andrietti rapped solidly on his own cabin door, Epsilon smiled secretively to think 
suddenly of the crew's reaction upon spying the alleged maidens' true forms and gender.  More 
than one would doubtless suffer many restless and uncomfortable nights to come. 
"What are you smiling about." growled Osgarthe. 
The Ritesman was startled out of his thoughts.  "Why.  Is smiling a crime." 
"In the grips of this hellish waste, yes.  Smiling and laughing, both." 
"Baton yourselves down, mates!" hissed the captain nervously.  "We have business with 
wizards.  Show some respect." 
"Aye," returned Osgarthe humbly, pulling back the cowling of his rustling sun robes.  "We 
should not incur the wrath of necromancers." 
"Oh, it is a terrible wrath, to be sure, but she will spare none of it for you."  Chuckling, 
Epsilon banged loudly and sharply on the door, despite Andrietti's protests.  "Lady Pandolyn!" he 
called stiffly, "The captain and his second mate would have a counsel of war with you!  We are 
plagued by enchanted beasts!" 

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The door was wrenched open without ceremony, though no one was standing there to 
accept them.  While the fading, blood-red light of sunset penetrated the doorway but not the 
shadows beyond.  From the shade, a female's fluted voice returned, "There is no need to shout, 
Epsilon Three.  I have not been sleeping." 
The Warfarer bowed mockingly and made a sweeping gesture with his arm, which 
indicated it was Vespuzia's appointed time to speak.  Andrietti frowned and shook his head, 
standing as he was out of sight to one side of the entrance.  He indicated with a reciprocating 
gesture that Epsilon was doing just fine and should finish the business. 
"Well." intoned the wizardess.  "Daylight is wasting, gentlemen.  Are we to make strategy 
or stroke ourselves like bashful school children." 
Sighing, Vespuzia relented and cleared his throat.  "My lady, if it please you, I am told you 
are a vastly powerful master of the black arts.  And, well, we are sorely pressed in this contest... 
perhaps, er, well, ah..." 
The wizardess laughed pleasantly, while Ubar sniggered derisively.   Pandolyn apparently 
pinched her protégée in the darkness, as he gasped painfully and the sniggering ended abruptly.  
She offered, "Please, enter.  We will share some juliose and discuss our collective fate.  I am 
certain it is not so dire as your faces foretell it to be." 
Hesitantly, the trader entered, and found his usual seat at the table.  Epsilon was next, and 
sat in a corner, while Osgarthe was forced by the lack of free space to sit next to his sworn 
adversary, Vespuzia.  Grumbling at this prospect, the bountyman was reminded of the presence of 
wizardry and relented.  For her part, Pandolyn was comfortably reclined in a hammock strung 

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from the aft bulkhead.  Ubar crouched at her feet, readying cups for their little party.  Behind 
Pandolyn's back, the broad, unshielded windows of the captain's cabin opened on a receding 
western horizon, which was fast losing the light.  All too soon, the world would be dark. 
Overhead, from the poop deck, Becker stomped about and ordered the fastlamps readied 
for action.  Lucky Lady's heart beat beneath their feet with a steady '...wum-wum-wum-wum...' 
Before Vespuzia could clear his throat to awkwardly speak again, Pandolyn stated, "To 
first correct your opinion of a most vital matter, m'sieur, I am not a master of the black arts.  I am 
aligned with Rit, and all my powers are drawn from that side of the wheel." 
"Of course," returned the captain unhappily. 
"Now, to shorten matters a bit further, you have come seeking my aid against the magic 
that has been arrayed against you, to which I can only reply that I have already done all that I can 
do.  This boat is protected as well as I can protect it." 
"Then how do you account for last night's assaults." queried Osgarthe skeptically but 
softly.  "How powerful can your magic truly be." 
Pandolyn waxed haughty, and seemed to be slightly offended.  "Even a lion may be 
daunted in the face of a charging bull elephant.  My powers are nothing to passively dismiss, I 
assure you." 
"Though there are greater powers in the world," suggested Vespuzia, voicing the 
unspoken implication of her remarks. 
"How powerful." added Osgarthe.  "Who are we fighting." 

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"I cannot in good conscience say," she answered carefully.  "The truth would dishearten 
you."  As the two Sudanese started to bluster and protest, the wizardess added, using her 
enchanted tongue (echoes of ' ...obey, obey, obey...' filling the space between her words), "You 
do not need to know." 
Vespuzia and Osgarthe came up short, their mouths hanging open.  Each turned to 
accusingly face the other, and declared, "You do not need to know." 
Pandolyn smiled a toothy smile, her lizard face concealed by the maid's.  “And you need 
not fear the darkness.  Tell your men." 
Together, the two mortals admonished each the other.  "Do not be afraid.  We are 
protected from harm."  Osgarthe finished by adding, "I will tell the men." 
"Good," purred Pandolyn softly.  She nodded sagely to Ubar, who filled two cups with 
juliose.  These were first offered to the wizardess, who added a sprinkling of white powder.  Then 
they were handed up to Osgarthe and the captain.  As the sailors slurped noisily at the delicious 
liquid, Pandolyn intoned; 
 
Ten times ten 
the fight in the man, 
ten times the man 
all in one. 
Ten times ten 
arms wield the win, 

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ten times the arm 
of the one. 
Ten times ten 
catch a fresh wind, 
ten times the strength 
of but one. 
Ten times ten 
lives to live again, 
ten times the blood 
bled by one. 
 
After which saying, her mouth continued to move, her tongue to work, but Epsilon could 
hear nothing further of the wizard's words.  She was obviously speaking, had not paused in fact, 
though it seemed a glass box had descended over her head.  The Warfarer cocked his head 
curiously to note the phenomenon, and tapped his head lightly to verify its fidelity.  When he 
found he could not remedy the situation, Epsilon shrugged and leaned back against the wall to 
wait patiently. 
After a short time that seemed forever, Pandolyn completed her spells, even as Osgarthe 
and Vespuzia finished the last drops of their drinks.  "Go now," said she, "Reassure your crew.  
There is nothing to fear." 
"Aye," returned both men simultaneously.  "Nothing to fear." 

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Then they stood, handed Ubar their cups, and left.  In their absence, Epsilon moved to the 
table. 
"This is a foul business.  I do not like it." 
Pandolyn shifted in the hammock, her maid's guise fading.  "My fate does not hinge on 
your favor, fortunately.  I did what was necessary." 
"Why was it necessary to enchant them.  We have progressed thus far without need of 
your magical manipulations." 
The wizardess laughed throatily, and Ubar's reptilian face bunched up to snigger again, 
though he never actually made a sound.  Pandolyn queried, “Have we.  What do you know about 
it, Ritesman." 
He opened his mouth to respond, but found nothing to say.  Almost, he had made a 
remark about all those letters and poems he had read from Pandolyn's own hand.  Almost he had 
asked if those messages had contained hidden spells, spells intended for him.  But, well, he 
thought a bit harder and decided there was really no need to ask, after all.  Any more than there 
was need to wonder if Dellas had cast a spell in the words scribed over his changing house door. 
"As much as you may abhor my use of magic, Sir Epsilon, you must admit we are in sore 
need of it at the moment.  These men of the Lucky Lady, they are sailors rather than warriors.  
They fought bravely and well last night, but their minds are not conditioned for combat in the 
midst of overwhelming opposition. Yestereve, just before Osgarthe turned the fastlamp, they 
verged on breaking.  Tonight's assaults will be much more determined and massive.  As they are 
now, weary and discouraged, the ship's men could not hope to stand." 

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"So you have done what.  How will your magic succor them in the fight." 
Pandolyn evaded.  "I have merely enhanced their individual wills to muster their martial 
spirits and vital energies.  They will enjoy nothing physical from my enchantments, you must 
understand.  All will exist only in the tissues of their minds.  Yet this, I think, will be enough.  It is 
difficult to explain fully."  She smacked her lips impatiently, and seemed at a loss for words.  
Eventually, she surrendered the struggle and rumbled, "Suffice it say, their minds have been 
steeled and hardened for the coming fight, much like yours has been through years upon years of 
training and harsh discipline.  My methods simply work a bit faster.  That is all." 
"Infinitely faster, if what you say is accurate." 
"Oh, they will fight like Emperor's assassins.  You might even mistake them for warriors 
of the Martial Rite." 
Epsilon was dubious.  "Now you jest.  But I think I understand your intentions. I only pray 
it will be enough." 
"Alone, these measures are surely not enough.  Fortunately, I have further designs to foil 
Sin's forces."  Now she held forth a familiar leather pouch. 
"The Eyestone of Bebblegeth." 
"Take it," she commanded softly.  He took the pouch and emptied its precious contents 
into his leather shod palm.  "Carry it up to the high stern deck and set it before the wheel.  
Employing the stone as it may be employed, you should be able to avoid the worst of the attacks. 
 I trust you will take the utmost care to protect the Eyestone, Sir Epsilon.  It is valuable beyond 
estimation, and must not fall into Sin's clutches." 

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"I will guard it with my life." 
Now the wizardess exhaled a heavy breath.  "This is all I know to do.  Beyond the center-
bound protecting spell that harbors this boat safe, I can offer nothing more.  We are come up 
against the barriers of my abilities, and can only pray that Sin Supri is too preoccupied to press his 
hand in this matter." 
"And what of Sin Apica." 
"I have not forgotten that unhappy shade.  He has not left us, though his form remains 
unseen, and I fear he may soon intervene somehow.  Again, there is nothing more I can do.  
Before he can affect us, he must first overcome or break my protecting spell, which would betray 
him to his own enemies.  All we can do is pray that he, also, is too preoccupied to press the 
contest." 
But Epsilon was shaking his head sourly.  "It is a tenuous and whispered prayer at best." 
Pandolyn made a mollifying movement of her scaly hands.  "We are not finished yet.  
There is far still to go before we reach our destination, and many things, both good and bad, may 
happen in the time intervening.  This black sandboat you seem to fear so much is nothing, Sir 
Epsilon.  Nothing at all. Of Sin Supri's amassed forces, this is but a merest skiff sent to scout my 
intentions.  A pawn, if you will, to check the advance of my queen.   The game is not finished, the 
play is by no means complete, and his strategy has been foreseen." 
"What do you mean." 
"Unknown to both you and Captain Tipper, I have many times made this same voyage 
aboard other less capable boats.  Sin Supri is long accustomed to my visitations of his blasted 

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domain, and has come to view my excursions as nothing more than merest distractions.  Each 
time he has sent errand boys against me, never anything more capable than jetlas, and each time I 
have left the ruins of his efforts in the desert wastes.  It is a tired back and forth, and the incessant 
motion has, as I hoped it would, put my worthy opponent quite to sleep." 
Epsilon felt a knowing grin spread across his face.  "He expects you, but does not expect 
what you have finally come to do." 
"Precisely.  I have issued the necessary instructions to our good pilot, who will from this 
point forward sail us directly to our destination.  With the aid of the god of wind, we should 
arrive at the far side of the sand sea in another double fortnight or more."  With a wave of her 
scaly arm, she indicated the fading western horizon.  "As for this plague of jetlas, we can only 
endure while I try to undo them as best I can." 
"And you will aid the night's combats." 
"Just when you need my aid most, sir." 
"Very well.  There is nothing left to say, then." 
"Just this; if the crew acts strangely during the battle, do not be concerned.  It will be in 
their minds by now that chum are like rabbits, soft and furry and easily slain.  Do not try to 
dissuade them of their odd understanding." 
"As you would have it, lady."  The Warfarer approached the hatch and prepared to throw 
it back, the Eyestone clutched nakedly in his right hand.  “And I will watch your bauble carefully, 
in all regards." 
"I trust in that, Ritesman." 

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He exited to the main deck just in time to catch Becker dismissing the crew from an all 
hands muster.  This was, presumably, Pandolyn's indirect ploy to infect the Lady's men with her 
bewitchments.  As they dispersed to their individual tasks, Epsilon heard the sailors whispering 
private assertions that there was nothing to fear, that chum were like loathsome rabbits, ugly but 
easily destroyed...  
Vespuzia departed from the group, bound for the poop deck.  Becker and Osgarthe 
followed, conferring secretively between themselves.  Epsilon climbed the ascending ladder after 
them, and went to the wheel.  Olietti was there, as usual for this time of day. 
Despite Epsilon's misgivings at using the Eyestone so openly, the helmsman did not seem 
disturbed by the gem's deployment.  Indeed, the helmsman scarcely registered the new vision 
returned to them all, which was cast in a bluish sort of glow that penetrated even the most distant 
darkness.  His only reaction was to steer around slight dips and imperfections in the sandy sea, 
which otherwise would have been invisible. 
The captain took up his customary position at the aft rail, Pandolyn's telescope to his eye.  
Using this, he scanned the far northern wastes and shook his head. 
As Epsilon neared, the trader exclaimed to Osgarthe, "Gods, but that vessel is unnaturally 
fast!  Though I am loathe to admit it, she may be faster than even the Lucky Lady." 
Osgarthe was curious to examine the ocular device, and went through the same series of 
amazed expressions upon first experimentation.  Lowering it at long last, he declared, "It is 
certain they own the advantage." 
"Where are they now." asked the Ritesman. 

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"Drawing abreast of us already, far, far to the north.  Exactly how far I cannot say.  
Distances are impossible to decipher through the mage's eye-toy."  From the captain. 
"Still, it must be more than thirty miles off."  From Osgarthe 
"Which leaves us at best two hours before they can manage the first attack."  Vespuzia 
scratched his beard and surveyed the surreal scenery as exposed by Bebblegeth's Eyestone.  "With 
the aid of yonder bauble," he said, pointing his chin at the sparkling jewel, "We might hope to 
avoid most of the damage, but not all of it.  Given that black boat's superior speed and agility, she 
could ride off our bow all night long, laying traps and pitfalls at will." 
"Aye, the chum will come like swarming fleas before long." 
Epsilon asked obtusely, "Is there nothing we can do to prepare." 
Vespuzia and Osgarthe exchanged esoteric glances, and the captain shrugged his 
shoulders.  "We can pray to our gods individually, I suppose.  Otherwise, the boat is indefensible 
against such boarders.  Except for Lucky Lady's speed and our determined arms, nothing can keep 
the chum away." 
The Warfarer grimaced in dissatisfaction.  Mentally, he hissed, We should have made that 
third run!  Those black bastards would not pose a continuing problem now, had we burned their 
masts off then.  It was an impotent frustration, however, as nothing could be done about it at this 
late hour. 
Gripping the pommel of his ornate sword, Epsilon kept his eyes forward and waited 
patiently for the first attack.  It was a shockingly long wait, indeed, as Olietti was able to avoid 
masses of lurking insect forms long before they were close enough to leap aboard.  Their black 

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bodies, so invisible in the darkness, were brightly lit in the ethereal displays of the Eyestone.  In 
large numbers, they were easily visible for miles upon miles. 
In consequence, the Lady began playing a sort of game with her persecutors.  Each time 
the Lady avoided an ambush, she encountered the next one more closely set.  With each evasion, 
the jetlas moved in nearer and nearer, narrowing the intervening space and thus limiting Olietti's 
forewarning.  Eventually, Sin's forces managed to array a wide series of attacks that could not be 
avoided.  The first black chum alighted in the rigging.  Hundreds of its kindred soon followed. 
They came on with that same irrepressible, high-pitched cricket's music, which was an 
assault in and of itself.  Wincing against the ice pick spike of noise punching through his skull, 
Epsilon fought grimly to hold the high stern deck, and thus protect the invaluable Eyestone of 
Bebblegeth from marauding chum. 
As before, Osgarthe wielded the brilliant fastlamps as a scythe to help clear the decks, 
while Alanetti and Block worked, half blinded, at the stern guns, reloading and firing in a hurried 
frenzy.  Vespuzia helped hold the poop, while Becker rallied the defense of Lucky Lady's bobbing 
outriggers.  It was a narrow thing, this defense of the first attacking waves, but in the end it was 
decided by men alone, and no direct aid from murderous wizards. 

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Proud and haughty in their victory, the crew mustered amidships for a ration of much 
earned water and much slapping of one another's backs.  Even the dour Oglot reveled in his own 
survival, and boasted of having killed the most chum of all.  A heated but friendly dispute 
followed as to who had done what and when, but it was generally agreed that Oglot, in his 
righteous vengeance, had enjoyed a lion's share of the kills.  Though Epsilon was skeptical, it was 
said that the mariner had dispatched two black jetlas in a single effort, which, if true, was a 
prodigious martial effort indeed.  Doubtlessly due to Pandolyn's enchantments, not a single man 
expressed horror or terror during the course of the battle.  Rather, they bragged of how easy it 
was to combat chum and their horned masters.  Just like rabbits, they often remarked, just like 
obsidian shelled rabbits...  
Their respite was brief, however joyous it might have been, as the second series of assaults 
came less than an hour after the first had ended.  This time out, the jetlas had herded a great many 
pildons into the area, which served as corralling barricades that forced Lucky Lady to run directly 
into a thickly laid ambush. 
If the fight before had been difficult, the one that followed was absolutely nightmarish.  
More and more armed jetlas found their way onboard, and the chum were innumerable.  Lucky 
Lady's booms and rigging drooped with the weight of the invaders, and her sails were torn in a 
dozen places at once, though they were not immediately rendered to tatters.  Thus gravely 
burdened, the sandboat pressed on to the east, its speed vastly reduced.  More and more black 
bodies sprang through the air, issuing that same familiar shrill from the desert sands prior to their 
leaps, as if Sin sought to destroy Lucky Lady by sheer weight of numbers alone.  By now the 

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decks were a writhing, wriggling, teeming mass of black bodies and bristling, spiny arms and legs. 
 The fastlamps swung wildly back and forth.  Men screamed defiance in their battle rage or called 
unhappily for help from their mates.  The jetla cursed or commanded in their vile, guttural 
language.  And the chum shrilled, their mandibles and claws clicking, clacking, clutching, 
snatching, cutting, reaching, rending, biting, tearing. 
Vespuzia had descended to the lower main deck to help clear it of jetlas, which were 
struggling to prize the hatches open and thereby access the vital interior of the boat.  He and 
Becker fought heroically, but were soon overwhelmed by the press of black bodies.  Most of the 
crew had been driven to the rails or outriggers by this time, and there was little help close at hand. 
 It seemed the two sailors were doomed.  Becker took a scimitar's slash across his chest, which 
bled furiously.  In seconds, he was weakened and nearly useless in the fight. 
Epsilon was mired in a thicket of chum and jetlas.  He called for support, but could not 
come to his friend's aid, himself.  Though his ornate blade flashed and rang as it swept back and 
forth, up or down, side to side; though an enormous pile of his enemies collected at his feet or 
were lost over the side, a seemingly boundless supply of insect bodies and horned devils were ever 
pressing forward from the rear, filling the spaces of those fallen, two and three times over.  For 
the first time in his short life, the Ritesman verged on abject despair.  Between strokes, he cast his 
gaze on Andrietti's plight below, and saw the man standing over his fallen first mate, working with 
a blade in both hands to keep the chum at bay. 
As he watched, a jetla reached in with a stabbing jut of a pike's head, which penetrated the 
scrambling masses and jabbed Vespuzia in the abdomen.  Epsilon thought this his death wound, 

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but the trader quickly recovered and swept the spear away, chopping off one of the responsible 
jetla's arms in the process.  Continuing his doomed contest, Andrietti's savaged sunrobes and 
undergarments revealed a flash of finely meshed steel, betraying the presence of chain mail 
underneath. 
Just as the Warfarer thought his seafaring friend might actually save himself and Becker, a 
jetla approached from the foredeck above Vespuzia, a huge, bloody hammer clutched in its 
rasping claws.  Whose blood. wondered Epsilon absently, his arms working furiously. 
Then the hammer fell atop Captain Tipper's head, and the man went down in a heap, 
sprawling atop Becker.  Who screamed painfully, and raised his weapons weakly to fend of the 
rain of blows that quickly descended to press the murderous attack home. 
Frustrated that he could not free himself from the tangle of mortal combat, Epsilon called 
for somebody, anybody, to come to Vespuzia's aid.  But nobody was free to do so. 
Finally, realizing no other option remained and wondering why she had not already made 
her appearance, the Ritesman bellowed, "PANDOLYYYYN!" and he sucked a deep breath, 
dodged a sweeping blade of black iron, adding, "WE NEED YOU NOW!" 
And the door to the captain's cabin rattled.  It was forced open a crack, but could not 
swing wide for the press of bodies before it.  Issuing forth a timber rattling roar of anger and 
impending violence, the wizardess threw her magical weight against the balking hatch, and it burst 
outward with a flash of crimson firelight.  Chum and jetla were flung wide, and a cleared space 
was opened on the crowded main deck.  Vespuzia and Becker were nowhere to be seen, their 
presence being indicated only by a dense, agitated knot of scimitar wielding jetlas. 

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Using her great, scaly fists as hammers and pliers, Pandolyn alternately bashed jetla heads 
and pulled chum bodies apart, segment from segment.  A wake opened behind her as she pressed 
forward to Captain Tipper's aid, and the ship's carpenter, Plane, jumped down into it from the 
rigging, where he fought to keep Pandolyn's back safe. 
Together, they freed a bloodied and disoriented Vespuzia, who was well enough to 
continue the fight, as well as the pale Becker, who was not.  The former climbed to the foredeck 
to aid Osgarthe and defend the fastlamps, while Pandolyn struggled to drag the now unconscious 
boatswain back to the safety of his own cabin.  It seemed she would not be successful in this 
endeavor, however, as a new flood of chum pressed a renewed assault home.  The wizardess was 
forced to discard her precious cargo momentarily to fight for her life.  While she was distracted, 
other obsidian chum jabbed and snapped at Becker's prostrate form with its hateful pincers, 
opening countless tiny wounds in his flesh.  When it appeared his master might be destroyed for 
her defense of a worthless human life, Ubar dashed out of his hiding hole and scooped Becker's 
body into his arms. 
Once the first mate and her protégée were safely back inside the cabin, and its door was 
well barricaded, Pandolyn felt free to let her animal spirit loose.  It fought without her guidance or 
will or human mercies, her arms and legs working as an unfeeling machine, until a mound of her 
foes' broken bodies were amassed before her raging fury.  And still it was not enough. 
Greater numbers of the black forms alighted from the desert wastes, replacing each that 
fell with two and three fresh attackers.  Olietti was gone from the wheel, engaged in his own 

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dwindling fight for survival, and so the Lady careened wildly through the rippled dunes, her skates 
pursuing the eastern horizon of their own free will. 
Above the wheel, the Eyestone of Bebblegeth shimmered and sparkled.  Yet, even as she 
glanced up to make certain the bauble was safe, a lone jetla climbed atop the wheel gear housing 
and laid its hands upon it. 
Though she should have been dismayed by the prospect, Pandolyn smiled to see her 
designs work so well, secretly pleased with this outwardly unfortunate event.  Once its claws had 
secured the prize, the jetla called upon certain dark forces to free the Eyestone, then dropped 
back to the deck, the gem in its clutches.  It issued a guttural, indecipherable order, which the 
hordes on the decks heeded instantly by increasing the ferocity of their individual attacks. 
Epsilon had noted the theft from where he fought near the stern rail.  He screamed 
impotently for the black bastard to relinquish its grip on the stone, which instruction the jetla 
naturally would not heed.  The Ritesman was clearly dismayed and distraught to see the Eye come 
down, but he could do nothing to prevent its loss. 
With a gloating shriek of triumph, the gem wielding jetla made a dash for the rail, dodging 
Olietti's wildly swinging cutlass, and jumped over the side.  Several of its mates had formed a 
protective vanguard at their master's back, and went overboard with the thief shortly thereafter. 
This seemed to be the commanding core of the attack, for the contest faded with their 
departure.  The remaining jetlas seemed dismayed by their abandonment, and were suddenly 
anxious to get over the rail before they could be left behind. 

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As the last jetla fled or was slain, the chum seemed to lose their motivation for the fight.  
More and more often, at the approach of a cutlass wielding crewman, the mindless beasts simply 
chose to spring back into the desert, rather than risk their vile lives to win a prize that they little 
desired for themselves.  In this manner, just as quickly as it had come, the final attack of the night 
ended.  It was the final attack of the voyage, as well, though the much relieved men of Lucky 
Lady knew this not at the time. 
They were too busy at the time wiping the greenish clot and gore of slain chum from arms, 
torsos, faces and legs.  Another ration of water was issued once the decks were cleared of the 
largest bits and pieces of chum and jetla bodies. There was understandably little rejoicing this 
time, as each man, including the battle hardened Ritesman, was struggling to regain their wind and 
ward off their bodies' weariness in preparation for the next assault that they felt must surely come 
soon. 
While the crew fought to recover and clear their boat's decks, Epsilon dragged himself 
over to the captain's cabin doorway, his head hung low.  He stammered his apologies for the loss 
of Bebblegeth's Eye, his tone crestfallen and defeated.  He had, after all, never failed in a contest 
until now.  Somehow he felt it was fitting that his first defeat be such a disastrous one, and said as 
much.  Sin Supri would have the Eyestone soon, and his already formidable powers would 
subsequently be greatly enhanced.  All because Epsilon Three of the Martial Rite had failed in 
keeping his charge. 
Upon hearing this final self-condemnation, the wizardess laughed softly.  “My dear 
general," she heaved into the face of his shame, "It is I that should offer her apologies.  You were, 

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I am sad to admit, deceived in this matter, as were the jetlas.  Your belief in the stone's legitimacy 
was vital to my designs, as the black hearted servants of Sin would understand its importance only 
vicariously, through your appraisal of it.  By defending the Eyestone as the genuine article, you 
convinced them that the true prize was within their grasp, and they took the bait.  By now, their 
vessel will be nosing southeast, bound for Sin Supri directly, wherever he may be, that they might 
present their alleged spoils as quickly as possible."  Here, she laughed bitterly.  "The devils will 
expect a reward for their keen service of that foul overlord, but I think they will be surprised at 
just how swift the desired reward may come." 
The Warfarer stammered his anxious confusion and blinked widely as an owl.  He asked 
her to clarify what had been said. 
"Quite simply," she explained, "The Eyestone that was lost was nothing more than an 
exquisitely exact replica of the true stone, one I keep blatantly on my person as a too obvious 
decoy.  Oh, it works well enough for the layman's eye, as the magic involved is quite simple, but it 
will not work as the genuine article would.  And it will not work at all for Sin Supri.  Once that 
un-wholesome witch puts it to his eye, perhaps even before, he will recognize the deception and 
be enraged.  The jetlas that stole it will be executed in a most tortuous manner, and we of the 
Lucky Lady shall have long since reached our destination unobserved." 
Epsilon's face was pale and stunned, but he exhaled explosively with relief, allowing 
himself to relax into a lean against the doorjamb.  He removed his helm and wiped at the sweat on 
his careworn brow. 

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"Never again shall I so readily forget how well wizards love trickery and deception."  His 
tone was reproaching, but a smile was etched on his gore smeared face.  "Well done, Lady 
Pandolyn.  Well done indeed." 
"You foresee the utility of my ploy, then." 
"Aye," he responded gravely, happily.  "With but the one boat, the jetlas will have no 
choice but to break off their pursuit and leave us be.  They will not want to risk losing so valuable 
a bauble to the desert or our dissatisfied counterattacks.  They will want to hurry it home, as you 
said, to claim their reward and the praise of their unspeakable master." 
"Which praise," inserted Ubar from the corner, where he was treating a delirious Becker, 
"Will be nothing more than the torturer's rack, or a bed of hot coals."  He sniggered a lizard's 
rasping snigger. 
"Or worse," added the wizardess gleefully. 
Epsilon was unaware there could be worse things than the torturer's rack, but if there 
were, he was pleased that it should be a fate of horned jetlas.  And he joined in Ubar's darkly 
delighted chuckle. 
When it became clear that Pandolyn's plots had proved successful, the crew once again 
and for the last time scoured the sandboat's decks free of clot and greenish blood.  None of their 
number had been slain, and only Becker had been sorely wounded.  As the sun rose on the next 
morning, each man counted his private blessings and looked forward anxiously to an absence of 
fighting.  Without that black shadow-boat stalking them through the wastes, the Desert Ocean 
seemed a much happier hell. 

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20 

Ten Thousand Steps 

A trail of darkly shelled corpses followed the Lucky Lady away from her duels amid the 
burning sands.  These carcasses were left behind to rot, as even the voracious illdross deemed 
chum inedible flesh.  From her harried exploits near Midpointe Rock, the Lady pressed forward 
on a heading of due east for more than six hundred leagues, skirting the northernmost reaches of 
Hatred Gouge, a vast and lengthy river canyon that ran jaggedly south to distant seas of salt 
water.  At this point, the captain plotted a course that ran southeast across a high plateau formed 
by the eastern side of the Gouge, until they came within sight of a towering, sharply peaked range 
of mountains.  These ranges, which were alternately named Raymar's Sorrow or Earthbone 
Mountains, depending on the source of one's maps, sat squarely on the horizon like piles of fresh 
granite slag, all steeply sloped sides and razor sharp ridges, which were universally topped by a 
downy fleece of snow and vaporous clouds. 

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Once the Earthbones were fully in view, though they stood well off in the distance, 
Captain Tipper turned his boat directly south to pursue them on a parallel course for another three 
hundred leagues.  The voyage that followed was uneventful and somewhat pleasant, despite the 
intense heat, perhaps because the omnipresent ice-capped mountains off the port rail were a 
constant reminder that there really were cooler places in the world, that all was not blasted hellfire 
and sulfurous brimstone. 
On the thirteenth day of this last leg of their interminable voyage, Lucky Lady entered into 
a broad, sandy basin, which filled the valley that spanned the void between two vast, diverging 
ranges of alps.  Now there were frosted peaks on either side of them as they continued to press 
further south, though the way wandered a bit.  After many long days and countless leagues 
traversed, Vespuzia again turned them directly east, this time to narrowly approach the stony feet 
of the impossibly massive Earthbones. 
Epsilon stood at the bow that evening and tried to guess how long it would be before they 
arrived at the foothills.  One day, he postulated silently, eying the already dominating purple 
towers against the sky.  Possibly two.  Certainly no more than three.  They look so near.  I can 
see every craggy detail of them, it seems. 
How wrong he was, only time would tell.  Much time.  Many days of it longer than he had 
estimated.  On the eighth day that followed, Lucky Lady drew in close to a high bluff wall, much 
like that of Earth's Rim.  It did not seem to span the world from pole to pole, but it was 
nonetheless an awesome geological monument.  The mountains above seemed to bunch up at the 
very rim of the plateau, though they must yet lie many scores of miles away. 

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As they neared this easternmost shore of the Desert Ocean, Epsilon noted that the sheer 
face of the granite wall was well marred by the mouths of manmade caverns and deeply carved 
facades.  Sculptures of giants there were, beings of stone that stretched many sticks high, whose 
feet were buried in the sands of the sea.  And impossibly vast frescos that were deeply embossed 
and cast in the form of all manner of mythical beast and magical monster.  One portion of the bluff 
that jutted out into the sea had been completely altered by the touch of forgotten men, so it was 
now etched into the form of a gargantuan dome with marble pillars of living bedrock supporting 
the massive ceiling.  It was just a cleverly fashioned facade, of course, and not a true building, but 
it was breathtaking in its sheer, overwhelming... presence.  This, Epsilon was told, was their 
disembarkation site. 
This, Epsilon was told, was Verdune, a lost city of the ancient dead.  'Verdune', he was 
further informed, translated from the Sudanese into 'citadel of hated ghosts'.  How pleasant, he 
thought, gazing upon the face of the cliff side from afar.  It did not seem a fell place from this 
distance, he considered, but then distances, he had learned, were nothing if not deceiving on this 
side of the planet. 
Nearing Verdune, Epsilon saw that the frescos and statues and facades and caverns and 
such all continued on and on to the south, farther than the eye could see, perhaps to the utmost 
reaches of this deep and hidden inlet of the sandy sea.  Certainly as far as the bluff wall extended, 
which was closely defined at the northern end, but seemed to stretch forever down to the south. 
On the final evening of their long journey from forgotten Oreset, some two and one half 
months since first setting sail, Lucky Lady eased up to a high shore of sharply fashioned granite 

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steps, which ringed Verdune's central facade all around in an incomprehensibly immense 
semicircle.  Though there were thousands and thousands of them, and though they doubtlessly 
penetrated deep beneath the desert surface, each step was precisely like the one above and below 
it, and each trailed off around the half circle in a perfectly level fashion.  Verdune's many tiered 
base was perhaps a five hundred sticks in diameter, or possibly more, and climbed one hundred to 
the entrance of the citadel high above.  At the edge of the sea, the Lady's crew could look straight 
up along the sharp edges of the precisely aligned stairway to the gaping stony gates of the 
gargantuan facade at the summit. 
Epsilon stood at the lifeline of the boat's port outrigger, shaded by the blindsheets, and 
tilted his head, back, back, back to take it all in.  Vespuzia was suddenly there to clap the 
Ritesman's shoulders and laugh in a cracked, dry voice that spoke volumes of their shared 
privation. 
"You did not know this place, this Verdune, is also called the Keep of Ten Thousand 
Steps, did you." 
The Warfarer shook his head inside the cowling of his loosely fashioned sunrobes.  "No," 
he croaked by way of reply.  "And had I known, I most certainly would not have come."  There 
was more bitterness in his voice than he realized.  “After all that long and hellish voyage, we are 
come to this.  It is a sad disappointment." 
Vespuzia, being Vespuzia, only laughed harder, until his raw larynx could not sustain the 
effort.  It failed in a dry rasp, which continued on for a disturbingly long time indeed.  Epsilon was 

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just beginning wonder if his mate had finally cracked in the sun, when the trader sucked a deep 
breath and eased up a bit. 
"Ah, you are a parched wit, my friend!  And a master of understatement!" Gasping, the 
captain fought to recover.  "Well, do not feel alone, Holy Warfarer.  We all must make that climb, 
or perish here in the wastes." 
"Oh.  And why is that." 
"Why.  Because we are quit of potable water on the boat.  Because we are all anxious to 
be rid of this stifling heat, if only for a time.  Because you have bargained to transport ten 
thousand pounds of polished niter across the sand sea, and the job is not finished until we have 
hoisted it up to the harbor warehouses.  In this case, yonder facade entrance will do nicely." 
Epsilon quickly returned his gaze to the top of the steps, and was dismayed for his friends, 
the courageous crew of Lucky Lady.  "You mean to say you will tote the cargo up, sack by sack." 
Another fit of harsh laughter followed.  "Hardly.  No, we will instead drag up a tow line.  
Once we are at the top, we will haul across a heavier line, then a heavier line still, until we have 
one with enough strength to hold your sacks.  Here on the boat, it will be fastened to the 
mainmast pennant cap, you see.  From there, we have but to hoist your sacks up to the haul yard, 
and string them along, one after another.  We will use brass rings for pullets, and thus we may 
drag the entire load up in a single afternoon."  The trader rasped dryly and grimaced.  
"Tomorrow, of course, after we have gorged ourselves on Verdune’s' sweet waters." 
"Are you certain we will find water there." 

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"Aye, it is a cursed place, but the waters that fill its shaded basins are known the world 
around.  Save in Empire, it seems." 
"We are ignorant of many things in that oppressed land." 
Vespuzia clucked his tongue and shook his head.  Then he turned to find Becker and call 
for the formation of a landing party with full arms and supplies for a two day stay.  Though his 
normally booming voice was much reduced since Oreset, the tall, haggard captain remained a 
commanding figure.  It is easy to see now, thought Epsilon, How the man survived his maroon at 
Midpointe Rock.  There is steel there, beneath that thin covering of banality. 
Lucky Lady's catch spurs were locked down, her hatches tightly battened, her sails and 
rigging secured, and all her points of entry made fast.  Every man of her would make the first 
ascent, alternating the burden of hauling the coils of the long tow line.  Tomorrow, a press gang 
would return, well laden with full water skins (which they carried up empty) to support the 
removal of Pandolyn's supposedly precious cargo of fertilizer.  Once the polished niter was 
hoisted aloft, the Lady's empty water vessels would quickly follow.  As soon as her holds were 
once again filled with the precious, life giving liquid, the little sandboat would set sail for the west, 
leaving Pandolyn, Ubar and the Ritesman far away and gone from their homelands. 
The climb up the stairs was mind numbing and exhausting, and there was much fear of 
illdross.  Before he had ascended a third of the distance, Epsilon's legs were burning, his lungs 
were seared, and his head was pounding.  They stopped to rest more and more often as they 
neared the top, partly because their weariness was mounting, partly because the temperature had 

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dropped noticeably with the added elevation and it was pleasant to suck a cool breeze for a 
change. 
As the sun set that evening, they all stood at the top of the last step and stared out over 
the western panorama.  At the far extreme of their vision, they could see the jagged purple line 
that was the opposing range of mountains across the awesome expanse of the valley.  Beneath 
their weary feet, Lucky Lady was a mere toy tied up at the porch steps of a titan's massive home.  
Already reduced to a bloody half eye, the crimson sun was a piercing light on the rim of the 
planet, a dismissed god to claw and thrash, protesting, at its inevitable banishment.  It seemed 
almost angry to note their escape, and faded with a baleful crimson light that appeared to promise 
them further torture for their future. 
Vespuzia wrung his fists at the wastes and leered.  "I am born again!  Redeemed from my 
doom!  We are, all of us, graduates of Hades, waders of the River Styx, voyagers that have 
pressed into the realm of death and emerged on the far side undaunted.  Gods praise the Lucky 
Lady!  Gods praise her valiant crew!"  And they cheered weakly but with much enthusiasm. 
More than one crewman added his own soft prayer to this or that unannounced god, 
before they all turned to search out Verdune’s' fabled sweet waters.  Upon doing so, they were 
brought up hard against the sheer size of the facade; its cleverly fashioned columns that were 
hacked from the living stone of the bluff face; its gaping, night-filled maw of a gateway that was 
open to the domed ceiling some fifty sticks above their heads; its intricately wrought interior walls 
that bit deep into the flesh of the cliff in a wide half circle and were covered with frescos and 
embossed images and the strange runes of a forgotten language; its sterile, dust strewn floor that 

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was a mosaic of ponderous marbled slabs shaped into the form of an ancient god that was half 
human and half mythical monster.  As ants that have entered into an immeasurable cavern, the 
meager crew of the Lady entered into Verdune, their shadows stretched out before them as big as 
the room was large, the dying sun at their backs.  Their feet fell like steel shod hoofs on the hard 
marble floor, and the reports echoed back and forth in the domed interior as though there were no 
end to this hollow mockery of the living. 
Every slightest whisper was amplified a thousand fold, and was perpetuated beyond all 
good reason by the brutal acoustics of the awe inspiring chamber.  Overhead, at the exact center 
of the room, a skylight shone down dimly with the rising light of countless stars. 
Epsilon stood at this central location, and turned his gaze on the circle of brighter 
darkness high, high above.  He turned slowly in place to drink in the graven walls with his eyes, 
before the last of the light was gone.  Only now did he understand that the entire palace was a sort 
of everlasting shrine... no, more, it was a written and illustrated record of a forgotten religion, a 
relic left behind by an absent people precisely to stave off the kind of oblivion it had spawned.  
Without the structure, there might have been no clue as to their long ago presence and passing, 
and they might have been less than forgotten; they might have been overlooked completely.  As 
things stood now, however, the mystery was not resolved.  Rather it was presented in full course 
by the ruins, and was left dangling in their individual minds, a question raised but unanswered, a 
puzzle that had no real solution. 
Why had they built this temple.  What, or who, had forced them to abandon it.  Were they 
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were they different races, having lived in separate times, perhaps one feeding off the architecture 
and design of the other that had passed before.  And what did it all mean.  What did those words 
say.  What was the name of this horrific god set into colored stones on the floor.  Most 
importantly, the Warfarer wondered if he and the Lady's crew were welcome visitors in this place, 
or if they were instead detested interlopers, trespassers in a spiritual world that would punish them 
far beyond the thresholds of flesh for their indiscretions. 
It seemed the others suffered from these same doubts and concerns, as each man was 
momentarily transfixed at the hub of the chamber, staring gape-mouthed at the overwhelming 
beauty and logic of the dome.  All except for Pandolyn and Ubar, who had apparently voyaged to 
Verdune many times, and seemed bored with the monument.  They were intent on a set of arched 
doorways set into the far wall, which were evidently passages to other chambers beyond. 
Just then, a damp scent of water struck their nostrils, and the men forgot all about 
Verdune's sun baked granite, abruptly fascinated as they were with its heady spring waters that lay 
but mere footsteps further along.  As a single mass, as though they had drilled the maneuver for 
days, Epsilon and the Lady's men started forward, dry tongues licking cracked and blistered lips. 
The wizardess and Ubar were quick to disappear for the night, presumably content to 
prowl quieter chambers and cooler pools to be found deeper into the stony flesh of the earth.  
Eventually, after a long and awkward stumble that stretched on forever, Epsilon and his mates 
arrived at the tall, arched doorways that had no doors, following behind the disappeared 
wizardess.  The jambs were fashioned to have an appearance of being overgrown with granite 
ivies, and large blocked runes were stamped into a flat space at the apex of the double arches.  

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The Ritesman cocked his head curiously and endeavored to read what was written there, but the 
letters were too strange to be recognized. 
From within the darkness that was harbored beyond, they heard a sound of dripping water, 
and it was the most beautiful music any of them had ever enjoyed.  Laughing and jesting, the men 
hurried inside and entered into a dimly outlined ring of light, which was shining down from 
another broad skylight in this, the second domed ceiling.  As gentle starlight replaced the fiercer 
light of an absent sun and their eyes were yet adjusting to the gloom, it was just possible to make 
out the indications of a stone basin sitting at the center of the chamber. 
The pool seethed like liquid jade in the rising starlight, and tiny wavelets lapped curiously 
at its rim, so the rounded peaks sparkled as drifting diamonds.  Around it was arrayed a series of 
circular benches, and a naked ring of columns that supported nothing more than dead air and 
empty space.  The frescos and images and runes continued all along the walls and ceiling, as 
before, and the floor was again laid with colored tiles to form a mosaic image they could not make 
out for the darkness. 
One thing they did not fail to note, however, was a ring of freshly filled lamps inset into 
niches on the columns.  These were hastily lighted before the crew shed its reeking, sand filled 
clothing and gear, and leaped with screams of delight into the deep oasis. 
They splashed and played and swam the night away as a pod of happy otters, sleeping only 
after the moon had swept across the skylight overhead.  Their bellies distended with drink and 
dried rations, the crew fell asleep wherever they happened to finally sprawl, and were soon 
snoring loudly to a man.  

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This was the first mistake they made on this, the far side of the sand sea.  Neither 
Vespuzia nor Epsilon had taken care to set a night watch, and Pandolyn was nowhere to be 
found. 
Fortunately for them all, it did not prove to be a fatal mistake, though it might easily have 
been.  The night visitors of Verdune came as benefactors rather than assassins.  Otherwise, each 
man might have had his throat slit from ear to ear, including the Ritesman, so silent and stealthy 
was the unseen ones' approach and departure in the night. 
Vespuzia was the first awake on the rising of the sun.  He sat up stiffly, unaccustomed as 
he was to sleeping on blankets thrown across a hard, flat floor, and rubbed his eyes sleepily and 
smacked his lips and scratched and muttered something unintelligible about ghosts and dreams of 
ghosts.  When his half awakened gaze fell on something astounding.  The trader's eyes snapped 
instantly wide, and his mouth dropped.  It was not a display of shock or horror or even of fear, 
rather it was one of pleased amazement.  Epsilon was watching Andrietti's face through slitted 
eyelids, having only just awakened himself, when he noted the reaction. 
As quickly as Vespuzia's eyes snapped open wide, Epsilon jumped up into a half crouch, 
his dagger drawn and his right hand on the haft of his sword.  It was vividly in his memory that 
they had failed to set a watch, and the belated concern of this shortfall was abruptly heavy on his 
heart. 
He stood ready to fight a horde of jetlas, but faced only a well laid feast, complete with 
tables and waiting wares.  Great haunches of meat were there, and green things the likes of which 
they had not seen for ten weeks.  And fruit.  And wine.  Lots of wine.  And cheeses.  Olives.  

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Bread.  Everything a hungry man could long for and many things that looked to be delicious but 
were unnamed in Epsilon's memory.  Strange foods these were that smelled headily of spices and 
herbs. 
Epsilon let himself rise from the crouching position he had assumed, and stowed his 
useless weapon away.  Bewildered, his head turned atop his aching neck to find their generous 
hosts, but saw nothing. 
Vespuzia kicked Becker awake.  "Get up man!" he hissed urgently, feigning dire need.  
"We have a pressing duty here!  Get up, I say, at once!" 
The Boatswain snorted, as did several others nearby, and scrambled to his feet, struggling 
to lay his cloak aside while at the same time drawing a cutlass that was not strapped to his belt.  
His hands repeatedly coming up empty, Becker mumbled confusedly, "Wha'.  Huh.  How.  How 
did it happen.  Get the mainsails up!  Raise the catch sp-" then his vision was made clear and the 
docile scenery invaded his mind.  His attack coming up short, the first mate snorted and rubbed 
his eyes and shook his head.  "What duty.  What pressing duty here." 
"Why, we must fill our gullets, my friend!  I know of no other duty more pressing when a 
man is hungry and there is food present.  Great lots of food, steaming on the table!" 
"But where did it all come from." asked Becker, voicing the obvious question.  "Who, I 
mean, when... I mean, who brought it." 
Epsilon glowered and rubbed a leather shod palm across his face.  He had at least had the 
presence of mind to dress himself after bathing, something that most of the crew had not managed 
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others.  By way of replying to Becker's question, he answered, "The same people that did not cut 
our throats in the darkness, I think." 
One of the crewmen at Epsilon's back hissed, "The ghosts that are despised!"  And several 
startled gasps followed. 
Vespuzia was quick to quash that superstitious babble before it could propagate, by 
bellowing playfully, "Well and good, if they are ghosts!  But not despised, my friend, for who 
could despise the bearers of such bounty."  And he gathered up the ends of his belt, buckled on 
his trousers, tucked in his blouse, and smoothed back his hair, all as he progressed toward the 
table at an anxious gait. 
"Perhaps we should be cautious here..." hedged Epsilon, making no move to enjoy the 
feast, though there was now a general scurry to do so.  He was reminded of Pandolyn's 
admonishments not to eat or drink anything of the Wilderlands without first obtaining her 
permission. 
Just then, the wizardess made her entrance into the immaculately graven grotto, emerging 
from the easternmost of four doors set opposite each other in the rounded wall of the temple (one 
of these being the exit to the exterior facade chamber at their backs).  She had retained her maid's 
guise for the sake of the crew, but Ubar was nowhere to be seen. 
The wizardess called, "Have you not yet eaten." and clucked her forked tongue.  "It is 
late. I have already been up top to the high plateau.  It is a gorgeous day!  Full of butterflies and 
brightly colored flowers!  The grasses are green!  The sun is warm but not searing!  And the wind, 

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oh, the wind is a cool, sweet breath blown down from the mountaintops!  And best of all we are 
free, free of the sand sea's burning grip!" 
"You mean to say you three are free," corrected Vespuzia, his mouth stuffed full of a soft 
leavened bread.  "We of the Lucky Lady set sail tomorrow for Bahia Sud."  Here he turned his 
twinkling eye on Osgarthe, his full mouth chewing, chewing, "I have a wedding to prepare and 
debts to repay." 
"Aye," returned the hulking bountyman, "Fash, my father, will be glad to see you." 
"And I he, brother." 
They exchanged heartfelt handshakes, each grasping the other's right forearm, before 
Osgarthe's mouth was too full of roasted beef and cheese to say anything more.  The rest of the 
crew swarmed the table, feeding hungrily but not greedily, as there was far more than enough for 
all. 
When she saw Epsilon uncertainly licking his lips as a dog trained to abstain, Pandolyn 
announced, "You may indeed partake of the feast, my general.  Ubar and I have already eaten." 
He was quickly at the tables, a goblet of juliose in one hand and a huge, saucy rib bone in 
his other.  Around a mouthful of meat, he exclaimed, "It is good!  Or I am famished.  Or both." 
"It is both," sported Vespuzia, piling a platter high with delicacies, that he might eat in 
leisure on the benches.  "The food is excellent and we are all starving men." 
"Starving, eh." thundered Bean, his own platter weighted with steaming foods.  "You 
were not so critical last night, while you were stuffing your bellies with my good griddle cakes!" 

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Plane choked and sputtered.   "I would not call them good, or even cakes, Bean my friend. 
 Termites love sawdust, but a man eats it only when nothing else is at hand!"  General laughter 
erupted around the laden table. 
"Sawdust, is that it.  Ye curby chum lovers!  I will show you sawdust on the return 
voyage!  Sawdust and the scrapings from my old toenails!" 
Somebody made a retching sound.  Becker frowned and declared, "I am nearly put off my 
breakfast, Bean.  Do let us keep this civil now." 
"Aye," from somebody unannounced.  "No more talk of the undersides of your toenails!" 
"Then I shall tell you of my arse!" 
"And nothing of your arse, either.  Especially not of your arse!" 
Bean crammed an impossibly large swath of boiled cabbage into his mouth, and returned, 
"Then I am left with nothing to say, and so retire to eat my fill," bits of cabbage spraying with 
each utterance. The crew was understandably relieved to see the foul man away from the table, 
and cheered as he sat upon a bench to smack noisily. 
Nobody else had much else to say, either, except to comment on the quality and quantity 
of the fare and heap praise upon the unknown cooks.  The men were too busy stuffing themselves 
in the beginning, and too full afterward to talk at all. 
Indeed, the sun was high in the sky before Becker found the courage to rise and gather 
their discarded water skins to pile them near the pool.  One by one, he began filling them, 
preparing for the day's hard service that yet lay ahead.  Presently, Olietti joined him, then Oglot, 
while Osgarthe gathered up Plane and the boat's remaining sandmen to make the tow line fast.  

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Making short work of it all, the ship's company mustered in the vast antechamber behind 
Verdune's exterior facade, and laid plans for the final delivery of Pandolyn's polished niter. 
As the sun reached its zenith, the final halyard was strung, and the afternoon passed to the 
sounds of squeaking block and tackle, and to the occasional thump of deposited cargo sacks.  
Well after sundown, the toil was finished and Lucky Lady was emptied of her heavy load.  Now 
her remaining empty water bladders and kegs and skins were hauled up and piled high in the 
antechamber, left to be filled the following morning.  Lastly, the all but lifeless Helmcleaver was 
hoisted high, where Epsilon had long and anxiously awaited the animal's return.  Before its master 
could offer the animal much comfort, Helmcleaver was borne away to the high plateau above, 
where he could graze and be nursed back to health by the absent Ubar.  At Pandolyn's 
admonishments and assurances, Epsilon could but relent to her wishes with a shrug of his 
shoulders.  Becker and his crew were finally quit of the boat again just before moon rise, and were 
hauled up above the fabled ten thousand steps to rejoin their captain in the depths of the cool, 
refreshing pools of castaway Verdune. 
That night they sat beneath the flickering light of the oil lamps and finished the last of the 
morning's bread.  All were weary and pained by the day's long labors, including Epsilon, yet they 
found the time and strength to briefly discuss their strange surroundings and last night's unknown 
benefactors.  Fortunately, Pandolyn was there to keep things straight, otherwise superstition and 
fear of the unknown might have quickly mongered panic among the men. 
Epsilon asked, "Why are they called 'despised ghosts'.  How have the spirits that infest 
these ruins earned such a reputation." 

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Captain Tipper was the first to respond, though many had opened their mouths to do so, 
including the wizard.  Vespuzia answered, "The same way yonder bluff earned its name Hemp 
Ridge among we Sudanese.  Most call it Painted Wall, but we do not." 
"And why is that." 
"It is a long story if it is truly told, my friend, involving as it does the wars of worlds and 
centuries of time.  But the matter of the naming, the event that was the sad culmination and end of 
it all, was a quick thing and is easily related."  Vespuzia munched a bit of bread and sipped a bit of 
wine, and settled back into the little nest of blankets he had made.  "Simply put, a great naval 
battle was fought long ago in the grips of the Desert Ocean.  Two massive and opposing forces 
came together at the entrance of this broad valley, which lies as you know many days north and 
west from here.  Hundreds of sandboats, perhaps thousands, clashed there, and many were lost.  
The duels ranged far and wide, and the overall battle lasted many long, bloody days. 
"In the end, Sudanese boats secured the day, and the final, ultimately decisive battle of an 
ageless war was fought and won not far from this very place.  It was a bitter victory, however, 
and shortly celebrated, as a prodigious blow came on from the deep desert, a storm the likes of 
which is seldom seen and rarely survived.  The remaining boats of the victorious armada were 
driven deeper and deeper into this valley by the gales, and could not make headway north.  
Eventually, inevitably, their hulls were dashed to splinters against the Painted Wall, against the 
foothills of these Earthwall ranges on either side of us, perhaps against these very steps of 
Verdune.  And so hundreds, nay, thousands of men were stranded on far shores, unable to return 
home or escape the mountain bound valley that had swallowed them alive and whole. 

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"As the landmarks would have it, all those desperate eyes eventually settled on this place, 
the Keep of Ten Thousand Steps.  The storm tossed castaways were drawn to this facade as 
moths are drawn by a flickering flame, as desert jackals are drawn to a fresh corpse.  Perhaps they 
arrived en masse like pilgrims on holy exodus, or perhaps they arrived one by one, piecemeal, 
over a course of days and days.  However it happened, however they came, the end result was the 
same for all.  As all wound up dangling by their necks from scaffolds set at the summit of the 
ridge.  For miles and miles it is said they were aligned, their bodies left to rot, left to feed illdross 
and carrion birds.  Every last man was so slain.  None that survived the battle had survived the 
ensuing peace."  Vespuzia paused soberly to munch a bite of bread, his eyes steady on Epsilon's 
eyes and both men unblinking.  "When no word was heard of the battle's outcome and the boats 
failed to return to their home ports, a scouting party was sent out to discover what had gone 
awry.  Only then were the ghastly gallows discovered, and the bones of the dead recovered." 
"And it was the ghosts that perpetrated the crime." 
"That is the superstition.  That is the wive's tale.  For myself, I cannot rightly say what 
happened, except that many men were hanged here for no apparent reason, their crimes unknown 
and unspoken.  That much, at least, is certain." 
"But why ghosts."  Pressed the Ritesman, ever fond of mysterious yarns.  “Why not 
men." 
Vespuzia shrugged but offered no answer.  Instead, it was Osgarthe that next spoke, "You 
tell me, Holy Warfarer, was it men that crept in here undetected last night.  Do you believe 
clumsy men to be capable of such stealth.  For ghosts surely are." 

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But Epsilon remained skeptical, and shook his head.  "Why should ghosts, the spirits of 
dead men, be concerned with our empty mortal bellies." 
This time the captain offered, "Many Sudanese have since set catch spurs in this gods 
forsaken place, whether in avoidance of storms or in delivery of esoteric cargos, but none have 
ever seen the specters that inhabit Verdune."  He grunted and indicated the lighted lamps, 
mysteriously waiting for their arrival and full of oil.  "It is obvious that men once lived here, that 
men long ago fashioned the facades and ornamentation of Hemp Ridge, that these monuments are 
maintained even to this day.  But by whom.  By what powers.  By what mysterious powers."  He 
shrugged and leered.  "We can only assume them to be ghosts." 
Becker cleared his throat to speak, but kept his eyes on the sloshing contents of the meade 
horn cradled in his lap.  "I have heard it said that the Painted Wall is not finished, that its makers 
live into this day, and are busy even now on some far distant end of it, fashioning their frescos and 
friezes and facades that none may ever decipher.  Telling tales no mortal man shall ever hear, for 
they are children of the gods and play at making worlds.  Worlds and the men that would claim 
them." 
"Then this, this Verdune," whispered the timorous Block, "Is a world in stone.  Are there 
entire nations set into yonder embossments.  Kings and queens and all their myriad men." 
"Perhaps," from Becker. 
"Nonsense," from Pandolyn.  "Your captain is closer to the facts than he knows, though 
there remains some small grain of truth in even Boatswain Becker's misguided words." 

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No other demure maid might have spoken into this meeting of men without suffering 
much abuse in return, but the crew of Lucky Lady had come to accept Pandolyn as one of their 
number, her reputation as a wizard aside.  Besides which, many of them owed their continuing 
health to her skillful service as ship's doctor.  Becker in particular was most respectful of the 
wizard's opinion, and accepted her mild admonishment without animosity. 
"What part of it is true.  That the hated ghosts are children of the gods." 
"Of course not.  This is precisely the part I find ridiculous.  No, it is that the Painted Wall 
is not finished.  For it is not finished and can never be finished.  It is a never ending story of the 
world.  Each age has its place in the stone.  The exploits of each new generation are recorded in 
the granite.  You must have noted on our way in how the bluff rises from the sands and extends 
out from the Earthbones just north of here.  Yes.  Well, that is the beginning, the dawn of 
recorded time.  Were you to retrace our voyage and examine the carvings closely, you would 
witness the birth of the universe, the nativity of this world, its progress through the early ages, 
when gods walked as men, into the dark ages in absence of the Synod and all the anarchy of that 
treacherous time.  On and on it continues to the south, growing more articulate with each year 
that passes."  The wizardess sighed wistfully, and gazed around her at the dimly underlit bas relief 
that covered the chamber's interior.  It was indecipherable scrawl to the men in her company, but 
she, at least, could read every rune, every hieroglyph of it.  "This solitarium," she added 
expansively, encompassing the breathtaking sprawl of the grotto, "Is the symbolic representation 
of the forging of the Synod.  These two rooms are monumental statements of how it all came into 
being, of how nature's naked chaos was gathered together into a cohesive schema of order and 

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discipline, and of how the forces of good and evil were aligned one against the other, since the 
former could not be utterly destroyed and the latter could not safely live in its dominating 
presence." 
After a stunned silence, the Warfarer retorted confusedly, "This is wonderful to know, but 
I am not returned an answer to my basic questions.  Are they ghosts that inhabit this place.  And 
why are they despised." 
"They are not ghosts.  Rather, they are a forgotten and little known people, a people long 
persecuted and shy of human contact, though they do not hate outsiders.  In fact, they are a 
sailing race as skilled as the Sudanese in navigation and the construction of sandboats, and freely 
ply the Desert Ocean to its farthest limits.  While at the same time, their culture is never allowed 
to intermingle with the other cultures of this world.  They travel secretly and in disguise to gather 
information for the completion of their stoneworks.  Why, you ask.  Because they are 
commanded by their god, I suppose, or because they suffer a horrible deformity that distinguishes 
them from the rest of the populous, that renders them instant outcasts and pariahs wherever they 
travel." 
She paused to catch her breath before answering the second of his questions.  "As to why 
they are despised, the reasons are many.  As Becker would tell it, they are despised because of 
their unusual origins and cruel dispositions.  As Captain Tipper would tell it, they are despised for 
an alleged slaughter that they perpetrated in this place. 
"As I tell it, the Clog, as they are known to mages, are despised simply because they are 
different and will not be absorbed into any kingdom or political alliance.  They are despised for 

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the ravages of the disease that consumes their flesh as they age.  They are despised for their cold, 
dispassionate care of these oases, care that offers sustenance but not weapons or men at arms or 
defensible walls to hold.  They are despised because they refuse to intervene in the affairs of 
outsiders, except to pluck them from the sea, and offer the needy sustenance where they can. 
"Yet, according to the superstitious Osgarthe, their benevolence is not enough to redeem 
the Clog.  He would have them be all defending warriors to assume every fight and petty political 
dispute that rolls across the Desert Ocean sands.  But they will not, so he despises them.  Becker 
would have them be more readily understood in their timeless messages.  But they will not, so he 
despises them.  And Captain Tipper would have them stand up to the notorious Vandegarte of 
Empire, when that bloody savage had come to lay his ruinous hand on these wasted lands.  But 
they did not, so he would despise them. 
"The straight of your tale is not largely different from the way you told it, captain.  Wisely, 
you refused to speculate as to how or why the men were hanged, and simply related that they had 
entered into this valley in a storm and were subsequently found drying in the harsh sunlight many 
weeks later.  This much is true, but the detail is lacking.  What really happened had nothing 
directly to do with the Clog, though indirectly you might find blame in their actions, once you 
have heard me through. 

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"Beyond what is transcribed on the Painted Wall many leagues south of here, the story of 
the Verdune Atrocity is little told.  What you left out in your ignorance, Captain Tipper, was that 
Sin Supri had occupied this citadel many months prior to that long ago and tragic storm, while 
questing for sacred relics and talismans allegedly concealed by the Clog, which race had long 
eluded his wrath among the mountains.  With Vandegarte's fell army and foul forces encamped all 
around the high plateau over our heads, the Clog could do nothing but hide.  Which they did.  
They are not a warfaring people, and loathe bloodshed of any kind, you see.  They have no 
machinery for the forging of weapons or armor.  They labor only to finish the Painted Wall, and 
are interested in nothing else. 
"When Vandegarte came to these lands, they gave no slightest thought of making a fight 
of it but hurried to hide deep within the Earthbones, where they could never be found.  Sin Supri 
took possession of the mesa above, and camped there for many long months while his searches 
continued to probe the mountain ranges to the north and south of here.  Countless scores of his 
own servants perished in this vain endeavor, but that madman cares nothing at all for the 
hardships or dying of others.  His only frustration was that he could not lay his hands on the 
sacred artefacts he had come to claim, and neither did he manage to capture alive a single Clog in 
all that time.  Not one. 
"He was poised on decamping, ready to surrender his quests and return south to wage 
wars on other lands, when your hapless Sudanese kinsmen and all their allies were blown into the 
Painted Wall.  As a fat, bloated spider at the center of an orb web, Sin Supri accepted the 

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straggling approach of all those hundreds of doomed men, his arms wide and inviting, a smile high 
upon his maniacal face.  Succor he claimed to be, and salvation.  Indeed, he generously fed your 
ancestors while the impromptu muster continued, and kept them safe as houses until every last 
man was recovered from the wastes.  Many weeks passed in the meantime, as the Clog tell it, and 
all the while Vandegarte's dark, misshapen hordes were busy at the bluff precipice, hammering 
and nailing and sawing and chipping stone. 
"Since they were kept below and unable to see for themselves, the men of the armada 
were easily deceived by that black wizard, who sadistically informed them that boats were being 
readied for their return voyage to Bahia Sud and its allied nations.  Naturally, the men were elated 
and content to wait out their host's apparent good will.  They could not and did not know that 
instead scores of overhanging gallows had been prepared to stretch their necks, all on a single 
day. 
"Indeed, this black reality was not verified until the day of execution dawned.  Cruelly, the 
crews were told their aid was needed in carrying the unassembled hulls down to the sand sea, and 
they were marched up to the plateau, singing happily.  Only when they were mustered in a long 
line across the precipice, and their gallows at their feet, did the Sudanese realize that things were 
not what they had earlier seemed.  They pled and moaned and wailed and cried or just blubbered 
despairingly, their souls crushed irretrievably; which display only served to enhance Vandegarte's 
satisfaction and sanguine glee.  This was, you understand, precisely the effect he had plotted to 
achieve.  The bloated spider had finally leapt upon its prey, and, naturally, there could be no 

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Stephen Huff 
 
reprieve, no mercy, no redemption for those lost men.  To a last number, their hands were bound 
and nooses knotted behind their ears. 
"Then, at a personal command from Vandegarte, they were pushed over.  And left 
dangling to dance into irrevocable stillness."  Pandolyn finished in a breathless, whispered voice.  
"The end." 
A moment of silence followed, which was shattered when Osgarthe thundered, "Well, I, 
for one, do not feel better!  The tale is no happier the way you tell it, Lady Pandolyn!" 
"But how." started Block, and stopped.  "But why.  Surely no man could commit such a 
crime without... without good reason."  The boy seemed to be almost pleading for verification of 
this supposition, as if in receiving such he could be reassured of a sane world's sanity. 
Epsilon could offer nothing of the kind.  An ill intended laughter escaped his throat before 
it could be bitten off.  "First, Bloody Vandegarte is anything save a man.  Second, he had a good 
reason at the time; madness.  Sheer, incomprehensible madness and death lust.  Pathos that makes 
its own logic, that conforms to alien reason.  If what my master says is true, and I do not doubt 
her words, then those ancient men were hung for the same reason that you or I might indulge in 
wine after a long day's fruitless hunt.  That black wizard had come for something that was denied 
him, and into the midst of his anger and frustration entered your Sudanese ancestors.  Fate 
doomed them to the gallows." 
Vespuzia grunted, and noted with a neutral tone, "Yet the Clog did nothing to prevent the 
slaughter.  Neither did they warn our men of the danger." 

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Stephen Huff 
 
From Oglot, "Thus, they are despised." 
"And for good reason," added Osgarthe angrily, "If it is true." 
"Oh," inserted Pandolyn, "It is all true enough.  And, though it is a horrible atrocity and 
crime against the gods, it is not the greatest or the least of Sin Supri's transgressions.  He is 
devoted to the causes of perversion and injustice.  What you find objectionable, he finds pleasing. 
What you deem distasteful, he deems palatable in the extreme.  And what you would call wrong, 
he would most definitely claim as right."Yet this is nothing to do with the Clog.  Had they 
intervened, even a single one of them would have been slain.  Genocide, their genocide, could 
only have ensued.  Vandegarte had come to this sandy valley with a train of tortures and a truck 
of branding irons, intent on doing exactly that; slaughter the Clog and steal everything they 
owned."  The wizardess paused for effect, and turned a steely eye on Osgarthe.  “You tell me, 
bountyman.  What would your countrymen do in the same situation, if it were an armada of 
stranded Clog lost on the shores of Bahia Sud and that lunatic at your gates.  Would the 
Sudanese allow themselves to be vanquished entirely from the earth, and all memory of their 
existence erased, merely to save a relative handful of strangers.  I think not." 
"And I think," announced Vespuzia sharply, his intent pointed and clear, “That we have 
debated this tired legend unto boredom.  I am ready for sleep, as should you all be.  Tomorrow," 
he yawned, patting his nest to fluffiness, "We sail for our homeland... and eastbound mages..." (his 
voice fading into slumber) "...may go their own... separate... ways...." 

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Stephen Huff 
 
Epsilon's mind, however, was not so quickly or quietly stilled.  His thoughts raged long 
and hard into the late hours of darkness, and he could not sleep.  Eventually, he assumed the 
watch in place of Caspazia, and stirred restlessly through the far shadows of the broad solarium, 
his head bowed, his footsteps respectfully muffled. 
He struggled to understand depravity in all its ugly facets and vile forms.  He struggled to 
comprehend bestiality and a frame of mind so corrupt and malign as to transcend the bounds of 
mere amorality.  A frame of mind that was the antithesis of his own, that pondered the murder of 
babes and was thrilled, that loved the strangulation of innocent boys, that longed for horror and 
blasphemy, that was intent on filling the earth with all these dark, unwholesome things and more.  
He struggled to find reason, however warped or unjustified, in Vandegarte's actions.  A child that 
stands beneath the halo of a single fluttering candle, he cast his curious, concerned gaze out on all 
the darkness of an unlit world that surrounded him.  He cast out his gaze and struggled vainly to 
see.  But what sight, where illumination is unknown.   Could there be understanding where 
explanations, where truths, were all whispered lies.  Where nothing was firm or familiar, where all 
was alien and sterile, void of human emotions and yet plagued with the desires of a devil.  How 
could a man, a mere, mortal man, an orphan, a bastard, a murderer of his fellows, stand beneath 
the tiny circle of light that is an everyday understanding of the universe, of the gods and their 
inexplicable purposes, and point out the flaws of the shadows.  How could he begin to guess at 
the form or content of a void. 

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Stephen Huff 
 
Then, hours into his mental divinations, the Ritesman suffered a bold realization.  With 
that rare bolt of insight that is sometimes visited into the deepest confusions, he suddenly 
understood that he was looking at the problem with the wrong eyes.  He was striving to see with 
his humanity into a realm that was absent of all life and love of living.  He had been struggling to 
understand dispassion with a compassionate mind. 
What he felt was needed instead was a simpler sight.  The sight of an uncomplicated 
animal. 
Animals do not emote, and so have no need to understand or share in the joys of emotion. 
 Animals do, however, experience desire.  Savage, instinctive, primordial desires that know 
nothing of restraint or forbearance, that shun the softer side always for the harsher.  What was 
required in the understanding of Vandegarte and his ilk was the mind of a ravenous wolf.  A wolf 
that is a serpent that is a vulture that is a low, slinking, filthy rat that is a chimera of everything 
primeval.  With the eyes of a nocturnal beast, one could gaze into Sin Supri's history and find 
there purpose, intent, justified beliefs, sanctimonious self-righteousness.  With the eyes of a 
monster, one could find form in the void and divine logic in the madness.  For animals do, indeed, 
experience desire. It is their one experience. They desire without pity or mercy, and snatch what 
they would have.  They snatch it thoughtlessly, except for the thought that they should have it 
above and beyond all others.  They do not design, except to plot for conquest, for acquisition, for 
dominance.  In the animal's understanding, there is no room for subservience.  The subservient are 
doomed to perish at the hands of the dominant, and instinct evolves not to prosper extinction.  

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Stephen Huff 
 
Instinct evolves to prosper a desire for life at any means.  Instinct evolves to promote those that 
practice said desire without hesitation or thought or consideration or regard or concern or interest 
or care or anything that makes men civilized human beings rather than the animals they once were. 
 Instinct defined the animal's baser way of life. 
And so Vandegarte could come to such a beautiful, peaceful place with ravishment on his 
mind.  He could search out the life-loving people that fashioned this Painted Wall and its 
mysterious Verdune, and long to destroy them, to enslave them that they might be worked unto 
extinction. 
And so Vandegarte could snatch up the hapless survivors of that long ago storm, saving 
them from the desert only to mar and manipulate their minds with a false love that was really 
hatred of all things living.  And so he could hang them to a last man.  Laughing to see them kick 
by the hundreds. 
And so the vile usurper could do all the nasty, despicable things he had done, and feel 
justified in doing them.  In his mind, he was not a criminal.  In his mind he was quite simply the 
most successful animal.  He was the dog at the upper teat.  Indeed, he was the dog with all the 
lands' teats in his mouth.  In his single minded quest for dominion, Vandegarte had come to 
control or own everything on earth, or had destroyed that which refused him.  This was, in effect, 
Sin Supri's world. 
He had made it what it was.  His hands had long shaped the future from the past, and now 
the future was what he would make of it.  And now his desired future was the present reality. 

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Stephen Huff 
 
It was a damnable reality.  A blighted reality.  A cursed reality.  Because its master was a 
damnable, blighted, cursed fiend. 
Suddenly, the unhappy world of which he was but a small part, that previously 
incomprehensible confusion of magic and magical monsters, was a crystal clear thing in his mind.  
A pure diamond that has been hacked from the clouded, obscured rough, Epsilon's understanding 
of his life, of the forces which had shaped it, of the cold, determined fate that had spawned it, was 
suddenly lucid.  Lucid and hard and set. 
Whereupon his nervous, vigilant pacing came to a halt, and his body stiffened as though an 
unseen assassin had thrust a blade between his ribs.  Epsilon Three of the Martial Rite sucked a 
deep breath and suffered a revelation from his god.  It was a revelation that his presence on earth, 
his place in the world, was a destined and finely tuned thing.  His mind reeling, he felt 
momentarily disoriented, and had visions of a dark swath of sable as great as the unobstructed 
sky... it was falling, rippling and dimpling, ruffling and roiling, billowing and blowing, falling, 
falling to smother him in its sheer breadth and all encompassing length... it was a forever darkness 
settling atop his head... and his sword was drawn... raised... slashing, slicing, cutting, rending the 
fabric... rending it to nothing... revealing the light.... 
Epsilon shook his head and stumbled wearily.  It was late.  He was exhausted, and his 
mind was purged of its troubling thoughts.  Somebody else must assume the watch. 

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Stephen Huff 
 
Before he collapsed into the thick pile of his discarded cloak, the Ritesman kicked 
Osgarthe rudely awake.  With a warning to 'watch for cat-footed ghosts bearing platters of fruit', 
Epsilon closed his eyes and slept. 
 
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