Draven’s Revenge 

 
Stephen Huff 

 

 

 

 

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

Draven’s Revenge 

 
Stephen Huff 

 
Draven’s 
Revenge 

Draven’s Revenge 

 
Stephen Huff 
3
Contents 

 
# 
 
Chapter Title 

 

 
 
Saga Third – Draven’s Revenge 

 
 
21 
 
Earth’s Bones 
 
821 
 22 
 
Draven’s Cleft 
 
857 
 
23 
 
Forever War 
 
912 
 24 
 
Beyond Nercules’ Pillars 
 
945 
 
25 
 
Nowhere at All 
 
982 
 26 
 
Callathorne Awake! 
 
998 
 
27 
 
Towers of Dreams 
 
1,060 
 
28 
 
To Swim the Styx 
 
1,073 
 
29 
 
A Mortal Mire 
 
1,107 
 
30 
 
The Marching Dead 
 
1,112 
 31 
 
Hades’ Table 
 
1,134 
 
32 
 
A Second May Seem a Day  
1,142 
 33 
 
And Now TURN! 
 
1,171 

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Stephen Huff 
4

 

 
21 

Earth’s Bones 

On waking the next morning, they found the same sort of feast laid out awaiting their 
pleasure, though the last watchman, Alanetti, swore he had not fallen asleep and that he had heard 
or seen nothing.  Which was an odd thing to say, since the tables had been cleared and festooned 
mere sticks distant from the sleeping crew.  There were further whispers of hated ghosts, but the 
crew's conversation was abnormally subdued otherwise. 
Each man was thinking of the cool savannahs high overhead, and of the roasting desert 
down below.  Each man was thinking of home, and of how far remained before they were 
returned there, and of how near at hand lay the salvation of Verdune.  Each man was thinking of 
the Lucky Lady, of her foreboding presence that was rescue as much as it was doom.  Each man 
eyed the quite, cool pools of sloshing water at the solarium's center and longed privately never to 
leave.  Though leave they must. 

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All except for the three pilgrims and their cargo of fertilizer.  Epsilon and Vespuzia often 
exchanged glances over the fare of this, their final meal together, but they did not speak. 
Silently, Becker rose with his crew to fill the ship's water vessels and return them to the 
Lady's empty holds.  By noon, it was finished, and Captain Tipper was ready to sail. 
He stood at the highest step, the ten thousandth step, and exchanged grips with the 
Ritesman.  Osgarthe was there also, and shared in the parting. 
Vespuzia declared, "Never have I met a man so true.  I value your company as I value that 
of the good Osgarthe, of the faithful Becker.  And I hope we shall have cause to meet again in 
happier times." 
"And I return to you the same fond wishes.  And you, Osgarthe.  It is a good brother that 
will not allow his siblings to have truck with dishonor.  Keep yourselves both safe and sound, and 
know you are loved by a man of the Martial Rite."  He proffered a sheath of signed vouchers, 
good to draw from Oreset's brimming vaults, which the captain accepted with a leer and a dip of 
his floppy hat. 
With that, the two sailors turned to follow their crew down the steep stair.  After several 
paces, the trader paused and turned back, however, to say, "If you are quickly returned from your 
mongering of war in the east, Epsilon Three, then come to this place, this brooding Verdune.  I 
first sail to Bahia Sud to spend your gold, with the intention of returning soon to Oreset to claim 
the rest of my reward.  By way of voyaging there, I will make a final call in this cursed valley.  If 
you are here waiting, I should be happy to carry you home across the Desert Ocean." 
Epsilon nodded gratefully, and smiled.  "I will not forget." 

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"Good.  Happy voyages, my friend.  May all your winds blow fair and true, and my your 
skates never fall silent!"  Then the trader was truly, finally gone without another glance backward. 
The Ritesman stood in the burning sun and reveled in these cooler temperatures of the 
heights, even as he felt sympathy for his friends, who must so quickly return to hell.  As Lucky 
Lady lifted her heavy catch spurs and her canvass wings were raised to catch the breeze, Epsilon 
waved back at the lone figure waving from the boat's stern rail.  It was Block, could be no other.  
Was that his tiny, young voice calling 'farewell, farewell, farewell'.  Or a morose stir of the air that 
only resembled human speech. 
From the shadows of the facade at his back, Pandolyn asked, "You have truly claimed the 
reprehensible Captain Tipper for your friend, of all the scoundrels in the world."  Her tone was 
mild and only slightly mocking.  She heaved a reluctant breath, and amended her opinion of the 
trader.  "Perhaps my initial judgments of him were premature and misplaced.  Perhaps I am 
blinded by my own prejudice." 
The Warfarer grunted, the reflections of a pitching sandboat caught in the gloss of his 
liquid irises.  "I know not what has previously transpired between you two, but you were not 
wrong to judge Vespuzia a scoundrel.  You were instead wrong to deem me a reasonable man.  
There is no reason in this world," he grumbled, at last turning away.  "No logic.  And nothing and 
no one is sacred or holy." 
"Not even your beloved Martial Rite." 
"Especially not the Rite."  And he penetrated the shadows beneath the ornate facade 
entrance, into the cool, shaded antechamber beyond. 

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Ten thousand pounds of polished niter lay there unmoving, gathered in ponderous sacks of 
five stone weight.  Too much for even a large man to carry far. 
Pandolyn approached at his back, her mouth a gaping maw of bristling teeth.  "You are 
wondering how we shall bear our load to our destination.  It must seem an impossible task to 
move so much so far and across mountain ranges so high.  And it is.  And so we shall not carry it 
one foot." 
"Is it useful to us here." 
"No.  We must have it where we will go, but shhh, do not say it.  Not so near to the great 
danger."  Meaning, do not mention the word 'Ilmacht'. 
"Then how will it arrive there." 
"The Clog will bear it for us, under the mountains, through secret passages and tombs that 
only they know of or may safely traverse."  She cocked her head and made a roundabout motion 
with one scaly hand.  "It is their... contribution to the cause, you might say." 
"Or a way of redeeming their cowardice of centuries gone by." 
"You are too critical, my general.  Leave the Clog to their ways, I urge you, for you do 
not understand them and should not condemn that which you do not comprehend." 
"As you would have it, lady.  I would further comment only to ask if they may be utterly 
and completely trusted in this matter." 
"The Clog loathe Sin, Epsilon, and everything it represents.  They can be trusted to keep 
this charge, and have in fact performed similar services for me in the past.  This is not the first 
cargo of its kind, though it will be the last, for good or ill.  But come," she said, leading him away 

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toward the far room with a gentle paw upon his shoulder.  "We should climb to the high plateau.  
Ubar has prepared us for the voyage, and I think you shall find your friend anxiously awaiting 
your attentions." 
"Helmcleaver.  Is he well." 
"Better than yesterday, at any rate, not as well as tomorrow.  Sadly, not well enough to 
ride.  But come," she urged again when he seemed to balk.  "We should join them and be on our 
way.  There is no time to waste." 
"And my gear." 
"Ubar has tended it well.  You shall find all in order." 
Epsilon followed somewhat reluctantly, his gaze turned back over his right shoulder.  He 
kept watch on the Desert Ocean as seen through Verdune's alabaster columns.  A purpled, jagged 
line of mountains marred the horizon, while a merest splash of white canvass disfigured the 
rippled sands far below.  Lucky Lady tacked against the wind there, impossibly small when 
compared to the endless wastes.  A sea of sand awaited her, and all its violent, destructive storms. 
 Yet she remained undaunted.  She voyaged happily into the heart of that infernal tempest, for this 
was her nature.  This was what she had been born to do. 
"I will miss those men sorely, I think," he spoke softly, not caring whether the lizard 
woman heard or not.  "They were the closest thing to friendship I have ever known.  I never 
thought to find such company again once I was lost beyond the Great Barricade.  And now I have 
the same premonition, only it is a thousand times more exquisitely focused." 

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"Do not despair, my general.  You are meant for greater things and higher places."  
Gripping his elbow gently, she urged the Ritesman once more to follow.  "Your army and its fine 
officers await.  Perhaps they may fill the void in your heart." 
The Warfarer followed more surely now, tearing his eyes away from the awesome view 
beyond Verdune's semicircular dome.  "A commander does not befriend men that might soon die 
by his command.  And there is no void in my heart.  I merely said I had a premonition." 
"Premonitions.  Dreams.  Wishes," scoffed the wizardess sharply.  "Toss them all into one 
cook pot and your hunger will not be appeased.  Think nothing of your ill portents, Epsilon.  This 
unhappy place is overly given to inspiring them, I think." 
"Perhaps," he wiped away a last sheen of desert sweat from his brow with his gloved right 
hand.  "Perhaps I inspire them in myself." 
They entered into the solarium beyond the antechamber, and rounded the pools.  Epsilon 
stopped to dip a last helmet full of the cool, sweet waters, then hurriedly followed Pandolyn 
across the richly fashioned marble floor, his weapons and armor rattling.  She led him into the 
easternmost archway, which led in turn to a small, domed alcove and a steeply climbing stair of 
imposing proportions.  Giants might have walked ten abreast there without crowding.  Yet the 
steps were carved on smaller dimensions and were well suited to human legs and feet. 
It was a shockingly interminable climb, and high.  Yet the way never varied left or right.  
Neither did it dip or rise in its grade, but continued on in a mesmerizing, uniform fashion, straight 
and true.  Perfect.  Whatever else they might be, the Clog were certainly masters of stonework.  
The lines of the passage were linear and precise.  Immaculate.  Epsilon could easily understand 

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how those strange, unseen people might be confused for the descendants of gods.  For they were 
indeed godlike in their designs and constructions.  All along the way, the ceiling was graven with 
runes, with frescos, with friezes, with portraits etched directly into the living flesh of the 
mountain. 
As she stamped along, Pandolyn recited the tales told therein; tales of kings risen, kings 
fallen, of plots and intrigues, of triumphs and failures, of loves tragic and loves enduring, of gods 
and gods' games.  Epsilon listened in silence and struggled to keep pace with the loping lizard 
woman. 
Many hours later it seemed, the steps leveled into a pyramidal chamber with but a single 
open doorway facing, as always, directly east.  Pandolyn led the way immediately outside, into 
knee high grasses and wildflowers that were stirred by a soft, gentle, cool, sweetly scented 
mountain breeze.  Overhead, the late afternoon sun was bright, but its touch was not the searing 
blaze they had known so far, far below in the grips of the wastes.  
Epsilon rubbed his eyes, long accustomed as they were to the darkness of the tunneled 
passage.  He stepped out onto the soft turf of the mesa, and turned to examine the building at the 
head of the stair.  Outside like within, it was a pyramid.  A pyramid of polished volcanic glass that 
sparkled and shone in the sunlight.  It was the most beautiful, and at the same time the most 
oppressive, structure that he had ever seen.  Beyond it, to the west, that sandy valley was a wide 
stretch of brown amid purples and greens.  Heat shimmers disturbed the air over the sands, and 
the massed grains twinkled as a spilled horde of gold dust in the distances. 

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Facing around in the opposite direction, back to the east, he could see nothing beyond the 
flanks of the towering Earthbones.  They did not merely mar the horizon at this proximity, but 
WERE the horizon.  The high horizon. 
Flat and nearly level, the mesa stretched north and south infinitely and ran all the way up 
to the craggy foothills in the east.  Ridge upon ridge, peak upon peak, range upon range was 
gathered there, poised ready to deny them passage. 
His chin dropping, Epsilon asked how Pandolyn intended for them to cross these daunting 
obstacles.  Years might be required to make such a passage.  And what of illdross and all this 
wide, open space. 
The wizardess responded with a broad, reptilian grin of countless teeth, and said, "Do not 
be concerned for dragons here.  They are a rare sight, and we can easily hide in the tall grasses 
that grow on the savannahs.  As for these Earthbones, there is a way we may cross to the far side 
without climbing more than a few thousand feet."  When Epsilon frowned in consternation, she 
added, “I see by your face that you are surprised and skeptical.  Yet it is true."  She shifted her 
many bags and pouches, and cast about impatiently for her protégée.  "Where is that unruly child. 
 He was told to be waiting for us here.  Well, never mind.  He will be along presently."  Now the 
lizard woman fished a worn parchment map out of one of her larger satchels.  "Come here and I 
will show you the route." 
Together, they leaned over the details of her chart.  A single curled talon traced their path 
across the Desert Ocean, beginning at Midpointe Rock, which lay at the farthest edge of the 
representation.  From there she indicated how they had progressed into the basin valley (which 

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was unimaginatively named Verdune's Draw) up to Verdune, itself.  Now she showed how they 
would cross the mesa to an ancient road that paralleled the Earthbones, which highway would 
take them past the crumbling gates of a city that had been built and abandoned long, long before 
even Sin Supri had lived. 
This, Epsilon was told, was Draven's Keep, or the ruins of it anyway.  And it had been 
built in forgotten ages to protect a secret which was known to but a few select minds in all the 
world. 
"Fortunately for us, I happen to be one of those few," stated Rit Merdian with no small 
amount of pride.  "It is my trump card in this game I play with Sin Supri, for I do not believe he is 
aware of the secret's nature, himself.  There is, you see, a natural fault in the bedrock just here," 
and she pointed to the illustrated mountains of her diagram which abutted Draven Cleft.  Then she 
traced a line almost directly east that was not drawn there.  "It progresses crookedly through 
these ranges, all the way to the arid lands of Bac Tur.  Thus, a passage that should require weeks 
or months is reduced to one of but a few day's duration." 
"And you are convinced Vandegarte knows nothing of it." 
"I am not certain, but it is my best guess.  Why do I think it so.  Because he has never 
moved to block this most strategic back door, this Draven’s Cleft, which opens directly into the 
heart of his fiery abode.  Do you see how Bac Tur is bordered on the east, west and north by 
variously named ranges of the Earthbones.  The only widely known entrance into that country is 
from the south, across blasted plains of wastes that make the Desert Ocean seem a gay vacation 
spot."  She pointed out the geography in question, and Epsilon's martial mind drank in the 

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topography, the foreign names of places he had never and probably would never see.  "Yet we 
will enter here," and she pointed out a spot just west of Bac Tur's capitol, Ilmacht.  "But a few 
weeks' march from the mad dog's lair." 
"Now I am confused, my lady.  You told me many days earlier that the Sin Supri wizard 
was well acquainted with your visitations to his lands.  And now you say he has remained ignorant 
of your method of ingress.  How can both these realities be true at the same time." 
She waved away his worries.  "It is a simple matter, really.  As on this voyage, I always 
managed to be shed of the agents he sent against me.  And if I could not immediately accomplish 
this, which has happened on occasion, then I led my pursuers into the Earthbones north or south 
of here.  I pretended to cast about for a way in, and even went so far as to climb the treacherous 
high passes that so well insulate Bac Tur from invasion.  In this manner, I believe I have 
successfully persuaded my opponent that my entry into his nation is arduous and slow and 
achieved via much dangerous climbing. I believe I have convinced him that I am still searching for 
an easy way in." 
"In short, he does not suspect you are capable of staging a massed assault on his rear 
areas, which we are intent on doing." 
"Correct." 
Epsilon rubbed his whiskers and studied the layout of the land, comparing its strategic 
landmarks to their proposed course and guessing at the utility of Pandolyn's plans.  He hedged, 
"Then we should probably be meeting our forces here, at Draven’s Cleft." 

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"No.  I already told you, my general, your army is encamped about our enemy's walls, 
ready and waiting to attack." 
"Though Ilmacht's master remains ignorant of this fact," he stated, more to assure himself 
he had the straight of it all, even if he could not decipher the density and complexities of a 
wizards' designs. 
"The surprise of our attack will be utter and complete," she chuckled blackly.  "As I have 
arranged for it, Ilmacht's walls will come down in a single morning, and its interior be razed by 
nightfall.  Once we are safely on the far side of the Cleft with our polished niter, I will have the 
villain in checkmate.  His end will be more or less assured." 
"My lady," retorted the Warfarer cautiously, "It is my experience that 'more or less' is 
sufficient only when fishing with a large net.  In matters of planning war, it is the equivalent of 
saying 'not at all'." 
"Well," she offered more humbly, rolling her parchment to store it away, “Perhaps my 
predictions are overly optimistic.  Still, our destruction of Ilmacht and the re-" she stopped herself 
sharply, and quickly started again, "The redemption of Bac Tur will be a big step in the right 
direction.  Not even you can deny that sacking an opponent's capitol is a meaningless gesture." 
"No, I will not deny what you say, once I see it proven true.  Until then, nothing is certain 
or finished." 
"As you would have it.  I will try to save my gloating for a time of absolute victory.  Until 
then, do not be mindful of my enthusiasm and optimism, however difficult it might be for you to 

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15
share in these pleasures."  Pandolyn purred softly, playfully, and glanced up at the sounds of 
running feet.  "Ah, here is Ubar at last, and your fine stallion." 
Epsilon wheeled to see behind him, and spotted the horse and boy running down the flanks 
of a low rolling hill, bound for the obsidian pyramid.  Helmcleaver was scarcely trotting, the 
stirrups of its saddle bouncing emptily, and Ubar easily kept pace using his own agile reptilian 
gait. 
The black horse blew and whinnied happily when it saw Epsilon, and seemed upset with 
itself when it could not climb the next hill at a full gallop but was forced to walk instead.  Its legs 
shaking weakly, the warhorse neared uncertainly, blowing and foaming, the flanks of its muscles 
twitching with exertion.  The Warfarer was shocked and dismayed to see his once proud animal 
laid so low, but quickly realized he was lucky to have saved the beast at all.  The voyage had been 
a torture for the Lady's men, and must have been an indescribable hell for the thirsty horse kept 
down in her stifling hold. 
Despite the hardships and privations, Helmcleaver seemed to have forgiven his master, and 
was simply happy to at long last be free of the oven.  The two exchanged embraces, and Epsilon 
reassured his beloved animal with long, soothing strokes of its corded neck and flanks. 
Ubar announced that he would tote Epsilon's gear until the stallion was returned to 
service, and dashed off to the east, frolicking amid the wild flowers and honeysuckle that adorned 
the hillsides like joyous garlands.  Pandolyn and her general followed at a slower pace, 
Helmcleaver in tow.  They pressed due east away from the black pyramid, their shadows 

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Stephen Huff 
16
stretching out before their feet as the sun set at their backs.  Though it must have been a warm 
late summer afternoon, Epsilon's skin pimpled and he felt chilled by the breeze. 
Momentarily, he felt confused and was afraid he had caught a cold, but quickly realized it 
was a simple matter of his body having to once more adjust to these cooler heights.  Long 
accustomed to the desert's blast furnace gales, this lukewarm wind that washed his face was like 
ice water upon his skin.  He reveled in it, and tried not to think of Vespuzia trapped down below. 
That night they camped amid the crumbling ruins of an ancient homestead, which squatted 
atop a low, rounded hill, couched in weeds and rampant ivies.  As they could find no decent fuel 
for a fire, they would eat and sleep cold.  Epsilon, for one, did not grumble at the prospect, but 
curled into his heavy cloak, his hands locked behind his head, to stare up at the stars. 
"Oh, wizardess so wise," he began, "Tell me if you can, what are stars.  What is the 
moon.  Why must day and night plague the world." 
Pandolyn was in the process of stowing the remains of her dinner away, but paused to also 
turn her reptilian head skyward.  A million tiny pinpricks of light shined down into her eyes.  As 
the moon not yet risen, those far away candles ruled the night, and were as countless as leaves in a 
forest, as blades of grass on the savannahs.  And stretched between them, though it seemed 
infinitesimal from here, was a void as vast and lightless and empty as darkness, itself, that was, in 
fact, infinite nothingness. 
She considered the imponderable majesty of the universe, of the untold galaxies and 
worlds that inhabited it, then she considered her would be pupil, the Ritesman.  Oh, he was smart 
enough as men generally go, but he was not a mind.  He was not a scholar.  His religion had 

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17
educated him only as far as the arts of killing and warfare had demanded.  If she told him the 
truth, would he believe.  Could he conceive and be newborn from his ignorance. 
With a stiff, slight shrug of her shoulders, Pandolyn decided she would try.  There could 
be no real harm in it.  "Stars," she answered slowly, stooping to finish packing her bags, "Are 
worlds upon worlds upon worlds, my general.  Each is a sun shining brightly in far away skies.  
And around each, planets spin and roll, much as this one circles the central light in its heavens.  
Even as our moon circles the horizons, captured and slaved by the central forces of this earth.  
Thus are days and nights born." 
Epsilon stewed in silence for a time, his attentions focused on the diamond scattered 
raiment of night, and he wondered why even simple things should be so damned complicated.  
Finally he asked the inevitable question; "What do you mean." 
Into which query the master leapt eagerly.  "What happens when a man holds a lighted 
lamp up to your face in full darkness.  The flame fills your vision and the illumination is blinding.  
But what if that same man and that same lamp are removed a hundred sticks away.  Eh.  The 
light is dimmer, the flame burns much smaller.  And what if he is removed across the valley, many 
miles away.  The light scarcely shines at all, and is less than the glowworm's illumination.  Yes. 
"Well, it is the same with the stars and the heavens.  Were I a goddess, with the ability to 
lift our sun out of its place and carry it many, many, many leagues more distant that it already is, 
even its blazing brilliance would fade and diminish.  Its warmth would be eventually reduced to 
nothing.  Yet it is so bright that it could never be extinguished entirely.  Always, it would be 

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visible in the void, though its source would be reduced to nothing more than a merest twinkling 
pinprick." 
The Warfarer laughed.  "You have flown over me like a soaring eagle, my lady, yet I think 
I grasp the central idea."  He fell silent a moment to digest his thoughts further.  "But I do not see 
night and day in it." 
"First, know that the world is not flat.  It is instead round, like a ball."  She made a fist 
with one paw.  "As is the sun."  And a fist with the other.  "And so, when the earth spins in the 
sky," she effected a rolling motion with her right, "The sun seems to rise on one side of the ball 
and descend on the other, as seen from a fixed point on the spinning ball, of course." 
"It seems the same effect could be achieved by revolving one ball about the other, like so," 
and he formed two worlds from his own fists and set them in motion, his right whirling about his 
left. 
"In fact, the earth does revolve around the sun, but this does not cause night and day.  If it 
did, a single day and night would be one year long.  No, the earth's orbit produces only the 
seasons, and nothing more.  It is the planet's revolution about a single axis that makes night and 
day." 
Secretly disbelieving but unable to deny or refute the mage's words, Epsilon intoned, "As 
you will have it, m'selle.  Perhaps some things are best understood only by a privileged few." 
Ubar laughed from where he was reclined in the grasses just outside the crumbling 
doorway.  "I did not think a man of Empire would be capable of believing such fanciful facts.  I, 

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myself, am struggling to accept many of the truths of this universe, yet these things I no longer 
deny." 
"Only a fool argues what he cannot understand," responded Epsilon neutrally, his subdued 
tone reflecting his respect of the youth's genius.  "Likewise, only a fool accepts everything he is 
told without question.  For myself, I will reserve ultimate judgment for a time when I have more 
carefully studied the problem.  Like as not, I will never understand it all, but I thank you for 
pretending I could." 
"Everyone should know their limitations," declared the wizardess pleasantly, finding a 
comfortable spot in a mass of tangled ivies.  "At least you did not respond with nonsense about 
the gods and how Aklas, the Kytan, holds up the skies, which are adorned by magic candles." 
The Ritesman felt a broad grin spread across his face, for this was indeed his exact 
understanding of the process.  Changing the subject, he next enquired, "What was this place, do 
you think." 
She sighed dreamily.  "A shepherd's abode, most likely, built by one of the few peoples the 
Clog tolerated to stay here.  Long lost and disappeared, as you can see." 
"What do you mean 'tolerated'.  I thought the Clog were a nonviolent people." 
"They are," parried Pandolyn, "But this does not imply they are utterly powerless.  As you 
must have already deduced, the Clog are a magnificent, if man-shy, race.  Their culture is steeped 
in lore, and holy men live among them that are in many cases nearly so powerful and 
knowledgeable as wizards of the Synod.  Nearly so." 

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"I see.  It seems strange that they should keep themselves so religiously hidden from view. 
 What do they fear." 
"Sin, mostly.  But they do not hide out of fright, rather it is modesty.  The Clog hide from 
casual observance for the same reason that I first approached you invisibly.  Ugliness and 
deformity are universally despised everywhere." 
"You are not ugly, Lady Pandolyn.  Even for a... a... well, even as you are, there is beauty 
in your figure and form.  And beauty within, as well.  Especially within." 
"You flatter me, Epsilon.  Almost, I believe your kind words, yet my ugliness is mild when 
compared to that of the Clog.  They are as physically vile and unwholesome as their artwork is 
stunning.  Were you to stumble across one in the flesh, your horror would most certainly 
overcome the objectivity of your nature.  Not even you, who befriends mangy curs and filthy 
street urchins, could love a Clog." 
"Then how can they travel the Desert Ocean openly." 
"For one thing, their deformities are a symptom of age.  During the first twenty five years 
of their lives, they appear to be as normal as you or-" she had stared to say 'I', but quickly caught 
her mistake, "Or Captain Tipper.  Then the sickness takes hold, and their very flesh begins to rot 
away and slough off for no apparent reason." 
Epsilon grimaced and swallowed.  "All of it." 
"Eventually.  Oh, the disease does not run its course overnight, but requires years of 
progression.  They wrap themselves in bandages as it progresses, though their wounds never heal. 

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 Eventually, their bodies are reduced to twisted, wasted, rotten masses of raw, rotting tissue and 
bones.  There is no known cure or treatment." 
"It sounds to be a grim fate."  The sacrificial hero rolled over onto his side, ready for sleep 
to come.  Wearily, he added, "Wich only proves that even a wretch like me should find fortune in 
his existence." 
"You might say the same thing for us all.  Sleep well, my general.  Tomorrow we must 
walk far and fast." 
Each bade the other fond dreams, and soon the dilapidated walls were filled with the 
echoes of snores and night breathing. Overhead, the true Eyestone of Bebblegeth floated sparkling 
in the darkness, watching over them in their slumberous voyages. 
The next morning dawned clear and cool.  As the sun rose into full view above the 
Earthbones, and its streaming rays shot out to light the west, Epsilon stood waist deep in coarse 
grasses and thought how vast and foreboding the world must be.  It seemed to go on and on and 
on.  There was no end to it.  And these mountains, these Earthbones, were as nothing when 
compared to the greater whole, while much less so was he, but a gnat on the arse of an olifant. 
Ubar approached stealthily from behind, though the whispering grasses clearly betrayed 
his movements.  "Where are your thoughts, master of war." hissed he suddenly, adding a snigger 
to see Epsilon feign a startled jump. 
"I was merely pondering gnats and olifants' arses, young Ubar.  Are we all ready to begin 
our long march." 

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"Pandolyn is making magic at the moment.  She commands that we should start without 
her." 
The Ritesman shook his head.  "How typical.  Let us go, then, young friend."  His legs 
working through the weeds, Epsilon joined his reptilian companion at the corner of the ruined 
homestead, and they started due east.  "I will listen to a funny story on the way.  What would you 
tell me." 
"From me, sire.  A funny story."  Ubar was pleased to be asked, but could think of 
nothing to say.  "Besides telling you the long, boring story of my life, which is a sort of joke all its 
own, I do not know a funny story." 
"But you must, my friend," goaded the Ritesman happily, relishing his freedom and an 
absence of sand.  Nearby, Helmcleaver whinnied and snorted.  Epsilon had saddled the stallion 
earlier, then turned it loose.  The horse would forage and follow at will.  There was no hurry.  
"Tell me of that one awkward fellow you must have known.  You know, the one that could do 
nothing but err and confuse." 
"Oh, I see."  Ubar walked and thought and thought and walked.  Finally, he said, "He was 
not quite as bad as you would have it, but I knew a merchant once that had a peculiar problem." 
"And what sort of problem did he have." 
The youth laughed a lizard's snide, hissing laughter, "It was his, er, uh, bowels, you see, or 
perhaps it was what he ate, I know not for certain.  But, well, he had this way of- of farting, of 
farting silently and without letting on that he had farted.  He used to sort of sit with this blank 
face, unmoving and utterly reasonable, never letting on that he was the source of the anal breach 

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or even that he smelt a thing until the entire room was aghast.  At which time he would grumble 
and point his finger with the rest of the company." 
"That is quite funny, Ubar." 
"But I am not finished.  What made the situation unbearable was the fact that his farts 
were the most disgusting and noxious kind of farts.  Have you ever smelled something so awful 
that you could not help but gag and wretch.  Yes.  Well, his were that sort of fart.  Utterly 
repulsive, and they had a way of lingering in place for an eternity, rendering the targeted room 
uninhabitable for hours at a time."  The youth hissed a snigger, and trotted on.  "I can tell you all 
this now, in hindsight, but at the time, you understand, we had not the slightest clue who was 
truly responsible.  My cousin's court was rife with rumors and suspicion, but it was of a subdued 
nature.  Until the phantom farter struck at a state dinner, in the middle of a dress ball, while the 
Emperor was dancing alone with his favorite concubine.  The ballroom was a ruin, the reek being 
so horrible and pervasive as to drive the cockroaches from their crannies. 
"Needless to say, my cousin was enraged and disgusted at the same time.  He alternated 
for a time between railing and gagging, managing to just barely keep his dinner down, when the 
phantom struck a second, and incidentally vastly more odorous, time.  Now the Emperor's fine, 
gourmet repast came up all at once, in a gush.  At the sight, his concubine lost her own meal.  
Then came the Commander General of all Empire.   Then the Secretary of State Affairs, then the 
Secretary of Ministries, and the Prime Minister, and his wife, and so forth until the night's dinner 
was relived en masse, course upon course. 

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"Ah, gods, it was horrible.  I only just managed to escape before it all began, and was 
happy to have done so, for my cousin, in his royal and haughty indignation, ordered the arrest of 
every man and woman in attendance, regardless of their rank or bearing." 
"Arrested.  But why." 
"To finally determine who the real phantom was, of course.  It became some hapless 
prison guard's duty to monitor each cell and prisoner until he located the source of the odors.  
Now the merchant, being who and what he was, naturally could not abstain for long.  And so he 
was caught." 
After he finished laughing, the Ritesman asked, "And what happened next." 
"The rest of the gentleman and their ladies were released and paid for their incarceration.  
Few grumbled aloud, as they were all too happy to be freed from the dank, dripping hole that is 
Tesla's royal dungeon." 
"But the merchant.  The phantom.  What happened to him." 
Ubar's head drooped a bit. "Yes, well, that is where the funny story sounds to be not so 
funny.  The merchant was executed publicly and during the Emperor's next official party.  It was a 
ghastly sight, and the man's unhappy family was forced to attend, before they were banished 
forever, weeping, into the Empire's northern wastes.  None were ever heard from or seen alive 
again." 
"His entire family." queried Epsilon unhappily. 
"Aye.  It is sad but true.  For a fart." 

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The Warfarer's laughter was as fled and gone as his good humor.  He was quite rudely 
reminded of his homeland, and of how it had been a corrupt and oppressive nation.  And he was 
never more glad that he had crossed beyond the Great Barricade, leaving that damnable country 
far behind. 
Looking ahead, his gaze was lost in the craggy, rough hewn hide of the Earthbones.  The 
sight thrilled his heart, and filled his head with visions of the wildness to be found there, of nature 
untamed that was not plagued every moment by dragons and monstrous insects. 
"It seems a great crime," he announced at length. 
"What, Holy Warfarer." 
"All this land left fallow, while children starve in Oreset."  The Ritesman turned his eyes 
cautiously on the broad, blue-white sky. No illdross roved the heights, hungry for human flesh. 
"If people voyaged here to settle, all the monsters of the Wilderlands would soon follow.  
For, as you know, the monsters of the Wilderlands ARE its people."  Ubar's words squeaked 
youthfully, but were sage and firmly delivered.  “Besides which, these eastern expanses are 
emptied of peoples save for the Clog for good reason.  A bloodthirsty maniac dwells just beyond 
the mountains, ever poised to wreak slaughter and havoc on peaceful folk.  For, while we travel 
largely unhindered at the moment, this land is thick with Sin Supri's minions.  These mountains are 
regularly patrolled by jetlas and worse." 
"But you just said these foothills are empty of peoples.  Where do the milts and such come 
from, then." 

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"They are bred for war and servitude in the lands of Bac Tur, though they are not free to 
roam wildly as are the illdross and jetlas of the greater Wilderlands.  The cursed overlord of that 
nation keeps his subjects like cattle, and uses magic to both speed their development and enhance 
their powers.  One rarely encounters lowly milts in this portion of the world, in fact.  Here, the 
higher forms predominate." 
Epsilon shrugged cavalierly.  "I do not fear jetlas." 
Ubar's tone was only mildly chiding.  "You may fear what they next become, however; 
ugluck and shail and rhiners and the occasional illdross, the latter of which Sin Supri employs as 
couriers and far ranging spies.  Each molt more powerful and skilled in the arts than the one 
before.  Even you, Holy Warfarer, would be dismayed to face down a rhiner in single combat."  
Ubar smiled toothily to soften the blow of his voiced doubts, but Epsilon did not seem to be 
concerned.  "Fortunately for us, the rhiners typically serve in a high capacity, and so are rarely 
encountered while ranging abroad.  They are the Enemy's general officers, so to speak." 
"Have you ever seen one, I wonder." 
"Not up close, but from afar."  The youth shuddered violently as he walked.  “Once 
Pandolyn lent me her telescope while we were spying upon Ilmacht's walls from a distance.  They 
are a brutish, nasty sort of creature, horned and plated, multi-limbed and twice as tall as a tall 
man.  Black authority fairly gushes from their auras, and they are feared universally.  Within the 
realm of Bac Tur, rhiners wield their powers as godlings, second only to their master." 
"I see."  The Ritesman waded the tall prairie grasses in silence for a time, his marching 
tuned to the swish-swish-swishing of his long, mighty legs as they cut relentlessly through the 

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stalks.  "They are doubtless as fierce and vile as you describe them to be, Ubar, yet I will reserve 
my fears for tangible things.  Let us not worry over confrontations that may or may never be." 
"As you would have it, master," responded the lizard boy neutrally.  "I only meant to 
remind you that we are arrived at our great adversary's doorstep, and that this is not a happy land, 
fit for neither robust crops nor laughing children." 
"You hardly need to remind me of anything, boy, but it comforts me to know that you, at 
least, realize the import of our place in the world.  We are nearing the head of this serpent that has 
been our long road to conflict.  As Andrietti was fond of remarking, we robins must tread softly 
and cautiously while walking the jeweled adder's back.  Eh, my friend." 
The boy laughed lightly.  "Aye.  We must tread softly as falling feathers." 
And so, with their eyes on the sky and the encompassing horizons, the two adventurers 
prosecuted their journey into the heart of darkness, into the bosom of waiting fate.  Of fate that 
was a wily whore reclined in the half light of an open doorway, her brow arched curiously, her 
finger crooked invitingly, and her pleasures bared for all to see.  The distant mountains of the east 
issued forth a chilled breeze, which washed the grasslands softly and rattled in their ears, seemed 
to whisper their names individually and as one.  Come.  Come to me.  Delve into my stony flesh, 
penetrate to my cold, rocky heart.  Come.  Come to be undone.  To undo.  The world awaits. 
After several hours of trudging, they descended a hillside and came to a shallow, narrow 
creek bed that was purged of waters.  Though there was every evidence that the stream once had 
flowed violently in flood, it was now as dry as old bones.  Epsilon decided it would be filled in the 
spring, after the thaw loosened those white snow caps of the far Earthbones.  Glancing in that 

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direction as if he might verify his supposition, the Ritesman was stunned to see a massive stone 
bridge spanning the little ravine many hundreds of sticks to the north and east. 
Pointing, he belched, "Look!" 
Ubar was distracted just as he poised to leap across the fifteen foot channel, and his head 
whipped about in fright, thinking an attack of rhiners might be imminent.  As a result, his leap 
came up a short.  Instead of vaulting the distance in a single bound, he plummeted into the 
shallow ditch and landed roughly with a bellow of disturbed dust. 
Scrambling back to the steep bank, which came to Ubar's chest, the boy at last turned his 
gaze to follow Epsilon's jutting finger.  Upon sighting the bridge, he opened his mouth to shout, 
'The Road!', but stopped himself.  Having traveled this damned country many times with his 
master, Ubar realized the highway they were seeking lay many days' march further along.  This 
bridge was something he had not seen before now. 
"Strange," he grunted, climbing out of the creek bed.  "This structure is new to me."  Ubar 
dusted himself off absently and tried to get a fix on their location by eyeing the surrounding hills.  
"We must have strayed south a bit." 
Epsilon had already turned to approach the bridge.  "Let us cross there, Ubar.  I would 
admire the stonework." 
"Perhaps we should..." hedged the youth uncertainly.  But the swordsman seemed to have 
made his mind.  It was either follow or be left behind. 
From the hilltop at their backs, Helmcleaver whinnied nervously, stamping.  Like Ubar, 
however, the stallion appeared to realize its options were limited.  It, too, followed the Ritesman. 

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As he approached the span, Epsilon realized it was an ancient construction, older even 
than the Clog's works, perhaps.  Its granite arches were cracked and pitted and crumbling in 
places, but they yet stood true.  Once fantastically adorned with abstract embossments and 
sculptures, time had reduced the features of these artworks to lumpy, shapeless anonymity.  
Scarcely nothing remained of its more detailed features, save for a deeply engraved sort of 
cartouche that was set into the bridge's base on either side. 
Symbols were carved into the cleared space of the cartouche, which appeared to be a sort 
of writing, but which Epsilon could not decipher.  As a curious child, he strode up to the massive 
arch's stony feet and stared up at the strange language of an absent race, his imagination running 
wild.  "I wonder what it says." 
Ubar cleared his throat.  "These words are older than ancient, and safe enough for our 
eyes.  It says, 'Prince Shellbiter of the Kingdom Plackhorn drowned at this ford in the thirtieth 
year and seventh month of his father's reign, while on campaign to conquer the northern realm of 
Ashendown.'"  After a pause that was rife with mumbling, the youth added uncertainly, "The 
inscription goes on to say something about how the stream was in flood at the time, and how the 
King, Dolphinrider, commissioned a great highway and many such bridges to cross these lands, 
that his armies might persecute his enemies with impunity." 
"Well done, Ubar," intoned Pandolyn as she neared from behind.  Her protégée and even 
her general were taken by surprise by her stealthy ingress.  “You have deciphered the gist of it, 
but your inexperience has mangled the semantics." 

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Epsilon had jumped at her words, and spun to draw his weapons in haste.  When he 
realized it was only Pandolyn, the Warfarer scowled blackly and let his steel slide back home.  
"Gods, woman!  I might have soiled my britches!" 
They all shared a strained laughter that eased the tension of their awkward reunion.  After 
which, the mage stated, "You were translating from the Bangledese, but these glyphs are an 
esoteric dialect you have not previously seen."  She paused to read, and Epsilon stepped aside to 
give her room.  “Curiously, it is a southron tongue, though Bangledese was not widely spoken 
beyond the eastern oceans.  Certain of its signs are borrowed from ancient Etalish.  Correctly 
translated, the words are; 'Prince Shellcrusher of the Kingdom Plackhorn was slain at this ford in 
the thirtieth year and seventh month of his father's death, while making war against the gods hated 
realm of Ashendown.  The Prince was ambushed by a fell magician that caused the land to flood 
out of season, washing Shellcrusher and his entire army away to their deaths.  Plackhorne's 
inheriting King, his royal brother Dolphinmaster, commissioned the highway and these bridges 
that the spoils of Ashendown, overthrown in the fourth year of the Prince's death, might be more 
readily returned to Plackhorn.'"  The wizardess paused again, her head cocked curiously.  "It must 
have been a vast and unwieldy sort of treasure," she mused softly, "The glyph for 'spoils' is oddly 
fashioned, as if to indicate... magnificence, no, more... gigantism." 
"Gigantism." queried the stymied Ubar.  As always, he was in awe of his master's superior 
intellect.  "Do you mean to say the people of Ashendown were giants." 
"Either that, or they fashioned gigantic works of art, or whatever else 'spoils' may be." 

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Epsilon shook his head slowly.  How must it feel to know so much, he wondered silently. 
 "It must have been something of great value, to build an entire highway merely to transport it 
home." 
"What was it, though." 
Pandolyn shrugged and cinched the straps of her baggage higher on her scaly shoulders.  
"The glyphs do not say." 
Abandoning the enigmatic symbols, the reunited travelers turned to climb the sloping outer 
embankment to access the crumbling roadway above.  Between gasps for air to feed his straining 
legs, Epsilon asked, "Are you ignorant of this tale, then, Lady Pandolyn.  Can you tell us nothing 
more of it." 
"Alas," she sighed, "No.  I have never heard of the Kingdom Plackhorn or of the Kingdom 
Ashendown.  As far as I know, this is the only remnant of that fabled highway and its many 
bridges.  Perhaps of both nations entirely." 
Having climbed to the low summit, Epsilon set his booted feet onto the grassy cobbles that 
were all but faded back into the earth from which they had been quarried.  "It seems sad," he 
declared wistfully, glancing back and forth along the length of a highway that had gone the way of 
oblivion.  "So many forgotten people, having done so many great yet forgotten things.  We are 
heroes today, stone-cast words yesterday, and but faded memories last year.  After eons of time 
pass, we never existed." 
"Such is the fate of all living things, my general."  Pandolyn set out across the bridge, 
testing its soil blown surface with cautious feet.  To either side, the remnants of stone railings 

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were all but eroded away.  "From the moment of our birth, we share a unified destiny, that is the 
destiny of death.  We all must die.  Nations rise and fall, empires wax and wane.  Time weathers 
everything with the same surety.  In time, all our works shall fade and be lost.  Nothing we may 
do can prevent it." 
"Then I must wonder what is the use of living, at all."  He followed behind her, knowing 
the arch would support his meager weight if it would hold the massive lizard woman's.  "If our 
lives are but lines scrawled in sand, and all evidence of our being is gone with the next tide, what 
purpose in us." 
"Why must there be higher purpose in our frail existence.  What law of nature demands 
it." 
"The bees know purpose, that purpose being to build hives and make honey.  Why should 
mere insects enjoy a charge in life, and mortal human beings have none of it." 
"Ah," she returned haughtily, "In that you are mistaken.  Bees do not know purpose.  
They do not make honey for any benefit other than to feed their bellies in times of blight.  They do 
not build hives for any motive more worthy than that of keeping out the rain.  Their species has 
simply adapted to exploit the earth and its bounties, as has ours.   What need have the bees for 
higher purpose, when life, itself, is purpose enough.  What need have we of a greater justification 
to breathe, than for the sake of filling our breast, of sating our burning lungs.  As I said before, in 
our births we are assured our deaths.  All that we do must be undone.  Memories must be 
forgotten.  It is the nature of the universe.  Entropy favors decline." 

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Epsilon was silent for a time.  They crossed the arch and left it behind without a backward 
glance. 
Finally, he declared simply, "Such an understanding would explain many mysteries, I think. 
 Yet it does not explain why a man should want to do great things and leave evidence of their 
doing behind.  What of the Clog." 
"What of them." 
"Surely they believe in a higher purpose.  Perhaps they are privy to its secrets." 
The wizardess shook her reptilian head.  "They are searching for its secrets, but are certain 
of nothing.  The Clog's long labors are an attempt to achieve immortality, I suppose, but it is a 
vain attempt.  Though relics of that society will doubtless persist long after the society, itself, has 
perished, eventually, inevitably, even the Painted Wall must crumble to dust.  Think of it, man, but 
think of it purely.  Do you see these mountains that draw us forward, these Earthbones.  Time 
will one day have weathered those towering peaks down to nothing, even as other mountain 
ranges are raised up from nothing elsewhere in the world.  What of man's insignificant endeavors 
in light of this ponderous upheaval.  How can anything last."  Pandolyn paused for effect.  "More 
importantly, why should anything last.  If everyone lived forever, if everything lasted forever, the 
world would be filled to the brim with relics, and nothing could be made anew.  Death is as 
natural as birth, and for good reason. 
"Mankind would be happier, I think, if it came to grips with this prospect of eternal 
oblivion that awaits us all.  Quietus should be relished and cherished for the renewal that it is, just 
as birth is celebrated for the same reason.  They are, in fact, two facets of the same thing." 

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Epsilon's face bunched up confusedly.  "You are gone beyond me now." 
"Birth and death are merely the beginning and the end of life.  Life, itself, is the central 
concern.  As I have already said, what need have we of a greater purpose.  Breathe, and be 
contented with your breath." 
"Then I must next wonder why we should journey to Bac Tur.  Let us stop a moment here 
and breathe.  Surely the air is sweeter on this side of the Earthbones." 

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Lady Pandolyn laughed jocularly.  "You mock me, yet I understand the intent of your jest. 
 But, no, it is not so easy.  Having been thrust into this reality alive, we must live it out.  Are you 
content as a slave.  Do you love slavery.  When your line in the sand, as you have described it, is 
washed away, will it be enough to say you did nothing to improve your lot in the world.  I think 
not.  This brief gift we are given is a cruel tease, I sometimes think.  It is, after all, merely a 
wetting of the tongue.  Yet we should not waste it in spite." 
"I find it funny to hear this advice from you, wizardess.  We are bound to Ilmacht, and a 
doom that is more certain than in doubt.  I could not imagine a more certain way to waste our 
lives." 
"Again, I must point out the flaw of your logic.  Knowing all we know about this twisted 
world in which we live, not going to Ilmacht would be the waste of our existence.  Empowered as 
we are, it would be a great evil to sit by idly and do nothing, an evil greater perhaps than the 
madman's own crimes.  No, we must pursue a larger destiny, if for no other reason than the glory 
and freedom promised in ultimate victory, should we prevail." 
"And if we should fail." 
"Then no matter.  Our lines will simply be shorter than they otherwise might have been.  
Would you turn back." 
"Never.  Not until the foul First Emperor lies dead at my feet." 
"That is good to hear, for I must tell you now what the Rod of Serpents has revealed to 
me this bright and shining morning." 
Ubar queried nervously, "You have been wielding that foul talisman again, master." 

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"I have.  And what I have seen does not bode well for us." 
"What have you seen." from Epsilon. 
"Jhid'Chajeck has fallen.  Its inhabitants are all dead or enslaved by the madman, which is 
the same fate.  The city has been despoiled and burned.  Soon, Sin Supri must perforce return to 
his lair to recoup his losses and plot new campaigns of terror.  Our time is much shorter than I 
had anticipated.  We must hurry." 
"It is not too late entirely, then." 
"No." 
"Good," growled Epsilon hatefully, "Then we should limit our idleness to march day and 
night from this time forward." 
Pandolyn sighed.  "I agree.  Yet this is not the worst of my revelations." 
Fearfully, Ubar asked the obvious question.  "What more is there." 
"It would seem Draven's Keep has been occupied since I was last there." 
"Occupied by whom." from a concerned Epsilon.  He feared being cut off from their army 
and all other support.  Three against a nation was certain suicide. 
"Not a whom, but a what," she responded calmly.  "Trolls."  Her companions gasped and 
were amazed.  The wizardess further supplied, "I do not believe they are directly allied with the 
Enemy, but those monsters would not hesitate to report our intrusion.  Provided they could not 
catch us for their cook pots, of course." 
"Perhaps they could be destroyed or evaded.  Are they many." 
"Fortunately, no.  A handful or so.  Certainly not more than a dozen." 

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Ubar offered fatally, "A dozen is enough." 
Epsilon scratched his growing beard and hastened his pace.  "We shall see, young Ubar.  
We shall see."  Though he had no clear picture of what a troll, in fact, was. 

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22 

Draven’s Cleft 

The three travelers arrived at Draven's Keep many long days later.  Epsilon walked most 
of the way, though Helmcleaver was largely recovered by now and could carry his master for 
short distances.  The stallion improved quickly under Pandolyn's enchanted care, and it would 
soon be returned to its normal spirited self.  Unfortunately, the same could not be said for 
Helmcleaver's master.  Their long forced march from the Painted Wall and subsequent lack of rest 
left the Warfarer largely exhausted.  His feet ached and his legs burned.  His boots were battered 
and their soles worn thin.  There was no way to accurately determine how far they had come in 
first finding the north-south highway, then in marching south to Draven's Cleft, but Pandolyn's 
maps hinted at distances measured in the hundreds of miles.  Scores of leagues.  Up hill and down 
again, across dried streambeds and yawning chasms, ever wading the shimmering waves of a 
grassy sea that was of various depths and that covered the highlands ubiquitously. 

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From time to time, they had spotted illdross roving on high, as if bound to hasty missions 
out of the east, but not once had they been molested.  In fact, they had seen nor scented nothing 
of the Enemy in all the course of their long march, and had encountered no animal larger than a 
hare.  It seemed the land was truly deserted of all large, living things. 
Until they arrived at their destination.  Draven's Cleft was guarded by a high castle city 
that had been carved from the sheer walls of a steep granite mountain.  It was accessible only via a 
long, raised road that crossed a still, shining lake of pure, crystalline water.  This vast pool was 
filled from a towering waterfall, which flowed from what seemed to be a spring flowing from the 
city's center.  A tall, arched gate had been built up around the river's outlet, and was cleverly 
fashioned to allow the water to flow, while denying an easy entry to potential invaders.  Some 
three hundred feet that water fell into the otherwise undisturbed lake.  A cloud of vapor and spray 
lingered at its feet, and concentric rings of wavelets rippled the mirror's flesh until that motion was 
absorbed and stilled in the distances. 
Above the lake, at the top of a high cliff, spires and minarets festooned the city, which was 
backed by a heartbreaking expanse of mountainous ranges and foreboding summits.  Though 
crumbling and fading in time, those towers were beautiful and magnificent.  Gaping loopholes in 
the walls were like black, slitted eyes, that stared out across this lost, empty land to mourn what 
had passed and could never return. 
So intact were these structures, despite their obvious age, that Epsilon could almost see 
men at arms patrolling the battlements, maids gathering flowers in the meadows beyond the moat 
lake.  Almost, he could hear babes laughing on the wind, and the sounds of merriment that once 

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had been.  But none of that was left here now.  All was gone and disappeared, as were so many 
other things that once were.  Epsilon was learning quickly that the things men built were like the 
bones of their society's flesh, to be left behind enigmatically long after the flesh had faded, and to 
remind that here had lain a corpse, something living that was now quite irrevocably dead. 
For Draven's Cleft Keep was a dead city, a necropolis of awe inspiring ruins.  Only the 
waterfall's constant, pattering heartbeat lent any semblance of life to the tableau that was the moat 
and its abandoned castle. 
As they lay at the summit of a last, lowly rounded hill, which butted the far southern shore 
of the calm moat where it met the sheer cliff wall, Epsilon asked of his master what had become 
of this monument's long gone peoples.  Pandolyn held the telescope to her eye for a time, offering 
no immediate reply. 
At length, she sucked a deep breath, and said, "Who can say for certain.  Their passage 
from the earth went unrecorded.  Not even the Clog can say what race built Draven's Keep, or 
whether its builder's died within its daunting walls or simply wandered away. 
"This is a lonely place, my general.  Always has been, even before the wheel turned.  Some 
believe these mountains are haunted by the ghosts of legions slain, of the people of empires that 
rose and fell before ever your own Empire was raised up in the west.  A long rest of ages sits 
heavily on this capitol and its surrounding country.  Take a deep breath here and breathe of 
remorseless time.  Fill your eyes with the beauty before you, and know that this beauty flowered 
eons before your birth and will doubtless shine for eons further beyond your own paltry demise.  
Staring at these forsaken walls, one can only feel small and unimportant. 

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"How must have its creators felt, I wonder.  In the beginning, while the citadel's stone 
walls yet reeked of the chisel.  In the end, when catastrophe loomed or oblivion beckoned or 
apathy reigned.  What became of them." she repeated rhetorically, "I wish I knew, Epsilon Three. 
 I wish I knew." 
Epsilon grunted obtusely and accepted the telescope when it was offered.  Raising it to his 
right eye, the Ritesman declared, "I doubt seriously combat ever have claimed this place."  As a 
far soaring eagle, his vision raked the parapets and moss-grown walls.  "It is too defensible." 
He swept the shores of the still lake from one side to another, but could see no exeunt 
flow of waters.  The pool was constantly being filled and did not appear to drain, yet neither did it 
verge on overflowing.  The Warfarer remarked on this anomaly curiously. 
"This moat is known as the Lake of One River, for this very reason.  It does not drain at 
the pool's surface, but empties subterraneously into a deeply buried aquifer, which in turn supplies 
hillside springs to the south and west.  A clever employment of nature's oddities, do you agree." 
The Warfarer declared that he did.  Searching back along the western shoreline, Epsilon 
sought the keep's lone entrance, the raised roadway that crossed the deep lake at its mirrored 
center.  It was a broad access, wide enough to easily support the crossing of a large force of 
cavalry, though it would not accept siege weapons of strength enough to damage the city's walls.  
In a long, flat line, it crossed the moat to its center, where it branched to either side, each way 
then enter a gaping maw of a gateway carved into the mountainside, far below the base of the 
walls.  Remnants of the gates, which seemed to have been fashioned from great slabs of iron 

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studded stone, lay toppled to either side of the nearest entrance, and had been shattered into large, 
angular portions that sloped into the chilled waters. 
Now he raised his gaze up to the walls, to their high, cracked parapets and ivy grown 
ramparts.  All seemed largely intact there, overlooking signs of age and neglect.  Contrary to his 
earlier imaginings, no armored men paced in watch there, no brightly colored banners of nation, 
king or country fluttered in the breeze, and nothing spoke of wakefulness.  Draven's Cleft Keep 
was undefended. 
Beyond these protective barricades, the city festered in decay, steeped in neglect.  Ravens 
and crows and crimson harts prospered beneath the withering eaves that watched over weedy 
streets, but naught else could be seen moving. 
Wait!  Epsilon caught his breath, even as he caught sight of his first troll.  It was a 
massive, stocky monster, of a horny hide that was not scaled as a milt's.  Ponderous and huge, the 
beast was lumbering along a shadowed avenue, a great basket large enough to hold a spitted 
horse tucked beneath one arm. 
"Ah," intoned Pandolyn at his elbow, "You have seen Draven Keep's new inhabitants.  
What do you think of rock trolls, General Epsilon.  Repulsive, are they not." 
The Ritesman watched until the troll was out of sight, disregarding Ubar's anxious 
fidgeting at his other elbow.  Then he raised the glass higher to search out the monster's 
destination.  While he searched, Epsilon mumbled absently, "I would not fancy close contest with 
one of the behemoths, if this would be answer enough." 

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The wizardess hissed pleasantly, her reptilian version of a snide snigger.  "I know a song 
about such creatures.  I would rather sing it, but think instead to whisper it, given our proximity 
to its content.  Listen briefly; 
 
Rock trolls in my pockets 
but a fondling day to play, 
let them rule the mountains 
and with giant boulders lay, 
let them eat the moonshine 
and worship stony gods, 
let them live a world apart 
and rarely wander far. 
Rock trolls by the armfuls 
to make the hillocks home, 
let them live in caverns 
and gnaw dusty bones, 
let them covet kingdoms 
but never kingdoms raise, 
let them yearn for kindness 
yet rarely garnish praise. 
Rock trolls in my gardens 

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mashing up yon spoils, 
let them trample ashes 
and fruitless harvest toils, 
let them know my ire 
for the scoundrels that they are, 
let them live a world apart 
and rarely wander far." 
  
Ubar applauded softly, and gurgled happily, always delirious to hear his minstrel mistress 
sing.  Epsilon said nothing, for he thought he spied a slim line of smoke rising from a squat 
building that was carved high into the cliff side at one side of the city.  It lay on the same line of 
bearing that the troll had pursued, and presently Epsilon caught sight of the monster again as it 
emerged from cover once more. 
It lumbered up to the sheer wall and climbed a roughly fashioned cut-back stair to the 
abode in question.  As it navigated the ascent, its basket tipped occasionally, and the Ritesman 
noted it was filled with what appeared to be a half dozen goats and sheep, and a bushel of various 
greens.  Dinner, no doubt. 
"Well." demanded the wizardess pridefully.  "What did you think of my little ditty." 
Without preamble, he returned, "I think it silly to sing songs in the face of danger, and can 
find no humor in receiving them." 

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Pandolyn sighed leadenly.  It had been an arduous trek for them all.  Tempers were 
naturally short. 
Epsilon watched the climbing rock troll.  While the wizardess instructed, "It is said that 
trolls are the first people, an ancient race that predates and precedes our own.  It is said they once 
dominated the lands even as our kind dominate them now, but were reduced in numbers and 
domain to but a few nomadic clans that keep to the mountains.  It is further said that these 
Earthbones are the trolls' last refuge, that they are extinct in the greater world beyond." 
"Yet here we are faced with an unknown number of the monsters.  One at least, probably 
two." 
"Oh," returned Pandolyn cryptically, "There are undoubtedly more than two.  Many, many 
more." 
Abruptly, the Ritesman caught his breath and held it.  Far away and barely visible, the troll 
had ascended to a sort of patio entry way that opened into the mountainside abode.  And there, 
skipping and dancing, were two smaller versions of the same creature.  They tussled playfully with 
the larger troll, and followed it through the door (which had been widened unskillfully).  Children, 
obviously. 
Frowning, Epsilon returned the telescope to his master, and motioned that she turn her 
vision on the sight.  Now that they knew where to look, it was impossible to miss the smoke of 
their enemy's cook fire, and Pandolyn easily located the little stone house set into the side of the 
bluff.  She must have seen the little ones, for they were in and out of the doorway busily as 
wayward squirrels. 

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Without expression on her scaly face, Pandolyn lowered the spy glass and handed it to the 
grateful Ubar.  "What say you, sir.  Can your flashing blade hack us a way through all that 
cobbled flesh." 
Indignantly, he replied, "Let us hear this out now, lady.  I will not murder children, any 
sort of children, in the name of your cause or any other.  Let the heavens fall and the world be 
swarmed by doom's foul hordes, I will not do such a thing."  Epsilon rolled over onto his back and 
slid down the hillside on his buttocks until he could rise without fear of being seen from the walls. 
 "It galls me that you would ask it done!" 
Following, the wizardess hastened to clarify herself.  "I never asked you to murder 
children, Ritesman." 
"They are families there," he retorted hotly, stomping down the grade.  “The death of a 
father is the death of his children, and I will not have such misfortune on my shoulders.  I will not 
be a monger of unwilling orphans." 
"Yet you are a bloodthirsty monger of war." 
"Men make war willingly in ranks.  Those men, or whatever they are, have not formed into 
to ranks, neither do they defend the walls.  Besides which, men of war rarely bring their little ones 
to the battlefield to face the throes of conflict and the bitter ends of a potential defeat.  Whatever 
else rock trolls may be, they have a habit of spawning children and of caring for those children 
with obvious affection."  Disgustedly, he kicked at a tussle of merry flowers' heads and added, 
“They are having mutton tonight!" 

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"While we shall dine cold," chided the wizardess playfully.  Under her breath, Pandolyn 
added, "...Aye, this proud monger of war has a heart!   He is fond of mongrels and children!...." 
Epsilon bunched his shoulders and felt his ears burn, but said nothing to continue the 
debate.  Instead, he offered, "We shall find another way." 
"And if there is no other way, save fighting." 
"Then we must find another way." 
"Maddening man!" 
But the Warfarer was smacking his lips in kisses, his way of calling softly for his mount.  
Wildly, Helmcleaver crested a southern knoll, neighing harshly.  Epsilon shook his head unhappily 
at the treacherous sound and was afraid his stallion had grown wild in the absence of its master's 
weight. 
As the stallion trotted over to nuzzle Epsilon's helmed head happily, the Ritesman grasped 
for the bundled reins and heeled the tall beast to hand.  Searching among his saddled bags, he 
extracted a slim case of darkly stained wood and deeply embossed leather. 
Releasing his warhorse with a caution to silence, Epsilon carried the box to a trampled 
place in the tall grasses and laid it out, opened.  Kneeling before it, he uncovered a flap of velvet 
that had shielded neat rows of tiny vials, each fitted into its own custom cubby hole.  There he 
kept the deer juice he had used so many months before to feed the starving forest men, and many 
other potions of similar design and utility. 
As Pandolyn approached at his back, Ubar having remained at the watch above, Epsilon 
asked, "What sort of animals inhabit these lands, if any." 

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"Saber clawed bears," she returned promptly, thinking of the most violent creature she 
could summon from her memory. 
Epsilon shook his head disapprovingly.  "Too terrible.  No, we want something less 
capable of doing damage, something that would be more of nuisance than a lethality." 
"Ah, I understand what you have planned.  You desire a pestilence." 
"Exactly." 
Pandolyn chuckled softly.  "Then may I recommend snow monkeys.  They are plentiful 
this time of year, would pose no real danger to the little ones, and have a way of wreaking havoc 
when they mass in large numbers." 
"Excellent!" belched the Ritesman, searching among his gifted serums.  "Now, let me 
see... snow monkeys, snow monkeys... we have snow antelope, snow hares, snow mongoose... 
yes!   Snow monkey juice, I have it!"  There was wonder in his tone.  The mages of Empire, 
whatever else they were, had certainly foreseen his every need.  "A large dose of this should serve 
us well enough.  What a distraction we shall harvest with it!" 
The wizardess smiled.  "A method most wise, and a means most sound.  How would you 
employ your subterfuge, I wonder." 
Epsilon shrugged, tucking the vial into a pouch at his breast and closing the case.  "It will 
not be an easy undertaking.  I must get close enough to use the potion, which means I must be 
within an easy grasp, a prospect I do not relish or happily anticipate." 
"Perhaps Ubar may be of assistance." 
"The boy.  What can he do here." 

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"Do not forget the nature of his toys.  It may be he has contrived something that might be 
of use."  Pandolyn called her reluctant protégée down from the hill. 
Epsilon stored his case of potions away while they waited for Ubar to approach, and eyed 
the child lizard skeptically, who returned the stare with a puzzled expression as he trudged down 
the slope.  At his master's request, Ubar rummaged among his many bags and secret places until 
he produced a few implements of odd design and strange construction. 
"This one," he declared, holding up a small bladder attached to a thin tube of leather, 
"Would allow me to squirt your liquid.  While these," displaying a handful of tissue-thin bladders, 
"Could be filled with it and tossed onto the trolls, bursting on impact." 
The Ritesman reached for the devices and examined each closely.  At length, he returned 
them and said, "The first has the same drawback as simply pouring the potion, and that is its 
requirement of proximity.  The second however, these little sacks, could be left concealed on a 
trail as a booby trap, where an unwary footfall would trample them open." 
"Yes," breathed Ubar excitedly, "I had not thought of using them in such a manner.  It 
should work nicely." 
Both men nodded their heads profoundly and exchanged a congratulatory embrace of 
success.  Pandolyn beamed nearby, and wondered if there was yet hope for this tired world, when 
a man of Empire could learn to love a lizard magician. 
Now the Ritesman turned to face Pandolyn, and asked, "But how shall we approach the 
city, at all.  Crossing by that central bridge would only betray our movements, as its design 
intended." 

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"Then we shall not cross by the bridge," returned the wizardess with frustrating 
obtuseness.  "Come, follow, but heel your stallion well and maintain a silence.  Rock trolls would 
hear your Helmcleaver's whinnies and come running with their forks, ready for a feast."  She 
laughed gently, and turned to the east to pursue the shallow valley they had occupied. 
At Epsilon's crossed expression, Ubar supplied, "We have traveled this way many times, 
Holy Warfarer.  You must trust in our past successes." 
"Oh, I trust your master's designs well enough, boy.  Yet I wonder why mages should be 
so damnably evasive in their minds and ways." 
The boy shrugged and loped alongside.  "I have often wondered the same thing.  But 
more, I have wondered if I am destined to the same fate." 
"Perhaps you are, at that.  It must take a strange sort of character to pursue your strange 
pursuits." 
Both mages laughed, Rit Merdian and her lower if no less capable junior.  Pandolyn tossed 
over her shoulder, "Or perhaps the wheel has a way of changing a person, a way of stretching the 
mind and body beyond all mere mortal considerations.  I have been strapped to its turning a long 
term now, do not forget.  Should I endure so long and remain unchanged.  Is it possible." 
"Scarcely.  Power is a mantle of disfigure.  Don it, and you can but suffer its 
conformations."  Epsilon repeated maxims of the Rite, which he had learned as a young lieutenant 
in training. 
"Well said, my general, and apt.  My own Semmelweiss was fond of remarking on this 
curious effect.  He called it the Correlian Principle." 

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"Correlia, of the fable." 
"Oh.  Do you know the story, Epsilon." 
The Ritesman shrugged, and struggled to catch the wizardess up.  "It was told to me once, 
if I have the right Correlia.  As I heard it, Correlia was a mountaineer of famed ability, who could 
climb any peak, no matter how high or overhanging." 
Quickly, Rit Merdian inserted, "Aye, you have it." 
Whereupon Epsilon sucked a deep breath and slowed his pace, extending an arm to pause 
the overly eager lizard woman.  Panting slightly, he hastened to finish his understanding of the tale 
in a summary fashion, "I was told his skill was greatly envied by the men of his township, and that 
Correlia was sometimes hated for his awesome ability.  It was a jealous sort of hatred that stewed 
thicker with every new Correlian feat or amazement, until it ultimately solidified in the shape of a 
plot to take the mountaineer's life. 
"One night, while he was in the deepest depths of his cups, Correlia was challenged to 
climb the greatest mountain known to man, the fabled Mountain of the Sun.  Which challenge he 
accepted, foolishly adding that not only would he climb the hill, but that also would he snatch the 
sun's halo to bring it down to earth for a light in the darkness.  Cheers were raised, the pact was 
sealed, and Correlia went straight away to fetch his gear. 
"At the short of it," heaved the Warfarer, unaccustomed to storytelling as he was, 
"Correlia climbed to the summit and succeeded in snatching down the sun's halo, only to discover 
that he could not both climb and carry the prize simultaneously.  Knowing nothing else to do, the 
mountaineer placed the sacred halo atop his head, and started the descent. 

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"But wearing the halo wrought a prodigious change in the man's mind.  Esoteric 
knowledge flooded him within, even as the sun's stolen light flooded without.  A blinding star 
come to earth, Correlia made his way down the mountainside and returned to his home village, by 
which time he was well aware of the envious plots against his life, owing to his newfound 
perception.  Necessarily, the people were afraid, and they fled before him.  Where once he had 
known only praise from his kinsmen outwardly, now he could see them from within, so bright 
were his burning eyes, and thus he knew the true heart of them.  Deeply buried in their breasts, 
each and every one, Correlian encountered a kernel of covetous anger, a seed of jealous hatred, 
and he realized that he was universally despised, even as he was universally acclaimed.  It was 
more sorrow than he could bear, and he was undone. 
"Once a godling among men, Correlia was transformed into a tuck-tail pariah and was cast 
out of his clan.  Yet he would not go demurely, but lashed out in his indignant rage, burning all he 
touched until nothing of the village or its people remained." 
Ubar finished when Epsilon stopped speaking, by adding, "When he came back to himself 
and realized what he had done, in self-loathing anguish Correlia returned to the Mountain of the 
Sun and replaced the sun's halo.  Then he threw himself down from the tower, into his suicide." 
After a moment of quiet thought, which was interrupted only by the swish-swish-swishing 
of their six legs through the grasses, Epsilon stated, "I see now how your Semmelweiss meant it, 
when he called the corrupting influence of power the 'Correlian Principle'.  But must needs it go 
the way of Correlia.  What might have happened, had he looked into his people's hearts and found 
there deep affection." 

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Pandolyn was quick to pounce on this, as it was the core of her dead master's 
understanding.  "Ah, but you see, he did not encounter affection.  Instead, he encountered all 
man's baser interests; greed, jealously, envy, hatred, prejudice, all emotions born of inadequacies 
and personal shortcomings." 
"Still," debated the Ritesman, "This does not mean everyone should find these things 
hidden around them.  Surely somebody somewhere is truly, genuinely loved." 
"Doubtless this is so, yet who but Correlia might have climbed the Mountain of the Sun 
and snatched the halo.  According to the bards, none other.  And when he looked into the hearts 
of his beloved neighbors and friends, he found there these black corruptions rather than love." 
"And this is the nature of those who seek power, those who are capable of securing 
power." 
"Perhaps." 
"Universally and always." 
"Perhaps again." 
"Then what of your happily mentioned Bebblegeth.  Was he not a wielder of great power, 
yet a man of goodness and benevolence." 
"Most would say this is so, yet there is a darker side to the man, one which you have not 
seen or heard tell of.  If you knew of it, you might not use him for example, for it is my belief that 
he is Correlia anew." 
"Oh.  In what ways." 

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"In ways many and best left un-recited here.  Suffice it to say; I know, and Bebblegeth is 
not above the Correlian Principle." 
Epsilon growled, and turned to Ubar.  "Do you see my earlier words enacted here, boy.  
Evasiveness and tact, never a straightforward answer.  As if I am a child, incapable of grasping 
the truth." 
"What truth.  It is merely my opinion.  As for a discussion of the principle, itself, I am not 
above it.  I will go on to point out what is required of a man that lusts for higher power, for 
authority over other men."  Her tone pointed and curt, she queried, "Is it easily done.  Is power 
freely given.  Are there rarely others that vie for the same rewards.  Or is a quest for power an 
unholy and self-promoting thing.  Must one needs step over the bodies of one's enemies to attain 
it.  And should those enemies simply lay themselves down at one's approach.  No, one must slay 
those enemies to get through them.  So men of power are men that have plotted for power, that 
have debased themselves and damaged others in their searches for it, that have generally quit 
themselves of moral qualm and conscience in the course of their dark laboring to obtain it.  Must 
this be a universal truth.  I know not for certain, but think of it for yourself, Epsilon.  Think of 
powerful men you have known, men of Empire and of the Martial Rite.  What was their nature.  
Were they not a facet of Correlia's character, in essence, all of them." 
The Ritesman considered his master's words for a long while, as they approached the sheer 
root of Draven's Mount, the heart rock of the dead city.  At long last, he replied huskily, "Aye, 
Correlia was within them.  I can see it now." 

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Pandolyn grunted and nodded.  "My Semmelweiss was a wise man, and a bit of the 
mountaineer, himself.  Even as am I, his inheritor."  Before he could ask, the wizardess held up a 
halting hand.  "But no, do not ask. I will not say.  In return, I will not ask you how you have been 
and ever are Correlia." 
"Fair enough," came his soft return, his thoughts on Alcorde and all the good friends he 
had lost there, some of them by his own hand. 
After a short march further, the three arrived at the base of the bluff, which was not so 
towering here as it was at the back of the keep.  A sharp bend in the rock wall just beyond the 
crest of the lake's bank kept the city out of view, providing a convenient blind spot that allowed 
them to narrowly approach the water's edge. 
At the shoreline, where it lapped at the granite barrier, Epsilon saw that a deep furrow had 
been eroded all along the sheer bluff face, which deformation created a concealing overhang that 
was broad and deep enough to shield them from overhead observation.  Ages of time and 
countless slapping waves had smoothed the stone pathway to a treacherous curvature.  
Helmcleaver was sorely pressed to keep his footing, as was Epsilon.  For lizards with sharp claws 
and scaly footpads, the going was a bit easier. 
Nevertheless, it was a long, difficult end to their long and difficult journey, and the sun 
was just setting as they neared Draven Keep's shattered gates.  The three passed beneath a 
massive slab of granite that had smashed against the cliff side and sloped down into the water, 
forming a towering lean-to.  They were as insects beneath its daunting dimensions, or little people 
that have wandered into the abode of a giant.  Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the darkness, 

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and were a tympanic rhythm to keep time for the softer music of waves lapping the granite 
shoreline. 
At the mouth of the towering entrance, Pandolyn sniffed the wind cautiously.  Ubar was 
doing the same, and Epsilon wondered what they could smell.  Tasting the air with his nostrils, 
Epsilon scented nothing more than wet stone and moss. 
"As I suspected," whispered Pandolyn conspiratorially, "The trolls have not been here.  
They loathe the water, you know." 
"I did not know," responded Epsilon quietly.  
"It is true.  We should be safe enough until we reach the top." 
"And then." 
Pandolyn only shrugged, and stepped into the shadowed gateway.  Ubar followed.  
Epsilon, however, paused a moment to drink in the view with his eyes.  They had emerged from 
the cover of the stone slab, and were standing at the edge of the Lake of One River.  Several 
hundred meters further south, the waterfall entered the otherwise placid waters with a roar and 
belch of vapors.  At his right, stretching in a semicircle around to the west and south, the roadway 
curved to an intersection with its linear stem that crossed the waters.  The second, more 
southerly, that ran around to the other side of the waterfall, where a second gateway presumably 
gaped, invisible from their earlier vantage for the lingering cloud of vapors emitted by the falls.  If 
he leaned out a bit onto the pavement, Epsilon could stare straight up along the sheer face of the 
bluff to a point where he knew the battlements must stand, though they could not be seen. 

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On impulse, he knelt by the lake's edge, and removed his glove to finger the icy liquid.  It 
was cold indeed, cold as the glacier from which it was born.  Epsilon raised his fingers to his nose 
and rubbed at the water's greasy texture.  It reeked of the earth and all the long miles of rock 
channel through which it had flowed to arrive here. 
As he was crouched there, the waters several feet before him stirred sluggishly.  The 
Warfarer cocked his head curiously, but was not overly concerned.  Fish, he thought, Or turtles. 
Further movement disturbed the lake's surface, and more violently this time.  Just as he 
was about to call softly over his shoulder for Pandolyn to come see, her powerful, scaled palm 
clamped down around his neck.  Before he could respond to protest, two things happened 
simultaneously.  First, he was jerked up and back away from the waters, so violently that he might 
have lost his boots had he not clenched his toes.  Second, a blur of white water boiled up in front 
of him, even as a pair of slimy tentacles shot out to ensnare him. 
These fell short, however, and slapped wetly against the pavement, where the suckers 
apparently caught fast and were dragged free with much difficulty.  Shuddering, Epsilon righted 
himself and brushed the mage's rough hands away.  "I thank you, lady," was all he had to say. 
She reared back to admonish him sorely, but stopped herself at the sight of his horrified 
face.  Her general had learned his lesson, and would not quickly forget the dangers of these 
Wilderlands again. 
Turning to face the deep darkness of this manmade cavern that sheltered them, Epsilon 
wondered how they might proceed in blindness.  Above their heads, the two walls came together 
at a steep pitch to form a gabled sort of arch, which must have also served to shape the shattered 

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gates.  As the last rays of a dying day penetrated the chamber from the west, its smoothly 
fashioned walls were laid bare, and Epsilon had a glimpse of the way. 
Following the exposure of this fading light, they penetrated the flesh of the world and 
delved into the guts of Draven's Cleft Keep.  From the gates, the twin paths curved back around 
to meet a second time, at a second intersection with a linear passage.  This one, however, unlike 
the path that crossed the lake, was not flat or level.  Instead, it climbed steeply into the heart of 
Draven's Mount, passing first through a second set of shattered gates, the remains of which all but 
occluded the entire passage.  It was here that Epsilon understood why she had chosen the 
northernmost gate for her ingress, as the southern route was completely blocked at this juncture 
and impassable. 
Once they had rounded the inner curvature of the entrance, all illumination was lost, and 
they were left in deepest shadow.  Before Epsilon could call for a flame, a flare of sparks 
silhouetted Pandolyn's face from below, and a strange lamp took fire to light their way.  It was a 
wizardly device, Epsilon could see this much right away.  Its light was not that of a flame, though 
it seemed to burn.  No, it was a steady, unwavering light, which did not dance or flicker on the 
breeze, but held fast and true and shone with amazing brilliance. 
"This way we go," she intoned assuredly, leading them up the steeply climbing tunnel.  "It 
is a short ascent, though the grade is sometimes tortuous.  The ancients of Draven Keep were not 
as skilled as the Clog in their fashioning of subterranean passages." 
"For my part," countered Epsilon, his tone hushed to still its relentless echoes, "I find this 
citadel to be entirely well made and well situated.  With but a brigade of good men I could hold it 

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for many years against a massed enemy."  He raised his head to admire the circle of light where it 
shone on the bare wall.  Void of the Clog's intricate frescoes, Epsilon found its austere utility to 
be more pleasing to his martial eye.  He was thinking how difficult, indeed how impossible, it 
would be to stage a successful assault through these chambers. 
And when he considered the broader structure; the city's stout walls high above, its towers 
with their many loopholes for archers, its flanks that were abutted by a unified circular precipice, 
which climbed many thousands of sticks into the heavens in a more or less sheer manner; when he 
considered its utter defensive strength, the Warfarer was thrilled in his heart.  What sort of men 
had built this place, this castle that could know attack only from impossible altitudes or suicidal 
depths.  More importantly, what sort of enemy had they feared.  At this thought, a chilling doubt 
struck him, and he was forced to wonder if the gates at his back had decayed naturally in time, or 
if they had been wrenched loose by some fierce, demonic foe of the past.  What manner of 
creature could manage such a feat. 
Pandolyn and her followers kept to a narrowly carved stair, which was one of two that ran 
down each side of the passage.  Between them, the stone floor was chiseled down to a roughly 
level roadway, fit for many wagons abreast.  Indeed, it seemed to have been well worn at one time 
by iron shod hooves and wheels, though now only the wear of time was evident there.  Otherwise, 
there was no immediate evidence of catastrophe. 
Musical trickles of water flowed from various cracks in the walls and along the rough 
pavement, which flows sponsored the lush growth of albino mosses and lichens that were 

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treacherous underfoot.  A sound of much dripping and dropping sounded maddeningly in their 
ears, but served to mask the clumsy rattle of Helmcleaver's unsure hoofbeats. 
At the top of the ramp, the passage was delivered into a granite wall, and to a divergence 
of ways, one to each side.  Without exiting the sheltering shadows to see for himself, Epsilon 
could guess that the sheer walls to either side and before would be topped by parapets and 
battlements, from which a storm of arrows or flaming oils could be poured down on any attackers 
unlucky enough to have pressed so near to the city's heart. 
Here they encountered yet another set of gates, but with a difference.   Here the citadel's 
doors had not been cast in stone, but in solid bronze.  And the gates yet stood intact, though they 
were swung wide for all to enter or exit.  Resting upon the bolt pins of their rusted hinges, they 
were flared eternally, waiting patiently for the hand that might come and cause them to be closed 
once more. 
Well within the shadows of the exit, Epsilon fingered the corroded metal surface of these 
ponderous weights, and wondered at their forging.  Only the Postern Gates of the Great Barricade 
rivaled these wonders for their size and obvious strength. 
Yet they had not prevented their keepsake's demise.  Draven Keep was as dead as though 
it had never been defended at all.  Curious it was, and foreboding strange. 
"This," hissed Pandolyn cautiously, "Is the tricky part.  There is no way in but to round 
one of these canyons.  A single troll patrolling at the top could crush us with stones toppled from 
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"Perhaps we should wait for deeper night," suggested Epsilon, though he knew not the 
ways of fighting rock trolls.  "Do the monsters sleep by the moon, I wonder.  Or by the sun." 
"They are diurnal, as are all men that walk uncorrupted by Sin.  And I think you are right. 
 We should wait for slumber to more surely claim our foes." 
Ubar countered, "But if they are bound to patrol this entrance by evening, would they not 
also be bound to patrol it unto midnight and beyond." 
"The boy is correct, of course.  Yet the results of an alarm might be lessened with the 
township sleeping.  Still, we should wait." 
"Then we shall wait.  I will set the Eyestone, that we might sleep." 
"Is it wise, so near." 
"Relax, my general.  You are sorely weary.  Sleep, and I vow to watch over you." 
"Again, I thank you, Lady Pandolyn.  I will serve you better for the respite." 
"I know you will," and so saying, she accepted Helmcleaver's reins to soothe the beast.  
While its master collapsed against a stone wall, his weapons arrayed at the ready all around. 
Short minutes later the Warfarer slept.  And dreamed of the earth's inky bowels, wherein 
creatures of obsidian and sable stalked their prey mercilessly.  And dreamed of running, of 
running, of running, but never of achieving distance or a goal.  Never effecting an escape.  Never 
obtaining redemption or reaching the light. 
Then an urgent hand was on his shoulder.  It was Pandolyn.  She was hissing and growling 
angrily, "Awake!  Awake!" she whispered urgently.  "Awake my general, and make ready!" 

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"Wh-what.  What has become of the shadows." Epsilon snorted and started, rubbing his 
eyes.  "I am here!  I am ready!  Run!  They are coming!" 
"You are dreaming, Epsilon, but now must you wake!  Ubar is gone.  I fear he is captured. 
 Shhh!  Listen!"  And she held him still for a moment. 
He listened.  And when he heard the drums and gutturally bellowed epithets, his hand 
flashed to his pouches.  The vial of snow monkey juice was gone.  Ubar.  Who else. 
"Damnation!" he cursed softly, suddenly aware, "That boy is more of a sneaking serpent 
than I had guessed!" 
"You were sleeping so soundly that an olifant might have walked over you without 
disturbing your dreams.  But this is not your fault.  I promised I would watch over you, only to 
relinquish my vow."  Pandolyn clenched her right fist and let it tremble in frustrated rage.  "Curse 
that lovely child!  I let him persuade me to sleep while he managed the watch.  When I opened my 
eyes again, he was gone, and the drums were beating."  She made a wet noise far back in the soft 
tissues of her throat, which Epsilon took to be the sniffle of stifled tears.  "Alas, he is lost and 
gone beyond my reach.  There is no aid for him now." 
Epsilon was on his feet instantly, ready to rescue the youth.  "I will go and bring him 
back!" he declared hotly, setting his helm upon his head smartly.  "You stay here and guard the 
horse!" 
Pandolyn's strong grip upon his shoulder told a different tale.  "No.  It is decided.  In his 
foolish inexperience, Ubar has slain himself.  There is nothing we may do." 

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The Warfarer unhappily tossed her clutch away.  "How can you say, without having 
seen." 
"Oh, I have seen.  Ubar is lost and gone away..."  Her voice diminished to nothing, she 
added, "...they will torture him to death, I think." 
"By the gods, they will not!"  And he dashed over to Helmcleaver's side, as if to say he 
would make a mounted charge against their enemies.  "Not while breath leaves and enters me!" 
"BUT STAY!" she belched abruptly, the sheer rage of it echoing long and hard in the 
chamber, so it seemed bound to betray them to the enemy.  The drums were loud, even at this 
distance, however, and Pandolyn had little to fear of being heard.  For she had indeed ventured 
forth to see what was the matter, only to discover that every rock troll in the clan, including the 
little ones, had gathered at the center of town... around the bound and protesting Ubar.  He was 
tied to a stone column by heavy chains, and could not hope to escape. 
Catching himself at the stirrups, Epsilon let his left foot down again.  His master's tone 
brooked no argument. 
"The boy is lost, I say, and cannot be saved.  Our mission remains.  We must use this 
distraction as we would have the dubious intervention of your snow monkeys.  We must make 
good our penetration into the Cleft, before the sun rises again." 
Epsilon grumbled, but held his hand and his tongue.  "Which way around." was all he 
could manage neutrally. 

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"We will go to the right.  That way exits in the direction we must take.  Your horse will be 
a problem, so we must muffle its hooves.  With the drums and celebration, there is little risk of 
revelation, but we must limit what little there is." 
"I will tend it."  Indeed, he possessed specially designed gear to serve this exact need.  
"How far is the Cleft from here." 
"Not far, but we shall pass nearby those grotesque festivities, ere we arrive there." 
Good, Grumbled the Warfarer inaudibly, For I would see for myself this dire predicament 
from which the lad allegedly cannot be saved.  Grimly, he muffled Helmcleaver's legs, then he 
gathered the horse's reins to follow Pandolyn around the bend, into the city proper. 
They rounded the artificial canyon quickly, and exited through another smaller set of 
bronze gates, which also were flung widely open.  The twin gateways exposed what had once 
been a broad plaza ringed all around by tall statues, while the wall at their back, that which 
spanned the exeunt portals, had once been festooned with a deeply graven bas relief of a man on a 
horse.  But the statues were all toppled and shattered to bits, and the bas relief was worn smooth 
by eons of rainfall and winter storms.  All the cobbled marble slabs laid out for the pavement were 
cracked and uprooted unevenly, so the promenade was no longer flat or perfect of line.  Ivies and 
vines grew everywhere, and the ruins spoke of a vast expenditure of weathering time.  Wind 
blown soil drifted against the curbs and filled the cracks to support the growth of weeds and 
fearless wild flowers.  All around the plaza, hulking ruins tumbled down, brick upon brick, tile 
upon tile.  Frozen for this instant of time in their eyesight, the decay seemed not to be severe, but 
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well progressed.  No amount of patching or restoration could make this city whole again.  Only 
the wreckers' salvaging sledge hammers could render Draven Keep livable again. 
From the distant shadows of abandoned streets that ran through a graveyard of crumbling 
buildings, the sound of drums waxed and waned.  Insane, maniacal screams periodically pierced 
the air to accompany the percussion, which were met in turn by the roar of a boisterous and 
obviously excited crowd. 
Epsilon could not understand the fragments and snatches of guttural speech that he heard, 
though he suspected the wizardess could.  From time to time, she would pause her stealthy 
creeping to cock her head curiously, then waggle it back and forth sadly without speaking. 
For his part, each crescendo of animal glee was a stake to stab his heart.  The Warfarer's 
mind raced as he imagined the boy's fate at the hands of savages, and envisioned his body writhing 
in the throes of torment, his eyes rolling in anguish.  What sort of torture would rock trolls prefer. 
 Epsilon did not know, but, given the monsters' primitive lifestyle and their hulking size, it could 
not be a pleasant alternative to quick death.  It was small comfort that the boy was not steadily 
screaming out his agony, but the Ritesman was not reassured.  Gags were not an unknown 
implement in the inquisitor's den, after all. 
He followed the stump of Pandolyn's tail along a grassy thoroughfare, past countless 
darkened doorways and windows, each of which might have concealed a skulking assassin.  With 
each step, the din of drums and chanting trolls increased, and all too soon Epsilon thought he 
detected a decided flicker of light shining on the walls and eaves, undoubtedly the light of a great 
bonfire.  Had they burned the boy alive.   The Ritesman hastened his pace. 

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The route Pandolyn had selected crossed the raging One River, which coursed through the 
castle's center via a deep aqueduct.  A broad foot bridge supported the street and spanned the 
canal, over which they must apparently cross. 
The wizardess paused at the corner of a deserted building that once might have been a 
bakery or a general store of some sort.  She eased up to the facade's very edge, and let her head 
round the corner for a cautious view along the causeway's length. 
Finding the way clear, they stole across, her at a dash, him more slowly, leading his 
beloved horse of war.  Curiously, he turned his gaze on the source of the fire's light, but could not 
see it directly.  It was mere sticks away now, just blocks out of sight.  Giant shadows of deformed 
dancing men washed blackly back and forth across the tumbled down walls that cowered all 
around, but the trolls, themselves, were obscured.  Hoping to have a clearer view of it, Epsilon 
hurried to the far side of the aqueduct and the waiting Pandolyn. 
She hissed, "You wish to be certain Ubar is beyond saving.  That is commendable, and 
you shall have your chance.  But not now.  Not here.  Hurry along, before... the party is ended, 
and our distraction dissolved." 
Abashed, the Ritesman kept close to his master from that point forward.  Together, they 
climbed up and around and away from the disturbance at Draven Keep's heart, until the fire's light 
was reduced to nothing and rendered unseen, and all the shadows of fear were obliviously out of 
sight.  They were bound deeper into the city's rear areas, where it crouched beneath the sheer 
precipice that backed it all around, and through which Draven's Cleft penetrated unseen via a 
natural cave that had been improved by ancient men.  Upon reaching the bluff face, they turned 

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back to the north, following it to the southern rim of the exeunt aqueduct.  There they 
encountered a dominating arch that was celebrated by the graven images of gods that had no 
faces.  Its sides were smooth and void of passage.  The canal was many sticks deep, and was filled 
from side to side with a rushing, roaring torrent of lethally frigid waters. 
"From here," informed the wizardess, "We enter into the secret of Draven's Cleft.  The 
Keep we will leave behind.  Now is your opportunity to spy out Ubar's fate.  Take my glass," and 
she offered the device.  "Climb to that rooftop there, " and she pointed.  "The way is clear, I have 
used the stairs myself. Once you are up, turn the glass to the southwest.  You should be able to 
see the fire and its surrounding festivities.  Look to be dismayed, and surrender all hope of Ubar's 
rescue.  As have I.  Then we must hurry away from here." 
Grumbling inaudibly about fate and fickle bitch dogs that are fond of biting, Epsilon 
climbed to the rooftop and raised the glass to his eye.  After a moment of fumbling and focusing, 
he fixed the bonfire in his sight at last. 
Sweeping the tableau at the city's center, the Ritesman understood instantly why Pandolyn 
had declared her protégée unsalvageable.  Somehow the foolish youth had stumbled into troubles 
that had called every rock troll in camp to the scene.  He was bound, wrapped round and round, 
by heavy, rusting chains that not even an enchanted lizard boy could shatter.  While gathered 
about his feet, scores of trolls, each the equivalent of two large men, each an impossible adversary 
alone.  Together, they were a veritable army, and invincible as far as Epsilon and his limited 
resources were concerned.  He cursed, lowering the telescope. 

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Without its aid, he could yet see the great inferno and the twisted shapes dancing 
delightedly about the light.  Indeed, Ubar was lost and beyond recovery. 
Epsilon said a prayer to Nars on behalf of the boy's soul, finishing sadly with, "He might 
have made you an undeniable general, my god, had he been less impulsive.  His mind was sharper 
than any sword, while his courage speaks for itself in the manner of his dying, which death has 
served to save his comrades at arms this night.  Watch over him beyond the River Styx, lord, I 
beseech you, and let his crossing of it be quick and painless." 
Returned to the wizard's side, she saw his crestfallen face, and let her own head droop.  
Pandolyn accepted her spyglass and stowed it carefully among her bags without looking up.  Her 
voice husky with emotion, she whispered, "We should be going now.  There is nothing more we 
may do here." 
The Warfarer nodded reluctantly, and cast his gaze back over his shoulder, as if he might 
see through the walls with the clarity of Bebblegeth's Eye and know his young friend's face one 
last time.  But the ruins denied his effort cruelly, for it was a cruel, lonely place to die.  Half a 
world away from the lands he knew and loved, the boy was as surely erased from the annals of 
time as if he had never been.  His bones would be as nothing when scattered amid the crumbles of 
this ancient necropolis, which had buried countless remains in the cursed course of its protracted 
existence.  No one would ever look on these relic walls and think of Ubar, who had once lived a 
sanguine life but was now dead.  None save two would remember him or have call to mourn his 
passing, and those two, he and Pandolyn, were bound into the maw of a hungry dragon, likely 

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never to return alive.  Worst of all, the boy's detractors, his enemies, would survive him, and the 
vengeance he had vowed would never come to be.  And it was a vengeance most deserved. 
"I will set your unfinished works aright, boy," mumbled the Warfarer gravely.  “When we 
are quit of our eastern business, if I am able, I will return to Empire and throw it down.  I will 
hunt its fat mages as beasts in the forest, and expel them into the wastelands aboard trundling 
dung carts, never to be seen again.  As I live and breathe, Ubar, I swear it shall be." 
"What." queried a distracted Pandolyn, who seemed to be searching the sheer bluff wall 
for some sort of sign.  "What did you say." 
"Nothing," came his quick reply.  He watched his master cast her scaly paws all about the 
rough hewn stone, as if in quest of a merest crack in its features that could not be seen, while the 
music of the raging One River sounded from its aqueduct to compete with the lunatic screams of 
celebrating rock trolls from the broader city.  When his curiosity overwhelmed the sorrow in his 
heart, Epsilon enquired, "What are you doing, my lady." 
"I am looking for the trip latch of a hidden door.  Ah!" she declared softly, "I have it.  
Come and aid me. Lean against the stone here and push with all your strength." 
Wondering how foolish he must appear, Epsilon groaned against the weight of an entire 
mountain and tried to budge it.  To his surprise, the world gave way, and he moved it.  But no, a 
quick glance to left and right showed he had merely offset a merest fraction of it.  Still, the 'door' 
was a ponderous weight that moved with surprising ease, despite his intense effort.  With a slight 
sound of grating bearings, a hole was opened in the bluff's base that was large enough to admit 
several mounted men abreast. 

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At its widest draw, a stair was exposed in the granite floor, which stairway led steeply 
downward, beneath the bulk of the door and beyond.  Pandolyn motioned him to follow her lead, 
and started down.  Epsilon cast a final glance over his shoulder at the toppled spires of Draven 
Keep.  Its glory was diminished in his eyes, and now the citadel seemed to him an unfed morgue 
that was hungry for flesh and angry that two of three had escaped whole. 
When the door once more sounded to be closing, Epsilon fled inside, leading his mount 
carefully down the curiously wide and flat steps.  These appeared to have been designed 
specifically to accommodate beasts of burden, or heavily laden men at the least, and were easily 
traversed, even by the clumsily muffled Helmcleaver.  Before they reached the bottom of the 
descent, the door above rumble-thumped to close, and Pandolyn was forced to rekindle her 
mage's light.  Beneath that steady halo of illumination, the steps rose to meet their feet, and they 
were soon delivered to a level course once more. 
It was a roughly fashioned tunnel that appeared to parallel the river's course deeper into 
the mountains.  They followed it for many hundreds of sticks, perhaps a mile or two, Epsilon 
could not be certain, before the way bent sharply north and merged with a larger chamber. 
This was the chasm through which the One River flowed to traverse the Earthbones.  Not 
at all manmade, it was rather a natural geological formation that men had adapted to suit their 
needs.  One thousand meters deep in places, the channel was sheer and un-climbable.  So far east 
of Draven Keep, the gorge was open at the top, though it was such a narrow gap as to be all but 
invisible from the depths.  A merest sliver of starlight could be discerned high, high overhead. 

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Glancing back to the west, Epsilon saw where the river flowed into its masking tunnel, 
beneath a thick cover of bedrock.  From there, it emerged into the castle's aqueduct as a great, 
raging torrent of a spring, its true origins unknown from the far side of Draven's Mount. 
While to the east, the knife-cut canyon meandered more or less directly through the 
impassable backbone of the Earthbone ranges, slicing neatly through the heart stone roots of a 
score of awesome, towering peaks.  Epsilon could discern little of the way, encased as the world 
was in darkness above, which compounded the deeper shadow of this hole among holes to all but 
blind him.  Yet enough star and moonlight penetrated these depths to smear the walls with streaks 
of delicate blue and indigo illumination, to reveal the daunting portents of their passage into long 
isolated Bac Tur. 
"Breathtaking, is it not." queried Pandolyn morosely, Ubar's death lingering heavily upon 
her heart.  "Of all the world's great things, this gorge is perhaps the greatest.  Were I in better 
spirits, I might tell you of its creation through eons of eroding time and ages of uprising 
mountains.  But I have not the strength, now.  Let us simply turn and go."  She shuffled off to 
pursue the dying echoes of her faded words, adding, "And mind the drop.  You would not survive 
it." 
He hardly needed this warning, for that reality was all too obvious.  Helmcleaver was 
nerved by the strangely echoing chamber, and seemed to instinctively sense the plunge poised by 
one side.  The stallion happily kept close to the gorge wall, requiring no urging whatsoever. 
While it was not far to the roiling water's surface below, it was far enough.  Epsilon 
wandered near to the edge to peer over and down.  Pandolyn's light did not penetrate to the 

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bottom, but he could hear the One River's waters roaring in heavy wash beneath his feet.  
Absently, he toed a small stone over the brink and listened for its impact, counting the seconds.  
After its return, Epsilon gauged the plunge to be only slightly less than it was back in Draven 
Keep, yet the danger of it was much greater here, for there was no quick exit from the waters, no 
ladders carved into the stone or draws from which to drag one's self.  To enter the One River here 
was to die a mangled death. 
As he peered over the edge, Epsilon's eye was attracted by a deformation in the gorge wall 
across the way.  Barely visible in the distance, he thought he saw another passage identical to the 
one beneath his feet. 
Epsilon wondered aloud whether his eyes were deceiving or no.  Whereupon the 
wizardess mumbled absently, "Yes, there are two ways.  One for the eastbound traveler, and one 
for the west.  Which way is determined by the doors at either end, which open from without at the 
beginning and from within at the termini.  Now be silent for a time, my general, I would be alone 
with my thoughts."  At her last words, Rit Merdian's voice threatened to crack in a matronly 
manner, in the manner of a mother that has lost her baby. 
"Gently now, Lady Pandolyn," comforted the Ritesman as softly as his harsh voice would 
allow.  "Ubar surrendered his life in saving us.  Do not shame his deed by ruing that he has done 
it." 
She sniffled, "Oh, I do not rue his actions, as the boy's intentions were honorable and pure. 
 I only lament my own failings in this matter.  It is I that must bear the burden of responsibility, for 
Ubar was my charge in this world.  My charge, and my abysmal failure." 

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"What failure yours.  That boy was his own man, m'selle, capable of ruling his own 
destiny.  As much as I am pained to say it, the boy dared and lost.  If blame must be fixed here, 
then fix it on the foolish nature of young men, for they are nothing if not brash and enamored of 
their own nonexistent immortality." 
Pandolyn raised an unsteady hand to halt him.  "Keep your breath, sir.  No amount of 
words can lessen the pressure in my breast."  Suddenly wretched with anguish, the wizard's 
defenses were loosened and she wept openly.  "Oh, gods, do you not see.  Do you not understand 
what a terrible crime I have committed. 
"It was I that saved him from the assassin's blade, a blade that was descending to kill 
quickly.  It was I that voyaged the boy beyond Empire's bleak walls into the Wilderlands beyond, 
and I that filled his head with visions of greatness and power.  I that cruelly built up his mind and 
rescued his flesh, all to better know the torturer's every touch.  How he must be suffering now, all 
for me!  FOR ME!" 
When he reached out to touch her, the lizard woman lashed out violently, shoving his 
assuaging hand rudely away.  "No!  Do not seek to lessen my suffering, for it is suffering 
deserved!  Suffer I should, into eternity and beyond, and still I could not pay for this black deed I 
have done." 
"But you have done nothing in this, m'selle.  Nothing." 
"And that is my crime!  The crime of nothing!  The crime of lax!  The crime of apathy, of 
irresponsibility, of inattention.  But for a keen eye and steady hand, entire nations have toppled to 
decline.  While for it, they prosper in growth.  Entire nations!  Yet here I am charged with the 

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keep of a mere boy, a single child, and I could not see it through to the end!"  Her weeping 
compounded abruptly to a heart wrenching wail of grief. 
"But you have.  It has ended, though it has ended for ill."  Epsilon sucked a deep breath, 
and wished he were yet mired in the tangled forests of Empire, so many leagues distant.  Not 
knowing what to say exactly, and unable to say what little came to his mind without stumbling, 
the Warfarer offered, "What are you become in the last hour that I have not seen.  Hmm.  Have 
you been transformed into Puto, the god of death.  Or Nercury, the messenger of the gods, that 
you may deliver doctrines of death here and there, at will.  And if you are become Nercury, was it 
your doctrine that Ubar suffer pathos for his transgression.  Would you teach him dying, lady, 
when you so obviously loved his living.  Nay, you would not.  And so it was not your hand that 
wrought his undoing, but Ubar's own. 
"To this truth, I can but say it is a good thing.  Yes, good.  For he has chosen his destiny, 
and chosen well.  His was not a candle to be extinguished by an impudent thumb and forefinger, 
but a great, billowing flame that only a tempest could render impotent.  In the end, he did not 
perish a slave, but as a free man in his own mind, in the prosecution of his own will.  Let him rest 
happily so, Lady Pandolyn, however ugly his passing may seem in your thoughts."  Again, he 
reached out to touch her, but was not repulsed in the attempt.  Not really knowing how best to 
comfort a reptilian female, Epsilon neared and let his arm cross her back as though he would 
encircle her scaly form in a loving embrace, deciding that she should be comforted as any lady 
might be. 

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To his amazement, she fell into it bawling, as if hers was a dive to safety and him the 
safety net.  Speaking softly near her ear, he requited her sorrow with the only tender words his 
martial mind could manage.  "We are soldiers in this endeavor, lady, and this endeavor is war.  
War that loves tragedy at the expense of its bit players.  How can we, the actors, condemn the 
playwright from the vantage of our earthly stage.  We cannot.  All that is left us is the course of 
the drama; this plot long written, this conflict predestined.  Let us say our words and take our 
cues and swoon if need be, but let us never condemn ourselves for the suffering we are made to 
endure.  Let us bear it up with level shoulders and a straight spine, ever aware of the watching 
audience, even if the audience be merely us alone." 
She let him pat her back gently a moment longer, her head laid heavily upon his shoulder, 
her arms wrapped hugely around his waist.  Then she sniffled, and moved away. 
"I cannot be so aloof," she choked, wiping at the wetness of her eyes, "But I thank you for 
your words so kind.  My weakness shames me." 
Epsilon shrugged, gathering Helmcleaver's reins closer to give his hands something to do. 
 He felt abruptly awkward in his delivery of sentiment.  "It is not a weakness to love, or to mourn 
the loss of a love.  You are not our Enemy, void of a heart that can feel loss or bleed in sorrow." 
"My heart bleeds not simply for the loss of Ubar, but for the loss of the world, this latest 
blow to goodness and Rit.  Oh, he was a blooming flower, Epsilon, bright and eager, a poppy 
among the gods' green fields.  His was a pure heart undaunted that dreamed great things.  Indeed, 
I believe he might have wrought many of his dreams into reality, had he but the time.  And now, 

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nothing of him will be fashioned in the lands.  Ubar's virtues are a page of prose torn out by 
mistake and let loose on the wind, never to be recovered." 
"Then let him flutter away, m'selle.  Perhaps he is already born anew into the world, ready 
to work a larger good we cannot begin to understand." 
"Perhaps," she sighed unevenly, her breath stirred by the discordant pattering of her 
shattered heart.  On nearly silent footpads, Pandolyn turned to continue the persecution of their 
flight into foul Bac Tur.  Her mage's light guided them in an unwavering fashion, as if it alone had 
the courage to continue without flickering or fading in the attempt.  "If it is true, I wish the truth 
could soothe me.  Except I find no comfort in it.  On the eve of my greatest contest, I am shorn of 
my right arm and crippled." 
"Ubar would not like to hear it.  The last thing he intended in his sacrifice was that you 
should be delayed or hindered in the prosecution of your cause.  Will you render his death 
impotent and kill yourself in his name." 
"Of course not." 
"For my part, I am glad to hear it.  Ever are the wiles of our capable foe in my mind, you 
see, and I think Vandegarte would very much like to know your heart has swung low into the 
depths of despair.  I think it would please the beast hugely to hear you have succumbed to your 
own uncertain will, which will he has no doubt scorned hatefully and often from the vantage of his 
high seat.  Has he won in this lone death, after all the slaughters gone before."  And quite 
abruptly, the Warfarer was angry.  He was angered by Vandegarte’s incessant pestilence, by 
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of death at the moment.  He was thinking of Lord Andol and his betrayed army, of the Sudanese 
sailors that were hanged along the Painted Wall, and he was wondering what other atrocities had 
been undertaken that remained unknown to him.  "Martyrs' blood, woman, but the world is 
wasting all around us!   Thousands upon thousands have perished, are perishing daily.  You have 
persevered through fields of carnage, waded gallons of blood and countless disbanded souls, only 
to stumble over this lone demise.  How has one sacrifice undone you, when millions could not." 
"Be still, fool!  You forget me." 
Epsilon's tone was full of spite that he did not entirely intend.  "I forget you not!  You, Rit 
Merdian, High Wizard of the Synod of Seven, who may dabble in planning campaigns with an idle 
finger, yet retract that finger without hesitation at the first thorn's prick.  What care you that the 
whole world's hopes are pinned to your sleeve.  Wipe your sniveling nose with it and leave off the 
rest." 
"That is not me, and you damned well know it!"  The lizard woman drew herself up to full 
height, enraged.  "How dare you speak so to me." 
"I speak it as I see it." 
She was appalled.  "Do you truly see me in this light." 
"At the moment.  You are sorry for yourself, and feel inclined now to admit defeat.  But 
what of the last free peoples of this world that eke out their agony daily, unaware redemption is at 
hand in you.  What of them.  With all the weight sitting upon their sagging shoulders, would they 
counsel you to expire and be finished with your designs.  Or would they urge you to brush Ubar's 

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loss aside, however deeply it may pain you, and maintain the way.  Why have you started on this 
trail, in the first place.  For yourself.  For Ubar.  For whom." 
"You do not need to remind me of my own altruism.  I have not forgotten it." 
"Then bear up to it.  We are nearing the black umbra of this heart of darkness we have 
come to despoil.  Do not pale on the verge of the shade, but take this dagger's point of disaster 
and turn it aside.  Turn it to your own use.  Blame that black bastard, Vandegarte, for Ubar's loss, 
and let your blame enrage you!" 
Pandolyn eased her offensive posture and exhaled deeply.  "It is sound advice.  I should 
heed it, but be patient.  My heart may beat slowly for a time, ere I recover.  Let me mourn the boy 
for a night, at least, and I will promise a new demeanor on the morrow." 
"As you would have it."  Epsilon avoided her glance by turning his eyes on the trail.  It 
was a wide shelf hacked into the wall, but it wandered back and forth through the near darkness 
without warning and was thus treacherous. 
After many long minutes of silence, the wizardess added thoughtfully, “And, general.  I 
thank you for your shoulder.  It has been many long years since I have enjoyed such a privilege." 
Epsilon blushed and nodded, but said nothing.  He felt a lump rising in his throat, and 
struggled to swallow it down again. 
Their trek progressed in silence, while the moon crashed into the far side of the planet and 
was destroyed.  With the coming of morning, the cleft was lit but softly, as not even the burning 
noontime sun could illuminate the gorge to its frothy bottoms.  Always the cold, slimy touch of 
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in escape, that its infection might spread to other lands, borne on the waters of the One River.  
Also with the coming of morning, a wind grew in the constricted confines of the canyon.  Which 
fell draft rose to a howling crescendo during the hottest part of the day, and quieted only after the 
world above was returned to darkness. 
When they stopped to rest for a few hours at nightfall, Epsilon commented on the banshee 
gale.  "Are they the moaning spirits of wandering dead men." he asked in all sobriety. 
Wearily, the wizardess sat against the gorge wall and replied, "No, my general.  It is but 
the wind." 
"I have never felt a wind so fierce or heard screaming so demented.  Not even that of the 
trolls can compare." 
"Please, I beg you... do not mention it again." 
"A thousand apologies, m'selle." 
Pandolyn waved the sentiment away and rummaged among her many bags.  "Regardless of 
its terror, it is but a natural wind, I assure you.  Its intensity is a symptom of this canyon's 
existence, you see, as the eastern end is open to Bac Tur and its cool highland breezes, while on 
the west, it exits into the burning Desert Ocean.  I could explain the science of it to you, Epsilon, 
but you would not understand.  And I am too weary to make the attempt." 
"Do not try," he replied, exhaling explosively.  "For I am too weary to listen.  In fact, I am 
nearing exhaustion, though I would gladly walk another day without stopping, if it meant we 
might exit this damnable gully at day's end." 

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"It would not, else I might press the matter."  Shaking her head slowly, the wizardess 
fumbled more deeply among her kits for something unmentioned.  “No, we are yet many days 
west of Bac Tur, and there is no immediate need to overstretch ourselves here.  We shall rest for a 
time before continuing on.  And this," she declared softly at last, removing an object from one of 
her many pouches, "Is for Helmcleaver." 
The stallion snorted pensively upon hearing its name.  Epsilon had fixed a feeder to the 
animal's snout, and added a pitifully small dole of grain to its bottom, which the horse was licking 
clean to the last scrap of dust. 
Epsilon asked the necessary question.  "What is it." 
"A drug.  It will sedate your warhorse and abate its growing hunger.  We dare not risk 
having a maddened beast on our hands in this hellishly cramped space.  I will dab it onto a lump of 
sugar, and you shall give it to him." 
"Helmcleaver will not be harmed." 
"Not in any way." 
"Then I will do as you say."  Epsilon rose to administer the dubious potion as prescribed.  
As he removed the feeder, he said, "You are a remarkable woman, Pandolyn.  Your mind is as 
quick and thorough as a Ritesman's." 
The wizardess sighed leadenly.  "Yet my wits could not save a merest boy-child from 
hungry trolls..." 

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Epsilon glanced up sharply from his labors, but did not address her lamentation.  Instead, 
he sought to distract her by changing the subject.  "Tell me of this Draven's Cleft, my lady," he 
demanded gently.  "Who was 'Draven', and why is this gorge named for him." 
Despite her anguish, the lizard lady grinned.  It was but a flash of ivory white amid purple 
and crimson scales, though Epsilon tallied it as a victory on his part, nonetheless. 
She chose not to answer him directly.  Rather, she posed another question. "Why is it the 
nature of a man to believe all great things are done by men, can only be done by men." 
"What do you mean." 
"What makes you think Draven was a man, Ritesman." 
"I know not for certain.  I only-" 
"Well, she was not a man.  She was a she.  A great queen in her day.  This gorge is named 
for her, as are the ruins at its mountainous exit.  Though they were not originally known by these 
titles, they must needs be known somehow.  So they are named for her now." 
"But who was she." 
Wistfully, the wizardess replied, "Once, she was queen of Bac Tur, or Argentia, as the 
land was known then.  It was a vast rule, which stretched the Earthbone Ranges down to the 
great Southern Sea of salt water.  Argentia was a wealthy nation, its coffers filled as they were 
with gold and gems hacked out of the mountains' guts.  As such, it wielded powerful armies and 
magnificent ocean-bound fleets of war, which might have served a tyrant in claims of war, and 
successfully so.  Yet Draven Shellcolor's Daughter was no petty tyrant.  She was a servant of 
goodness, and endeared to Rit.  Ever were her forces arrayed in defense, never in offense, and she 

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did not hesitate to come to the aid or rescue of her allied nations.  Which were, by the way, in dire 
need of aid and rescue almost on a daily basis.  For, you see, Draven Shellcolor's Daughter ruled 
in the time of Vandegarte's rise to power, and her queendom was laid low by his foul, despoiling 
hand." 
Pandolyn paused to chuckle blackly upon sighting Epsilon's clouded face by the light of 
her un-flickering torch.  "But, no, do not fret, Ritesman.  This is not another tale of cowardice and 
slaughters wholesale.  Draven's tale is a recital of courage and heroism.  It is the tale of how your 
black First Emperor was all but laid low at the Battle of Grottermacht, and of how his grasping 
clutch was nearly turned aside and crushed in reaching for Argentia." 
"'All but.'  'Nearly.'"  Epsilon scoffed.  "Good enough for poetry and pheasant hunting, but 
never in matters of warfare." 
Pandolyn shrugged.  "Failure need not despair a courageous soul, or shame the brilliance 
of that soul's unselfish shining.  No, Draven cannot be condemned for the conquest of her nation, 
for salvation of her lands was not included in her designs.  She did not fight to keep her rule 
intact, but rather to save her people from a madman's enslaving aspirations.  While other 
kingdoms fought for property that could not be salvaged, fought and perished in the fighting, 
Draven instead abandoned her holdings where she could, taking her people away to safety in vast 
hordes of numbers. 
"While Vandegarte marched in the west, Draven did not avert her gaze or attentions from 
those forlorn countries, as did most of her peers, rather she accepted refugees from Sin Supri's 
conquests with grace and goodwill, giving them Argentia lands to farm that they might feed their 

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families, and providing homes for orphans that survived the wars.  She sent out her fleets to 
rescue the citizens of burning cities, and her armies to defend long trains of wandering victims that 
might otherwise have perished at the hands of Vandegarte's marauding forces.  You can imagine 
how her kindness and generosity must have enraged the conquering madman.  Draven alone stood 
in the east as a gleaming beacon of hope to those that had lost all hope.  She alone provided 
sanctuary during a time when sanctuary was unknown, and she was utterly despised for it. 
"And when the ranks of her nation bulged beyond management, Draven commissioned her 
daunting navies to sail far to the south in search of free lands, lands void of Vandegarte's 
bastardized touch.  It was to these untarnished shores that her subjects fled; peasant and nobleman 
alike, citizen or immigrant, that they might escape ultimate slavery and slaughter.  Which 
atrocities they did escape, to a last number.  All, that is, save for Queen Draven and the remnants 
of her loyal army."  Pandolyn finished in a sad tone and in a manner that implied her tale was 
abruptly finished. 
But Epsilon was not content.  There was obviously more to the story, and he wanted to 
hear it, ere he slept.  "What became of this courageous queen, then." 
"They stood at Grottermacht, as I have already stated, her in command and her men in 
faithful obedience, serving their beloved master to the final drops of their flowing veins.  When 
the conflict was finished, Draven was slain and Argentia was lost.  But not before Vandegarte, 
himself, was gravely wounded atop Grottermacht's walls, and his foul armies were laid low.  In 
fact, his final assault might have been a dismal failure in the end, if not for a magic arrow that 

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sought Draven's heart unerringly.  At her death, the few defenders that remained were dismayed 
and fell into despair, and the city was overrun. 
"Yet it was many long months before Sin Supri could recover and rebuild his forces for 
the final push into the depths of Draven's abandoned queendom, by which time Argentia's people 
were long fled, its fabled mines were all destroyed, its fields stripped barren of fodder, its cities all 
razed in denial of him, and its secrets forever concealed." 
"Secrets such as the existence of this cleft." 
"Among many others, some of which even I do not know," the wizardess sighed heavily, 
and tried to find a comfortable spot on the hard stone floor.  Epsilon finished drugging his 
warhorse, and returned to his master's scaly side to rest.  Around a huge, toothy yawn, she added, 
"It is testament to Draven's gouging of the Evil One that he has made her home his own.  
Argentia's once beautiful meadows and breathtaking valleys are now filled through and through 
with Sin Supri's malevolent poisons.  He has utterly and completely ruined the remnants of her 
rule, despising everything she left behind with a universal hatred that seems to know nothing of 
endings.  Though the queen has been dead for ages, still Sin Supri is intent on defiling her 
memory.  Thus, Argentia is become a nation of reeks and evil, and it is called Bac Tur." 
After another pause that was filled with the soft sounds of thoughtful smacking and 
chewing, as the wizardess consumed her slight rations, Pandolyn added further, "'Bac Tur', if you 
do not know, means 'Place of Shit', literally, though it is also a famed keep of Hades, wherein 
Puto, himself, resides.  So even the new moniker of his foreboding dominion is chosen to disgrace 
the unfading memory of Draven Shellcolor's Daughter. 

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"In the tongue of mongrel dogs that Sin Supri's servants prefer, there is a poem which 
speaks of it."  Pandolyn's voice waxed guttural and base, as she recited; 
 
"Illumnumnum, baush Bac Turum, cathentum asho, 
nicht lallanumnum, auch aberclap Bac Turum; 
esh elnecht esheckum, esh salbernumnum, el bac, Bac Turum. 
Ex illumnumnum, altotum cushe Bac Turum, cathentum asho." 
 
Upon completing the verse, the wizardess coughed and spat in disgust.  "Ach!" she 
groaned, "It fills my mouth with a bad flavor to use that vile language."  She spat again.  "I will 
translate the refrain into a more palatable speech.  Loosely, the words are; 
 
It is fated by the gods; Bac Tur lies in shadow, 
while I must go there to die; 
nothing can save me, no light shines in Bac Tur, 
its horrors are unknown, its terrors untouched, 
in that black place, Bac Tur. 
Now it is fated by the gods; Bac Tur is a badman's hell, 
while I must go there to die." 

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Pandolyn munched a bit of dried venison, which they had from Lucky Lady's stores, and 
absently mulled these words through her mind.  Eventually, she declared, "Often, I have heard Sin 
Supri's scuttling forces sing this song as they march to and from wars abroad.  It is not a happy 
song." 
Epsilon grunted dourly.  "They are not happy words." 
"And Bac Tur is not a happy land." 
With that said, they lapsed into silence for a time.  Protected by Bebblegeth's Eye, the two 
weary travelers dozed, but could not allow sleep to claim them.  They were, after all, crouched in 
the madman's shadow, which was an evil incarnate to invade their restless dreams with the surety 
of a vast, stomping host of demons. 
At length, without preamble, Epsilon enquired, "Was she beautiful." 
To which Pandolyn responded sleepily, "Who." 
"Draven Shellcolor's Daughter.  The Queen of Argentia." 
"Yes.  She was quite beautiful." 
The Warfarer nodded sagely.  "She would be, of course.  No queen was ever ugly."  
Another length of silence ensued before he spoke again.  "I wonder if Vandegarte coveted her." 
"Perhaps.  More likely, he simply detested her.  If he coveted her at all, it was not for her 
flesh, but for her... her... vitality.  Her love of life and the accolade that was her existence.  
Draven's was the sort of authority that any ruler would covet, for it was not instilled by threat or 
borne of fear.  Queen Draven's people loved her freely, of their own choosing, for she allowed 
herself to be loved and returned the love she was offered without qualification.  All this before she 

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salvaged Argentia's population from the madman's clutches, which actions only served to endear 
her more deeply to her subjects' hearts."  Pandolyn enjoyed a slight quaff of her precious juliose, 
the last of the last skinful, which she had carried to her place of rest.  She smacked her maw 
sweetly at the taste of it.  "I know not what became of Argentia's population, except that they 
passed beyond the vast water ocean and were never seen again.  And while they made good their 
escape from the dawning of these Wilderlands, Queen Draven perished atop Grottermacht's walls. 
 As her final act of selflessness, that cherished monarch laid herself low in bloody martyrdom." 
When he next spoke, Epsilon's tone was unexpectedly despairing and petulant, "You have 
deceived me, Lady Pandolyn. You promised Draven's was not a tale of slaughters wholesale, and 
yet your recital ended in her murder, her murder that was surrounded by the further murders of all 
her men.  Is this not a slaughter."  The Warfarer grumbled a bit in the near darkness beneath his 
master's unwavering light.  "I do not like your tales, wizardess.  They are always terminal and 
bode nothing save ill for us all.  In the future, keep yourself quiet." 

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"Ah, now you are not serious.  How can you deem Draven's sacrifice a slaughter.  A mere 
legion of men perished in her company.  Think of it, m'sieur, a legion, ten thousand men, that 
saved many times their own number, hundreds- no, thousands of thousands!  That was no defeat! 
 How Sin Supri must have trembled at her denial of him, how he must have been enraged!"  She 
chuckled darkly.  "When he at last healed himself and his armies, and ventured deeper into the 
fabled lands of rich Argentia, how he must have gurgled in his wrath at the sight of toppled cities 
and burned fields!  How he must have reddened at the sight of ruined gold mines and emptied 
vaults!  Can you imagine Vandegarte's great passion upon finding the entire nation emptied of its 
inhabitants and their valuables.  Can you imagine how he cursed Queen Draven." 
"If what you tell me of Bac Tur is true, then it seems he is yet cursing her to this day." 
"My opinion, precisely!"  Pandolyn had risen from her recline in her excitement, and now 
began to pace the narrow pathway in a harrowing fashion.  "Yet Draven's memory is not a 
powerless talisman.  Those that serve the causes of Rit have not forgotten Argentia's last 
monarch, nor have we forsaken her long standing designs for her queendom.  The renaming of 
this gorge was more than a token, posthumous act of remembrance.  This pathway into darkness 
is and was always intended to be a pathway into the light of resurrection.  Draven's Cleft is the 
secret revenge that may eventually harvest Sin Supri's doom." 
The Warfarer smiled beneath the shadow of his proud nose.  "A corpse's last blow from 
beyond the grave." 

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Pandolyn suddenly stopped pacing to gather her things, as if announcing their trek should 
resume at once.  Epsilon exhaled wearily, and decided this was for the best, since neither of them 
could sleep. 
"I sometimes wonder," she said as they started east once more, "How much of this was in 
Draven's mind so long, long ago.  I wonder if more than simple compassion motivated her 
evacuation of these lands.  I wonder if the abandonment of Argentia was as much a method of 
preserving the nation's secrets as of salvaging its population." 
Epsilon nodded sagely.  "It seems a drastic measure, but they were drastic times.  
Provided she could foresee Vandegarte's future habitation of Argentia, it would seem a clever 
move." 
"She must have known this would be the lunatic's spiteful response.  Even if Argentia had 
not been the most defensible nation in the world, which it was and is, Sin Supri would have taken 
it as his capitol kingdom for the sheer disgrace of it all.  By denying him its riches, Draven bated 
the bastard into settling there." 
"Perhaps.  At the least, things turned out that way." 
"And the secret of Draven's Cleft intact all this time."  Her tone was both terminal and 
wistfully nostalgic in the same breath. 
After a ponderous length of silence that was marred only by the One River's raging flow, 
Epsilon intoned solemnly, "Or so we hope." 

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23 

Forever War 

Three nights and two days later, Epsilon and Pandolyn found themselves mired in the 
deepest depths of the razor cut canyon.  The defile had passed between a pair of towering twin 
peaks, cutting through their bedrock roots so the sliver of light above their heads was reduced to 
the breadth of a thread.  Thousands of sticks separated the tops of their heads from the surface of 
the land high above, which was a terrifying reality in their minds.  The oppressive weight of it had 
grown with each new rise in the height of the walls, as though they were assuming the mass of the 
world upon their shoulders, pound upon pound, step upon step. 
From time to time, rocks came tumbling from the heights, clattering and rattling, smashing 
and dashing from one side of the narrow defile to the other as they fell.  Ultimately, these missiles 
landed with bone shattering explosions atop the cantilever road, or with massive splashes in the 
waters of the One River far below. 

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And from time to time, more so as they pushed further west and deeper into the 
mountain's severed roots, Epsilon thought he could hear whispering.  Whether it was the whisper 
of stealthy feet or of less stealthy tongues, it was a whisper just the same.  It assaulted Epsilon's 
ears with maddening regularity, but in a fleeting and undetermined fashion.  Though it must have 
been a loud noise to overcome the incessant rumble of the river in its flue, Epsilon could not 
readily tease out its hidden message. 
When it sounded strongly in the echoes, the Warfarer paused abruptly to cock his head 
and listen intently.  Just there!  He caught it, a whispered jabbering that was directed from before 
them!  Was it truly the whisper of voices.  Or the gurgle of rushing water.  No, it was neither.  It 
was the sound of feet, of scores of feet, marching silently through the darkness on the opposite 
side of the gorge, marching just out of range of Pandolyn's un-flickering lamp!  It was the sound 
of a host struggling to remain hidden from them, hidden until the time for ambush was come! 
Then the slight sound was lost, and the Ritesman was left to question his sanity in its 
absence.  Had he genuinely heard it.  Or was the whispering but a figment of his exhausted mind. 
 Which was reality, and which the dream, or rather the nightmare. 
Pandolyn was suddenly at his side, concerned.  "What plagues you, my general." 
Epsilon noticed he was standing stock still in the center of the narrow path, Helmcleaver's 
reins dangling from his dangling hands, his head cocked, listening.  Once he noticed, he wondered 
how long he might have been standing there.  Seconds.  Hours.  Days. 
"Nothing plagues me," he returned huskily, though his head did not right itself and neither 
did his feet start forward once more.  "Shh!" he hissed at last, “Listen.  Do you hear it." 

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"Hear what." 
"Whispers.  Whispers in the darkness." 
The wizardess paused to cock her own head inquisitively, concern etched upon the 
shadows of her reptilian face.  When she heard nothing, the mage's gaze waxed worried, and her 
eyes fell suspiciously on Epsilon's slack countenance.  "I hear nothing." 
"As do I," returned the Warfarer enigmatically.  "It is nothing that sounds to be something. 
 Words that are, but are not... a lunatic talking backwards.  Shh!  There it is again!  They are 
sniggering!  Sniggering at us from their damnable shadows!" 
"Who.  What." queried a confused Pandolyn.  "Epsilon, there is no one here but us." 
"No.  I hear them maneuver before us, ever before us, and from the opposite side of the 
cleft.  I hear feet!  I hear voices!  I hear the sniggering of children playing a prank!"  His tone was 
urgent and ragged, his voice a harsh hiss of import.  "There, it comes again!  Soft whispers!  From 
the darkness!  Shh!" he paused again, placing a finger to his lips.  "A tinkle of steel!  Did you hear 
that, now." 
"No." 
"A clatter of hooves perhaps!  Did you hear that." 
"No." 
"More sniggering.  Surely you can hear it, this time." 
"My general, I hear nothing.  And..." 
When she did not complete her sentence, he demanded sharply, "What.  And what."  His 
attention was distracted from the distraction.  "What would you say." 

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"I am concerned for you, Epsilon."  She started to reach for her bags, using the same sort 
of movements she used when searching for the narcotics they often fed to Helmcleaver.  "Perhaps 
it would be wise if you-" 
"But wait!  There it is again!  Just ahead of us!  Just out of sight in the darkness." Epsilon 
abandoned his stallion's reins and ran to the edge of the lamp's glow.  "Hurry, lady!  We may catch 
them at their game if we hurry!" 
Pandolyn was reluctant.  She gathered Helmcleaver's bridle into her grasp to keep him 
from the precipice edge.  Holding her light higher, she followed slowly. 
"Gods, woman!  You are frustrating in your speed!"  Epsilon charged back and snatched 
the torch from her grasp.  It was a thick rod of a strange metal and heavy, but the Warfarer was 
so anxious to uncover this mystery that he scarcely noticed.  Disregarding Pandolyn's angry 
admonishments, the Warfarer rushed along the path at the fastest pace his exhausted feet could 
manage. 
And surprised his skulking enemies.  He had nearly charged into their midst, before he 
noticed their obsidian shapes against the background of uncertain shadows marring the opposite 
wall. 
For there, clinging to the sheer cliff and massed upon the carved pathway opposite the 
gorge, there was a horde of skittering insect forms.  Horned jetlas. Clawed uglucks.  Hulking 
shails.  All armed lightly for scout duty.  All scurrying silently back away from the light, their 
muffled weapons and armor and feet sounding as soft whispers in his ears...  

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...but when he caught them at their maneuvers, the foul creatures changed tactics, and 
turned to face his advance.  Peeking from behind the shadows of upraised shields and menacing 
pincers, those demons paused to smile evilly, to grin at his fool's error, to gloat in anticipation of 
their murder of him. 
Epsilon's mouth snapped open with surprise and his face waxed pale.  He dropped the 
mage's light in his instinctive haste to draw his sword, and instantly stooped to retrieve it, realizing 
a blade was useless here.  What he needed was a weapon with range! 
The sacrificial hero made this realization, even as he saw his enemies drawing their own 
bows and crossbows to shoot out his eyes.  Without need of further sight, Epsilon turned to run.  
Missiles chased after his fleeing back with the sound of buzzing bees.  The Warfarer could but 
hunch his shoulders as though shielding his vulnerable neck from a cold rain, and run faster still.  
With him went the light, until it faded beyond the reach of Sin's demons and they were returned to 
the shade. 
Returned to Pandolyn's side, the panting Ritesman offered up the mage's torch 
apologetically.  Into the face of her sternly reproaching glare, he could offer only, "You see.  
Sniggering whispers.  In the dark." 
The wizardess grinned broadly, her countenance cavalier, and managed a chuckle.  "I 
should never have doubted you, good my general." 
"Well," he replied, dusting his shoulders uselessly, "I wish you had not.  I might have 
saved myself a nasty surprise." 
"How many were there." 

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"A double score.  Perhaps fifty.  Too many to combat alone." 
Pandolyn pursed her scaled lips and frowned.  "They will attack soon, now that they are 
revealed to us.  Being only two, the black bastards will think us easy prey." 
"Are we not."  Epsilon's tone was mocking, but there was a healthy tinge of fear etched 
into it, as well.  "Trapped on this narrow defile as we are, escape is limited.  When we are forced 
to fight, it will be on our enemy's terms." 
"Then we shall not wait until we are forced into combat.  Mount your stallion, Epsilon, 
and we will make a run for safety right away." 
"Run.  Atop this narrow fingernail snip of a road.  In the dark."  Epsilon shuddered to 
think of that long plunge into icy waters, which awaited an unwary footfall.  "I am not ready to 
commit suicide.  Yet."  And he reached for his unstrung crossbow to quickly string and arm it, 
wishing all the while that he had brought more bolts for the weapon. 
"Fighting will only cause us to waste time, while offering our foes an opportunity to send 
for greater numbers.  If we hurry, we can get behind them and keep them from rounding the cleft 
to reach Bac Tur before us." 
"It is a great risk to take." 
Pandolyn's tone waxed impatient with frustration, "We cannot go back and we cannot 
stand to fight.  Any vertical movements are obviously out of the question, which leaves only the 
way east.  If we hesitate, even that passage might be closed against us." 
At his master's urging, Epsilon climbed into his saddle reluctantly, but not before slinging a 
quiver of bolts over his shoulder.  Holding his crossbow at the ready, its butt resting atop the 

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curve of his powerful right thigh, Epsilon swallowed with difficulty and eyed the inky darkness.  
"I tell you in all good faith, lady, as your general; going back seems a wise decision at this point." 
Gathering Helmcleaver's reins to guide the horse more surely through the shadows, 
Pandolyn retorted stiffly, "You forget the doors at either end of this pass.  The one behind us can 
only be opened from the outside.  By entering Draven's Cleft we have committed to a singular 
course that cannot be turned back.  Our enemies will know this, and might easily realize they have 
but to hold the eastern passage to kill us." 
The Warfarer grumbled about wizards not knowing everything there was to know, and 
about secret clefts that were secrets no longer.  At this final comment, Pandolyn chose to remark, 
"I do not believe those devils intentionally entered this gorge in Bac Tur, since its entrance is so 
well concealed.  More likely, they simply stumbled onto it by mistake, and, like us, can go but one 
way to get out now, that being west for them.  Are you ready.  Then hold tight!" 
And she started off at an accelerating pace into the shadow of Draven's Cleft, her mage's 
light brilliant but woefully inadequate at speed.  Helmcleaver protested a bit at first, but quickly 
relinquished guidance to her firm hand on his bridle.  Faster and faster they flew, time and again 
swerving violently left or right only just in time to avoid that icy plunge Epsilon so feared. 
In fact, so harrowing was their flight that the Warfarer scarcely noticed their passage 
beyond that horde of black devils, despite the hail of arrows and poorly aimed crossbow bolts that 
whipped and whizzed past their heads.  As they sped to safety, Epsilon discerned that those 
obsidian faces were as surprised by Pandolyn's charge as the Ritesman had been to find Sin's 
forces arrayed in the gorge.  Several of the shails clinging vertically to the sheer wall were excited 

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enough by their quarry's flight to let go their precarious holds in hasty efforts to draw weapons.  
More than one plunged into the ranks massed on the narrow road beneath, before they toppled 
over the edge into the One River's frothy waters.  The screams of these hapless monsters were 
distressing and shrill, and spoke of how greatly even those miserable specimens valued their 
piteous lives. 
Where he could, Epsilon fired into the confused tangle of insect forms, but he only 
managed a brace of bolts before Pandolyn's light fled beyond sight of his targets.  Still, the 
wizardess did not slow or halt their flight, knowing as she did that the devils would pursue as a 
pack of hungry hounds hot upon the heels of a hare.  The Warfarer could but hunch low over 
Helmcleaver's bobbing neck and keep a white knuckle grip on the horn of his saddle.  Eventually, 
he closed his eyes altogether and tried to imagine himself on parade in Empire, trampling a fresh 
meadow of wild flowers and enjoying the accolades of an anonymous audience.  The wind 
became a roar of approval in his ears, while Helmcleaver's uncertain and stumbling hoof beats 
became a sounding of martial drums. 
It was a pleasant dream, if brief.  All too soon, Epsilon was returned to himself by a 
hideous chorus of enraged jeering at his back. 
Turning in his high seat and opening his eyes, the Ritesman saw their foes emerge into the 
far reaches of Pandolyn's torchlight, where it only just illuminated the cantilever road opposite the 
gorge.  While the beasts seemed to fear and loathe the light, they seemed equally intent on 
extinguishing it and the creatures that loved it.  Belching their rage and fear and hatred, those 
servants of Sin loosed missiles by the bunches, as if they possessed an endless supply, all the time 

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beating their shields and gnashing their horrible fangs.  Epsilon dared let himself around in his 
saddle using a deft movement of his legs, thus he turned to ride backward in his seat and raised his 
crossbow to return fire. 
His first missile was a bit off, but those that followed were more surely aimed for this 
initial miss.  As quickly as he could safely manage, Epsilon fired and reloaded his weapon until the 
quiver at his back was all but empty.  Ruefully, the Ritesman loaded one of five remaining 
missiles, wishing he had drawn more from his stores, but held his forefinger away from the 
trigger, reluctant to waste now what might be sorely needed later.  Besides, judging from the 
demeanor of their pursuers, he had done enough damage to his opponents.  By the time he was 
finished shooting barbs into their ranks, their numbers were much reduced, and their reckless 
pursuit continued more cautiously. 
Whenever one of the black creatures dared venture too deeply into the circle of light, 
Epsilon had to but raise his crossbow menacingly and the figure would drop back again hastily.  
He played this game for what seemed to be miles but might have been mere minutes, when a large 
shail separated from the bunch boldly.  Already moving with terrifying speed along the narrow 
path, the monster easily accelerated to draw alongside Pandolyn and Helmcleaver, its four arms 
and two legs working feverishly to maintain the pace. 
Epsilon raised his weapon as before, but the beast did not dart back into the shadows.  
Instead, it reared up, raising its own crossbow with one upper arm and a small shield in the other. 
 In the same guttural tongue Pandolyn had used earlier, the shail growled, "Sheegel ab numnum,  
Warfarer!  Sec tellenum bac nemenumnum, Warfarer!  Esh teche glab Pushenumnum!" 

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Startled to hear his own title mentioned in the declaration, Epsilon tossed over his 
shoulder, "What did it say." 
Breathlessly, Pandolyn translated.  "It said, 'I am not afraid of your insignificant weapons, 
Warfarer.  You are arrived at the place of your dying, Warfarer.  For we are the bloody 
Pushenumnum.'  The, ah, er, uhm, the 'Bloody Fist That Gathers Guts.'  Or something to that 
effect." 
"'Fist That Gathers Guts'." queried a confused Epsilon.  "What in Hades does that mean." 
"It is what they call themselves, or their military corps, at any rate.  In Sin's hateful 
language, a fist that gathers guts is a warrior trained to kill with his bare hands.  They are an elite 
force, I believe, specialized scouts of some sort, as I first thought." 
"Oh."  Epsilon lowered his weapon slowly, then snapped it up again.  The monster did not 
so much as flinch or falter in its mad pursuit.  This was not a good sign, the Ritesman decided.  
"Well, it seems we are exchanging credentials.  Tell him I am General Epsilon Three of the 
Martial Rite, Holy Warfarer from Empire and Prefect of all these Wilderlands by command of His 
Majesty the Emperor.  Tell him I will spare his life if he lays down his arms now and surrenders." 
Pandolyn might have laughed, had she not been so short of breath.  Somehow, despite 
gasping for air, the wizardess managed to translate Epsilon's response.  Her final words elicited a 
bray of laughter from both the fearless shail and all the unseen cowards at its back. 
Whereupon the Warfarer snapped up his weapon and made ready to fire again.  The shail 
only raised its shield and laughed harder. 

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It bellowed, still running, "Ex nicht spelorum, Warfarer!  Te tok, mekemenum nekelshect!  
Esh elkenumnum fex nemenumnum!"  It laughed more viciously still, adding, "Pushemnumnum 
nechte sor melorum." 
Before the Warfarer could ask, his master panted, "'Now is not the time for jesting, 
Warfarer.  Alas, I cannot make you the same offer of mercy.  We will eat you when we kill you.'  
Then it said, 'The Fist That Gathers Guts never pardons prisoners of war.’” 
"Ask it how it knows what I am." 
To which the beast roared, "SHELLECTUM!" 
Pandolyn said, "'I read.'  It saw the blazon of your baldric, no doubt." 
"Or it was waiting for me all along." 
"Impossible." 
"Yet our enemy is here, where you said it would not be.  Just as there were trolls at 
Draven's Keep, which you declared to be uninhabited." 
"Coincidental circumstances do not make for a dedicated plot against us." 
Suddenly, the monster stumbled slightly across the way.  Its shield dipped, as its upper 
arms flailed to recover.  Epsilon took his chance and let fly his loaded bolt. 
It flew straight and true.  Though it did not strike precisely where the Ritesman had aimed, 
it was a still a rewarding shot.  For it pierced the shail's helmet dead center on one side, its barbed 
point punching through to the other side neatly.  Its head thus impaled and permanently fixed to 
its helm, the shail bellowed in rage but did not fall.  It did, however, drop its weapon to dangle 
loosely from its sling, while its right fore claw reached up to tenderly explore the wound.  Despite 

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the injury, the shail did not slow its pace, but kept abreast of its prey effortlessly, its free arms and 
legs working tirelessly to pull its segmented insect's body along at speed. 
Now it was Epsilon's turn to laugh, and he laughed long and hard at the sight of that 
immense, terrible shail with a steel bolt pinned through its armored skull.  The monster shook its 
head in confusion and howled in pain, but refused to die. 
"Tell him to accept my gift with good grace, and that I hope it will aid the devil's future 
reading!" 
When it heard this, the shail was livid.  A constant stream of insults flowed from its 
grotesque mouthparts, even as its clumsy pincers struggled to pull Epsilon's shaft out of its head.  
After a time, it gave up in frustration, and cursed all the more viciously for its failure. 
Pandolyn commented, "It is casting horrific spells upon you and your progeny, Epsilon, 
but will soon find its magic is greatly outranked in this contest.  Watch.  I will offer it a hint of 
who and what I am." 
Seconds later, the monster skidded to a fumbling, anxious halt, its six limbs splaying and 
working backwards wildly.  Its rage turned to terror, and it fled back into the shadows. 
The Warfarer reloaded his crossbow and turned back around in the saddle.  Grinning 
blackly, he declared, "It seems your silence is more a deterrent to Sin's forces than a crossbow 
bolt to the skull!" 
Pandolyn's humorless reply was, "I have purchased a bit of time, that is all.  And now we 
must be certain none of those creatures get back to Bac Tur alive.  That they have knowledge of 

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this secret passage is clear, and it is also painfully obvious that they now know I know of it, as 
well.  Should this news reach Sin Supri, Draven's revenge will be all but undone." 
"What can we do.  Even if we escape to the east, our foes have but to continue on to 
Draven's keep and turn back there.  The only way I can foresee of preventing their report is to 
post a watch at the exit, which we have no time to do." 
"There is another way," stated the mage softly. 
"And what way is that." 
"Magic.  I must conjure to save us and Draven's last secret, both." 
Epsilon paled unseen in the shade.  "Conjure what." 
"A redeeming spirit.  Something terrible and lethal in the extreme." 
"Must you." 
But the mage seemed not to have heard.  As they hurried along, she mumbled about 
needing a suitable place to stop and a suitable spirit to summon.  At the same time, she appeared 
to be debating what sort of spells she should use, fearful as she was of cuing the Enemy to her 
presence at the threshold of his reeking dominion.  In the end, she hissed, "...Rod of Serpents..." 
and shuddered sickly, her broad, scaly shoulders hunched miserably. 
The Ritesman groaned and rolled his eyes.  "Not that damnable thing again!" 
"It is the only way!" she snapped.  "Perhaps Sin Supri will not be concerned by the Rod 
working in his midst, since that jetla I took it from had obviously used it in the past.  One thing is 
certain; if I use my own authority, he will know of it immediately." 
"You must do as you must." 

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Shortly thereafter, they came to a bend in the path that scooped into the gorge wall to 
form a sort of hollow.  This, Pandolyn deemed, was the place to work her magic, and they 
stopped. 
Epsilon dismounted, grateful for the chance to draw and string his longbow.  The smaller 
crossbow he left unloaded and fixed to the pommel of his saddle, at the ready should he need it.   
Carrying his shield to lean it against the rock wall, and armed with his favorite weapon of range, 
the Holy Warfarer stood guard over Pandolyn and her magical preparations. 
Before long, a gentle light had started to glow at his back that was not the light of 
Pandolyn's torch.  Turning around, he was startled to find an armed and armored warrior standing 
before his master.  The man appeared to be made of gently glowing moonlight. Disturbed, Epsilon 
raised his bow in a flash, only to lower it again at a negative waggle of the wizard's head. 
Speaking audibly for the first time since they had stopped, the wizardess asked of the 
ethereal form, "If I grant you flesh for a time, will you do my bidding." 
The ghostly knight, who was dressed for light combat in much the same fashion as 
Epsilon, bowed stiffly to one nonexistent knee, lowering his helmed head.  'I will, my lady,' replied 
the shade, his oath and tone solemn, 'For I abhor Sin and loathe its minions passionately.' 
"And what would you have for yourself." 
'For myself, lady.' 
"For your reward.  How shall I repay you." 
'Remember me.  Remember me in this land of the living, as I am long forgotten here.' 

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It was the wizard's turn to bow respectfully, "You are forgotten no longer, sir knight.  
What is your name and title." 
'I am Prince Rolande of the Kingdom Monteblanc.  I once claimed the lands high above 
our heads as my own, and lived there freely in happiness, until Sin came to the countryside.' 
As if it were part of some obscure ritual, Pandolyn intoned patiently, "And why do you 
stalk the nether world, lost and forsaken." 
The ghostly reply was, 'I am not lost or forsaken.  Rather have I disavowed my death to 
cling to life, however pale its texture may be on this far side of the River Styx.' 
"In the name of what cause." 
'REVENGE!  IN THE NAME OF UNHOLY REVENGE!' 
Epsilon was startled by the vehemence of the spirit's reply.  The echoes of its unspeakable 
anger long outlasted the echoes of the sound, itself, and stirred the Ritesman's blood to a violent 
seething. 
Rolande's image flickered and wavered unsteadily, but did not fade.  The man-of-
moonlight raised his hands to his head sickly, as though it were spinning out of control.  'Ah, 
gods,' moaned the phantom, 'Can it be true these many long, unrequited years.  Monteblanc 
thrown down, its master, my father, slain.  My own good mother ravished with my sisters.  My 
brothers...' sobbed the wraith, 'What has become of my brothers.  Eric disemboweled at the 
gates!  Willem run through while defending the tower, his body devoured!  But what of Michael. 
 What of Antimony.  Are they all gone.  All.' 
"What of you, Brave Rolande." whispered Pandolyn sadly.   "What of you." 

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'I.  Am I slain, also.  But of course.'  Rolande raised his translucent hands to examine 
them with glazed, stupefied eyes.  'But of course.  This is not flesh.  It is not warm or soft to the 
touch.  All my warmth was gone with the blood of my veins.  I am empty.  The vessel of my life is 
all poured out in combat, and I am quite dead.' 
"Yet you seek revenge." 
'REVENGE!  Yes, revenge!  Oh, to feel their throats at the cup of my palms, to clamp 
down on the pulse of their blackened hearts, to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until all Sin is 
throttled from their vile flesh!  I would savage the ranks of my persecutor from beyond the grave! 
 I would ravage his endeavors from the depths of hell!  I would covet his destruction with the last 
faded strength of my naked soul and never be done with my hatred of him!  YOU!  YOU EVIL, 
CONTEMPTUOUS BASTARD!' and Rolande raised his fists to shake them at a sky that could 
scarcely be seen from these depths, 'YOU UNSPEAKABLE PLAGUE!  YOU, VANDEGARTE!  I 
YEARN FOR YOUR DELIVERY INTO THIS NATION OF DEATH, THAT I MIGHT REMIND 
YOU OF THE TWISTED COURSE OF YOUR LOATHSOME LIFE!' 
Then the knight of light lowered his arms and his head, let his shoulders sag in defeat.  
'But, no, it is useless.  What can one wasted, forgotten soul do after so much time has passed.' 
Pandolyn hastened to insert, "Help us!  Rit has need of you, of your strong arm!  Help us 
now, and harvest some small measure of your greater vengeance." 
'You would raise me that I might live to kill and die again.  You would marshal my forces 
and return them to the same bloody, unending conflict that first claimed them.  But can you 
return me to Monteblanc's walls while they were yet whole and standing true.  Can you un-

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ravish my mother, or pluck the cruel spear's point from my father's wounded breast.  Can you 
return Eric his guts unraveled, or piece Willem together again from the carnage of his demise.  
Can you do these things, oh, powerful wizard.  And if you cannot, what good are you in this 
world.' 
"I serve goodness, and that is enough.  Will you abandon your rage now and succor to 
your death.  Will you fade from this earth at last and be finally forgotten.  Has Sin won.  Or will 
you stand for us here and let us remember your courage for the courage it once was." 
Rolande's image sighed, but the warrior's spine straightened proudly.  'I will stand, lady.  I 
will murder Sin's minions, and happily.  I accept your charge of flesh renewed.' 
Whereupon a wondrous change was wrought in the form of light.  As flesh congealed 
from nothing, and steel solidified from the substances of the air, Rolande's hapless form was born 
aloft and carried across the narrow gorge by unseen angels.  His arms extended to his sides and 
feet together, the warrior's body was a glowing crucifix that twitched with the coming of his 
second self.  His voice tortured and constricted, Prince Rolande threw back his head and groaned 
sorrowfully, "IT IS A FOREVER WAR I MUST FIGHT!  A FOREVER WAR!" 
Epsilon made a holy sign across his breast and said a silent prayer for the warrior's martial 
spirit.  "Then go fight it and be damned, as are we all." 
Rolande alighted on the far causeway and collapsed to the ground as a marionette with 
severed strings.  After a long struggle, the warrior managed to stand on uncertain feet at last, and 
felt himself all up and down for the flesh he had been temporarily granted.  The Warfarer heard 

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him moan, "It is true!  My self renewed!  Oh, cursed me!  Further limbs to be hacked away!  More 
blood to flow red from my severed veins!  Why.  Why have I condoned this madness." 
Unable to endure the anguish in the man's voice any longer, Epsilon rose up in his saddle 
and shouted, "For vengeance' sake!" 
"Vengeance." queried the resurrect shade, lost in confusion. 
"To avenge your father.  Your mother.  Your brothers.  Your nation entire!" 
"My nation." 
"Monteblanc!  It is not forgotten," he lied on impulse, "Though its walls are long crumbled 
to dust!" 
"Monteblanc."  Rolande righted himself to stand more steadily.  He flexed his new arms 
and legs and inhaled deeply of the dank air.  "Crumbled to dust." 
"And now there is a new threat in these lands!  Behind you!  Sin approaches in stealthy 
advance, crouched low in the manner of repugnant dogs!  They come!   They come!  Beware!" 
"Aye," grumbled the ancient soldier, seeming to understand this world again.  "They are 
coming.  I can smell them.  It is the defense of Monteblanc's walls again.  And I remember."  
Rolande drew his great blade with a ring of determined steel and removed his buckler from its 
place at his back.  "It will be good to chop these devils into tiny bits!" 
Epsilon smiled grimly to hear the man's tone, for it was one he had heard many times from 
many men.  It was a death vow, a suicide pact.  The lost warrior had prepared his mind for a 
second dying. 

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Without speaking further, Pandolyn's pawn made his move to enter the field of play, and 
dashed west along the defile, sword and buckler held ready.  An unnerving light seemed to follow 
him, or perhaps it was yet radiating directly from the spirit-man's flesh, Epsilon could not be 
certain which.  At any rate, Sin's servants would see it and be afraid. 
Pandolyn laid her massive, scaly palm on Epsilon's shoulder without warning, startling him 
out of his reverie.  Without being told, the Warfarer mounted his stallion while his master 
gathered her things.  Then they set off again to the east at the same breakneck pace. 
Minutes later, the sounds of violent combat echoed along the length of the sheer canyon.  
It was a music rife with the clash of steel upon steel and the howl of wounded monsters, which 
howls soon turned to screams of rage, then of terror, and finally of blood curdling horror.  
Through it all, Rolande's relentless blade fell and fell again and again and again, each stroke the 
ringing tattoo of a smith's hammer that was busy forging Rit from an absence of Sin.  Back along 
the cleft to the east fled that terrible combat, the sounds of it diminishing with the distance. 
Presently, Epsilon could hear nothing more of it.  Yet neither could he hear sniggering 
whispers in the darkness that chased along to follow. 
Once she was certain of their safety, Pandolyn slowed their harrowing rate, and Epsilon 
dismounted stiffly.  Glancing back the way Rolande had gone, the Warfarer found himself 
wondering what had become of that doomed relic of a bygone era.  Pandolyn took note of his 
distant attentions, and clucked her tongue sadly. 
"It is naught but an implement of cruelty, I think." 
"What." 

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"The Rod of Serpents.  Any manipulation of it, no matter how well intended, can but sow 
broader misery in the world."  The wizardess sighed, and turned to hobble eastward again, her 
right foot apparently having suffered an unannounced injury during the course of their nerve 
wracking flight to safety.  “Had I dared to use my own magic, Rolande might have been spared 
his beastly resurrection.  Unfortunately, the Rod is not so gentle.  Being Sin Apica's primary 
talisman, it is largely a thing of corruption and evil." 
"How so." 
"Its magic demanded flesh of our redeemer, flesh that can suffer the pains of abuse, the 
torment of living.  My own spells would not have been so cruel, and Rolande might have fought 
from the painless sanctity of his spirit world." 
The Ritesman grunted, hurrying to follow.  "I see," he said, though he did not, in fact, see 
anything clearly. 
"Rolande naturally understood what I had demanded of him.  What did he call it.  A 
'Forever War'.  How apt.  How dreadfully apt.  For it is a Forever War, one that has known ages 
of unrest, generations of victims, countless advances and reversals, that shows no sign of ceasing 
or slowing its maddening rush into oblivion.  And for some, for an unhappy few, it is death time 
and time again, it is life renewed with a murderous breath." 
"It seems to me," pondered the Ritesman thoughtfully, "That the warrior has placed 
himself in this predicament.  Rolande shunned the River Styx, do not forget." 

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"Aye, Rolande has forsaken the cold harbor of his death to claim a vengeance he shall 
never claim, but that does not render my exploitation of him any more honorable.  Is it honorable 
to service a prostitute, simply because she has placed herself in the street." 
"If said service feeds her children, perhaps." 
"Yet it would be kinder to offer her real employment, to teach her new ways.  Would it 
not." 
"In a land of fairies that may make reality of dreams, I suppose it would." 
"It was I that wielded the Rod and called Rolande from his eternal rest.  Thus, I am the 
whore monger.  I have sullied myself with Sin's touch.  How can this be justified, I wonder." 
"In the name of prospering Rit.  It is our business here, no.  Have we changed our 
resolves from good to evil, merely because you have laid your touch upon an evil thing."  Epsilon 
paused speaking to take note of his master's painful stumbling.  Something seemed amiss with her 
right leg.  The torch light bobbed and danced with her every limping stride.  "Furthermore, I do 
not think Rolande was as unhappy with the prospect of his flesh renewed as you might think.  It 
was, after all, his desire to take vengeance upon Sin's hordes of doom.  It might have seemed a 
great boon to be returned from the grave for that last sword's stroke, that last enemy slain.  For 
myself, I would wish it." 
"You would." 
"Certainly.  To slay one's slayers is the fondest wish of any murdered man.  Think of it 
clearly a moment, and you will understand." 
"When you put such words to my crimes, they seem less criminal..." 

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She trailed off into a silent wince, as her injured appendage struck a stone and suffered 
further injury.  It was now Epsilon's turn to lay a halting hand upon his master's shoulder. 
"You are wounded, lady.  We must take time to tend it." 
"No," came her quick reply, "It will wait." 
Epsilon's counter reply was stern and commanding.  "It will not wait.  Your injury may 
fatally slow us.  Five minutes with the surgeon may save us an eternity of shame." 
Pandolyn stopped gratefully, and groaned stoically.  "You are right, of course.  It is my 
foot... I believe it is broken." 
"Broken.  How." 
"Helmcleaver trod upon it near the end of our flight.  But do not chide him, m'sieur, for he 
has apologized and is most contrite." 
"Let me see."  The Ritesman knelt and accepted her foot upon his knee, while she reclined 
against the stallion's neck for support.  Epsilon examined the great, scaly paw and shook his head. 
 "It is broken, at the third and possibly forth long bone of the arch.  An un-healing wound." 
"Un-healing, ordinarily.  Yet I am far from ordinary in my every aspect."  The mage 
removed her foot from Epsilon's lap and limped to the rough hewn wall.  There, she reclined 
heavily against it and settled down to a sitting position, her many pouches and satchels settling all 
around.  After a short search, she produced the inevitable potion and struggled to apply it. 
"Here, let me do that, Pandolyn." 
"I can manage!" she barked, waving him away, suddenly aware of her own naked 
vulnerability. 

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"We, of the Rite, enjoy a saying, m'selle.  A man cannot see his own back without a 
mirror, and neither can he treat his own arse without a doctor.  Give me the salve." 
"Very well," she sighed heavily, scolding playfully, "But do not dare to glance up the line 
of my skirts!"  Which skirts she was not wearing, of course. 
"As your doctor, I will maintain a professional eye.  What should I do.  Smear this onto 
the injury."  Epsilon held up the vial to Pandolyn's un-flickering torch's light, which light she had 
set into a fissure in the wall. 
"No.  You must first use this needle to puncture the skin."  Which needle she cleaned 
thoroughly with a pungent fluid.  "Push its point down deep, into the center of the break."  She 
winced and gritted her teeth as he did so.  Her foot remained bravely still.  "Now, open the little 
leather bag attached to the needle, and pour in thirty drops of the potion.  Careful!  Do not tip the 
bag, or it will spill!  Try again.  There.  Now, close the bag by rolling its length tightly to the 
bottom, making it fast with a strong grip.  Squeeze the tiny bulb you have formed until the liquid 
is injected.  That is good.  Now, remove it.  I will clean it again while we wait for the treatment to 
take effect." 
Epsilon grunted and stood, dusting his knees.  "I will go and stand watch from the 
shadows.  How long." 
"Many minutes.  Hours, at most." 
The Warfarer nodded and gathered his shield, his bow weapons having been unstrung and 
stored away.  His right hand ready on the pommel of his great sword, Epsilon strode to the edge 
of the light and concealed himself in the shadows pooled at the base of the sheer granite wall. 

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As the seconds passed, he heard only the roar of the raging One River, which din was 
punctuated occasionally by the rattle and clatter of falling stones.  He heard nothing of Rolande or 
of that wraith's hapless victims.  All sounds of distant combats, if there were indeed any to hear, 
were deeply masked by the turbulent flow of waters through the depths of Draven's Cleft. 
So uneventful and boring was his duty, in fact, that the Ritesman might have nodded off in 
his weariness, if not for his superior martial training.  A golden rule of expedition is that watches 
in foreign or hostile lands should not be stood by sleeping men.  Thus, his eyes were open and his 
mind was alert when the Enemy reappeared without warning. 
Epsilon watched warily along the western way, as a bit of the darkness separated from its 
greater self to invade Pandolyn's light.  It was a misshapen lump of shade that moved with silent 
fluidity along the wall in approach of the obvious Pandolyn and the unobvious Epsilon Three.  
With a whisper's touch, the Warfarer drew his sword slowly, shielding its shining length from the 
light with his own sable cloak of shadow.  A distance of many feet yet separated the two would be 
competitors, one knowing, the other ignorant of the contest to be, when Sin's minion paused its 
advance suddenly. 
Sounds of sniffling curiosity sounded from a startling proximity.  And a guttural voice 
demanded softly in the Empirical tongue, "Warfarer.  Is that you there at the crack." So softly 
that he alone could hear, while Pandolyn rested deafly amid the roar of the One River. 
Unnerved by the shail's switch to common speech, Epsilon recognized his earlier 
adversary, and wondered how the monster had crossed the gorge.  He said nothing, however, and 
made no move to betray himself. 

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"Ah, it was clever of your pet to send that berserker against us!" whispered the shail 
sourly.  "What a sight!  Ha, ha!  A lone man that turned my stout lads of the Pushemnumnum into 
frightened girls!  Ha, ha!"  A lengthy pause followed, but the shail made no further move to 
advance.  "What.  Nothing to say to me now.  No wise remarks.  Now that I am within certain 
reach.  Eh.  Warfarer.  Is that you there at the crack." 
Epsilon held his tongue and waited.  Presently, the beast shuffled forward a quiet step 
further, its multi-segmented body pressed against the wall. 
It mumbled as it approached, "...whether it be he or no, I must pass... I must pass again 
into the east... cursed doors that will open but one way! ...ha, ha, what a jest... but I must pass... 
Warfarer. ...Warfarer, is that you there at the crack...." 
Still, the Ritesman said nothing, but warily kept watch on the monster's oddly posed 
approach.  Something about that shadow's movements spoke of injury, of pain, of exhaustion, but, 
more, its anxious crawl spoke of desperation. 
The shail stopped again to sniffle.  "Aye, you are there, Holy Warfarer.  I can smell you 
now.  What shall it be, eh.  Swordplay.  Or will you sit and have tea with me.  Come, let us 
speak as friends.  Ha, ha!"  Its tone waxed lethal.  “Oh, your devil of the light was a sore test of 
my metal, foul Ritesman!  His fury has claimed my entire command!  But he has not claimed me, 
Grunk the Great!  I live!"  The monster's whisper was fierce and angry.  "Is it the way of today's 
Martial Rite, I wonder, to call forth courageous demons to fight battles that cowards would shun. 
 Eh.  I am shamed to hear it, for the Rite was a braver thing when I was a disciple!" 

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It inched closer.  "What.  You do not believe Grunk.  I am a liar, you think, and this is 
true!  Ha, ha!  But I do not lie when I claim the Martial Rite.  I do not lie when I claim Empire."  
And closer still; another cautious, creeping step, another toe dipped into the icy waters of eternity. 
 Epsilon raised his weapon slightly and waited patiently, listening.  "How much time has  passed 
since I crossed the Wilderland Wall in Exodus.  One hundred.  No, two hundred years!  Two 
hundred years long am I banished to hell!  And what a pleasant stay it has been!  Ha, ha!"  The 
loathsome creature stopped again to shift its weapons.  The ring of steel was slight and almost 
inaudible. 
"Before I was Grunk, you see, I was called Lambda Seven.  And I was a Hero of Alcorde! 
 It is true!  What a damned joke it was, too.  What sort of hero is cast out of his nation's walls, 
eh.  Do you not think it strange, at all." 
At that goad, Epsilon opened his mouth to offer a reply, but managed to get a grip on his 
senses.  What use debating life's miseries with a beast of the night that loved misery. 
"I wager they sang of your virtues and named their bastard children after you, before they 
kicked your silly ass through Tesla's gates with many a fond farewell!  Ha, ha!  Close your eyes 
but a wink, Warfarer, can you see their images burned into the backs of your lids, as can I.  Can 
you see the fat courtiers and princelings waving at you from the sanctity of their high granite 
barricades.  Eh.  While you are cast out, become a pariah, in quest of your own certain doom!  
What a jest!  Ha, ha!  If not for the incessant noise of this cursed river's flow, you might even now 
hear a dim echo of their cheers and happy encouragements!  'Go gladly to your death!' they would 
cry in the depths of your head!  'We love you!  We honor you!  We yearn to watch you die a 

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bloody death, as we have watched so many of your brothers perish at Alcorde, but we are too 
much the cowards to follow you into the Wilderlands!'"  The devil's tone was cruel and mocking, 
but it was a sort of self-mockery that was sourced from a deep, long-harbored bitterness.  "'So we 
are content to watch and wave and laugh from our high places while you crawl away to be 
trampled as a slug by greater things!'  What a joke, what a maddening joke!  And now here you 
are come, Ritesman, ha, ha, come unto the very verge of Bac Tur!  Holy Warfarer... Holy 
FOOL!"  The shail spit this last epithet, and surged forward. 
At last, the Ritesman was forced out of concealment by a vicious jab of Grunk's curved 
scimitar.  Epsilon leapt clear, and backed deeper into the shelter of Pandolyn's torchlight.  At his 
back, the mage was struggling to stand and gather Helmcleaver's reins, which the animal had 
jerked free in a start of fright. 
Grunk emerged from the darkness to square off with his foe, crouched readily, the 
crossbow bolt yet piercing its insect's skull.  Epsilon noted the shail was missing its upper left 
forelimb. 
The beast took note of Epsilon's attention.  "You have seen my little scratch, eh.  Well, 
there are others, and I have had worse!  That damnable berserker of yours took it off, armor and 
all.   A sharper blade I have never seen!  Ha, ha.  But have a good look!  Here, let me aid your 
eyes," and it held forth the oozing stump happily, its ant's body shifting abruptly to accommodate 
the movement.  Epsilon was wary, since the creature was left with five good limbs, despite the 
horrible injury it had suffered.  "Have a good look at all the reward you will ever receive for your 
service of Empire and Emperors!" 

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Epsilon retreated further into the light, drawing his opponent in with him.  "I have never 
claimed to serve Empire or its hateful Emperor.  You, on the other hand, seem to prefer such 
dominion, since you are now aligned with Sin, and its chief master, Vandegarte Wall Builder." 
The shail hissed savagely and spat.  "Bah!  The Fist does not serve the Evil One!  The Fist 
serves itself!" 
But the Warfarer was having none of it.  Shaking his head slowly, as though the monster 
were the most pathetic example of life on the face of the planet, Epsilon declared, "If only I had a 
mirror to hand.  I would show you the ugliness you have become.  For you are most ugly, ugly 
and backward.  If your Fist does not serve Vandegarte, why were you bound west from east, 
coming out of that bastard's reeking lands." 
With a bellow of rage and hatred, the shail came charging in to be undone.  Epsilon easily 
parried its first assault, as the monster was apparently exhausted from its earlier combats with 
Rolande the Resurrected.  But the Ritesman was not prepared to combat a second set of arms.  
As the course of the contest progressed, the Warfarer began to question his fate.  When he 
stumbled and fell backwards, Grunk bore in, gloating, "And now I will slay you, even as I have 
slain your berserker before you!" 
Indeed, it seemed this would be the case.  Epsilon was recovering his balance and 
struggling to raise his blade defensively, while Pandolyn was scrambling to his aid, and it appeared 
both measures would be too little too late to save him. 
When a flash of pale light streaked out of the shadows, impacting against the shail's broad, 
bristling, armored back.  There it clung, cackling madly, "BUT I AM NOT SLAIN, FOUL 

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CREATURE OF THE NIGHT!  I HAVE FOLLOWED TO CLAIM YOU!  BEHOLD!" cried 
the insanely determined Rolande, himself having suffered many grievous injuries, raising a long, 
double edged fencing dagger, "YOUR END DESERVED!" and he plunged it deep into the joint 
between Grunk's head segment and that of the monster's torso, "IT COMES AT LAST!" cackling 
madly between breaths. 

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Grunk roared in defiant rage, its murder of Epsilon forgotten, its many limbs pin-wheeling 
uselessly.  It attempted fruitlessly to dislodge the raging warrior from its armored back, but 
Rolande clung relentlessly to the haft of his hopelessly mired weapon, his legs wrapped round 
Grunk's segmented body. 
"Aaaaugh!" belched the shail, "Get off me, you devil!" and it shook violently to effect its 
demands.  But Rolande was going nowhere soon. 
Epsilon had finally recovered his lost stance, and now his bright sword flashed as he 
swung it wide in a low arc before him.  Its keen edge took off both Grunk's feet above the ankle 
with a clean pass, and the monster toppled to the trail, its weapons and shield lost into the 
darkness beyond the brink. 
Rolande screamed, "PERVERSION!  MALIGNANT DISEASE!  I WILL PURGE YOU! 
 I WILL WASH THIS EARTH FREE OF YOUR INFECTION!" 
Grunk rolled away, striving to crush the armored man beneath its bulk, but still the 
highlander would not be dislodged.  Instead, while on his back and suffering beneath the shail's 
ponderous, thrashing weight, Rolande took the opportunity to withdraw his blade and plunge it 
home again.  And again.  And finally a third time.  At the final stroke, Grunk moaned weakly, and 
his abominable body collapsed to stillness. 
Holding his sword ready to run the monster through, Epsilon approached the gurgling 
insect cautiously.  Grunk's mouthparts worked uselessly, silently. 
Then it gargled, "Ah, reprieve.  Redemption.  Release." 
"What." queried the Ritesman. 

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"I am finally gone.  Gone over to the other side of the river." 
"Aye, you will be gone there soon enough." 
Rolande slowly extracted himself from the motionless mass, and lay against the flat stone, 
heaving deep breaths without speaking.  His body was a riotous mess of rent clothing, scored 
mail, and dented plate.  Blood was everywhere, though most of it appeared to belong to Rolande's 
victims, rather than himself. 
"It seems..." choked the chimera thickly, "...I have been waiting... all my life... for this 
moment..." then it died. 
Epsilon prodded its footless hind limbs with a boot's toe, and was satisfied the beast had 
perished.  "You have."  Grimacing, the Warfarer wiped his blade clean on the beast, before 
sheathing it again. 
At Rolande's side, he sought to succor the warrior's suffering, but found there nothing he 
could do.  Before his eyes, the resurrected highlander returned to the nothingness from which he 
had been drawn forth.  The man's eyes were not wet with fear as they faded, but were shining with 
a fierce light of satisfaction, which Epsilon found to be most comforting indeed. 
From behind, Pandolyn offered, "It is a sad testament to the nature of this contest, I think, 
that our enemies so often die with praise of death on their lips." 
Shrugging his shoulders and returning to Helmcleaver's side, Epsilon answered, "I have 
never noticed Sin's minions to have lips." 
Pandolyn bared her teeth in a sinister grin, and started east once more.  Her foot no longer 
troubled her. 

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24 

Beyond Nercule's Pillars 

Many days after their conflict with the Pushemnumnum, Pandolyn and Epsilon arrived at 
the defile's terminus, where Draven's Cleft ended (or began, depending on one's perspective) deep 
in the protected heart of Bac Tur.  It was a sinister way to enter into a sinister land, decided 
Epsilon blackly, as he stared up at the evilly carved grotto that was the western gateway.  The 
path had veered away from the cleft, as before, and penetrated into a towering chamber that was 
rough hewn and un-fashioned on all sides save one, this being the wall that held the door. 
It had been skillfully graven to resemble a bestial face, half man, half animal.  It was 
roaring with rage or ready to devour a huge chunk of flesh, as its stone mouth gaped darkly, fangs 
dangling from overhead and jutting up from the floor.  Inset into that unwholesome maw was 
their egress. 
"The Clog have done this," spoke Pandolyn suddenly.  Epsilon jumped at the sudden 
noise, and hurried to ask 'What.' to cover his surprise.  She answered in a harsh whisper, "Graven 

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this face here.  Originally, I believe this gate was as unadorned as that of the keep at its western 
end." 
Epsilon shuddered to consider their next several steps, but was anxious to be quit of the 
gorge's everlasting shadow.  "I care not if it is graven to resemble Puto, himself.  I would let the 
idol devour me whole in a heartbeat, if doing so would free me as feces into the light at its far 
end." 
"Well said," breathed the wizardess.  She motioned him forward, and started that way 
herself.  "But there is nothing to fear here.  It is a symbolic act, nothing more.  Come." 
As she had upon entering the defile, Pandolyn searched for and found a hidden trap lock, 
which triggered the door to open ponderously when it was activated. A crack of light shone at the 
top in a horizontal shaft almost instantly.  The source of light broadened vertically, as the giant 
slab of stone that served as the door was lowered slowly into the floor by an unseen and scarcely 
heard mechanism.  When it was set flush with the idol's 'tongue', Pandolyn led the way forward. 
Helmcleaver balked at the bright light, but was ultimately coaxed to follow when the slab 
started to rise again.  The stallion appeared to sense the alternative between light and darkness, 
and chose the former over the latter instinctively when the decision was pressed (no matter how 
horribly it stank on the other side). 
Epsilon coughed and wrinkled his nose sourly at the smell of Bac Tur's poisoned air.  It 
reeked of sulfur and brimstone and a thousand other nameless toxins, as well as of rot and decay 
and pestilence.  Was the entire nation a stagnant cess pool of slime and mucous.  The Warfarer's 
weary mind was besieged by nightmares of endless swamps and the nasty creatures that love such 

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places.  He suffered visions of slithering serpents and heavily fanged alligators and spiders as large 
as dogs and wet; endless, steeping, drowning wet. 
Anxiously, he pressed up close to his master's back to get his first glance into Vandegarte's 
detested kingdom.  Beyond the door, the grotto was more finely designed, though it was 
unadorned with frescos or graven images.  Instead, it was a long, rectangular chamber of smooth, 
even lines, which opened at the far end into a jagged sliver of sunlight. 
Cleverly concealed near the apex of a deep crevasse in a mountain's steep side, the trail 
came to a head at a broad stair that was so artistically fashioned as to appear natural at first 
glance.  It flowed at the trough of the crevasse, following its every curve, all the way down to a 
dense wreath of clouds far below.  Epsilon's engineer's eye wondered why the stairs had not been 
eroded down to nothing by long years of melting snowcaps, and sought an answer to his concern. 
 At once, he noticed a deep, narrow channel had been gouged along the leeward run of the steps, 
which seemed deep and fast enough to accept a flood without overflowing.  Thus, the way might 
be kept clear even in the spring, though he saw nothing that would aid a winter bound climber. 
At the top step, the two un-rested travelers paused to steal a few hours of much needed 
slumber.  Pandolyn knew they had little to fear so far up this rocky slope, which was but one 
aspect of one peak of ten thousand others that en toto comprised these Earthbone Ranges.  
Epsilon questioned her about the Pushemnumnum, and how they might have stumbled upon the 
opposite entrance, if it was allegedly so difficult to find.  To which the wizardess only shrugged 
and mumbled something about mercenary rogues ever in search of gold and precious gems. 

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Epsilon might have taken up the argument more heatedly, except for his great desire of 
rest.  And so he was cajoled into accepting the ward of Bebblegeth's Eye once more, letting it 
watch over him in slumber as an eastern morn sun rolled around to a dimmer version of itself in 
the west. 
Just after noon, they rose again, and Epsilon offered his warhorse the last of his stores of 
grain, assured by his master that they could find fodder in the valleys, even in this horrific country. 
 He and Pandolyn both ate a half ration from their own depleted stores, sitting there on the top 
step, staring out over a dominion of low, skulking clouds that shielded the lowlands from their 
sight. 
"We were not so high when we entered that damnable gorge," commented the Warfarer in 
an emotionless tone. 
"Thus the One River flows east to west, though all other rivers that cross these ranges run 
in the opposite direction, west to east, thereby depriving the Desert Ocean of all but the merest 
trickles of water.  The river, itself, is sourced from countless run-off fed springs and aquifers that 
populate the mountains just behind us, all of which empty into the natural fault line we know as 
Draven's Cleft." 
Chewing the last of his hard tack biscuit, Epsilon groused, "It seems unlikely to me that so 
obvious a feature of these lands should go utterly unnoticed and undiscovered." 
Pandolyn enjoyed a sharp bark of laughter.  "Oh, it has doubtless been discovered time 
and time again, my general, by the unwary traveler unreturned.  Many a mountain ram have 
discovered it, I warrant, much to their own surprise.  Thinking to leap a mere crack in the world, 

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they instead find themselves suspended in the air, falling, forever falling into their doom."  She 
laughed again.  "What a start!  And when I think of Sin's servants patrolling these border 
mountains, unaware of the cleft's presence, it gives me grim satisfaction to picture an entire 
company of Pushemnumnum, or whatever, plunging into the depths by rank and file, gone over 
the sheer brink unseen before they have taken notice of the disaster!" 
Epsilon smiled but did not laugh.  It was a hellish sort of fate, and nothing about it was 
humorous in his ears. 
"There is only one safe way into the gorge," she concluded tritely, "And that is by its 
proper gates, one on either of the Pillars of Nerkule, both the northern and southern peaks."  She 
pointed out the opposite range where it lurked in the mists many miles to the north.  "And now 
we must descend into Hades, Epsilon.  Are you prepared."  She rose, and indicated the curiously 
fashioned stairs with a humble sweep of her hand. 
"As prepared as a monkey staged to dance with a cobra, m'selle." 
"Ah," she chided, too cheerful to seem genuine, "And that is not at all."  As a roving 
minstrel, she had witnessed such contests many times.  They were never pleasant.  For the 
monkeys, at least.  "Well, then, let us dance, regardless of the monkey's reluctance." 
The Warfarer nodded grimly, and rose to gather Helmcleaver's reins.  He pursued 
Pandolyn down, down, down into the reeking stink of Puto's fiery domain, into the sulfurous 
clouds that boiled at the mountain's flank as a polluted sea in heavy wash.  All too soon he 
discovered that this western descent out of Draven's Cleft belittled the daunting Verdune for its 

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endless stairs.  Ten thousand as a number was nothing when compared to the horrific multitude of 
tiers that climbed down the Southern Pillar via its concealing crag. 
By the time they reached bottom, even the stout Helmcleaver was blowing and stumbling, 
while Epsilon and Pandolyn felt their legs were made of willow wands.  Both collapsed to the 
stony soil at the first opportunity, gasping for breath, however poisoned the air might be.  While 
they reclined in recovery, the sun plunged into oblivion beyond the high Earthbone Mountains, 
leaving only the glow of its blazing light in the cumulus overhead. 
Epsilon lay stretched upon his back, watching a clouded sky the color of blood churn 
restlessly high above him.  Glancing back the way they had come, the Ritesman winced to see the 
roughly fashioned steps that led up the steep slope of the Southern Pillar to the hidden exit of 
Draven's Cleft. 
When the wizardess had at last caught her breath, she heaved, "The only thing good I can 
say about that tortuous stair is that I am fond of its ending." 
"Aye," chuckled the Ritesman without humor, "I never thought I would be glad to set foot 
on Bac Turian soil." 
"You are forgiven this sin, my general," she gasped finally, sitting up and raising her knees 
to clutch them in her folded arms.  "From here, the way down to the valley is more gentle.  We 
will wait until the moon rises, then finish our descent by its sanguine light. 
"Once we are arrived at the banks of the sluggish Shalt River, we shall follow it southeast 
to an abandoned road I know.  It will lead us through unpopulated country, across the steppes of 
Northern Argentia, to the far side of the greater valley that is Bac Tur."  She extracted her maps 

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and scooted closer to Epsilon, who responded by meeting her effort half way.  The splintered 
talon of her right forefinger traced out Draven's Cleft where it did not exist on the parchment, 
then pointed out the headwaters of the Shalt River.  From there, she traced a dim line that was 
labeled 'Cal Deca Ora', or the Road of Gold, as Pandolyn translated it.  "Sin does not often use 
this route, because it is useless to their foul intentions.  They know nothing of amicable travel, and 
so rarely journey from one city to the next unless there is a pressing need.  As it is, all commerce 
in this region is directed south, along the Earthbones to the southern sea of salt water."  Her 
finger traced out a series of highways that were aligned as she had indicated.  "Over on the 
eastern side, where Bac Tur is shielded by another range of the Earthbones, named the Towers of 
Dreams, the same story is true.  Only here, far to south, are the east-to-west highways in use.  
And we are not going that way." 
Epsilon scratched his beard thoughtfully.  "It looks to be a long march." 
"It is not a short journey, but it will pass quickly.  The land, though barren and unpleasant, 
is easily traveled.  We will start slowly, allowing your animal time to regain its strength, then you 
will mount and we will trot most of the way.  If all goes well, we should arrive at the Shalt within 
five days." 
The Warfarer grunted dubiously but said nothing.  His Martial Rite taught that things 
rarely went well while on campaign in foreign lands.  A wise general counted on disasters 
foreseen and unforeseen, but never on good fortune. 
As it turned out, his dire predictions were not entirely unfounded.  After three days of 
trudging east across that desolate plain, which was capable of supporting only a low growth of 

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scraggly weeds, a violent thunderstorm broke about their heads.  It was so full of icy rains that the 
gullies were soon awash and turned to raging torrents of drowning furies.  And they were 
nowhere near distant Ilmacht. 
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, they happened across the crumbling remains of a 
building squatting at the summit of a low hill.  It was a square structure of two floors and a 
basement, and it was built of individually quarried stones.  Its roof was missing, but the basement 
provided adequate shelter from the downpour.  They entered it where one wall had fallen away 
with part of the hillside, exposing the interior like the gaping maw of a cavern.  Since the opening 
was large enough to allow it, Helmcleaver was tied up within, and gratefully so.  The warhorse 
shivered and stamped itself dry in one corner, while Pandolyn tidied their refuge. 
Without being told, Epsilon dashed back out into the rain to gather fuel for a fire.  He had 
spotted the bones of a several large carcasses further down the hillside, and retrieved these in his 
cloak, along with bunches of scrub brush and dung patties, as he could find them in useable 
condition.  All was soaked, of course, but they would dry in time.  He knew Pandolyn had ways 
with damp fuel, as he had seen her magic powders light fires in impossible conditions. 
Back at their hovel, he was pleased to find the corners cleared of soil and the eaves freed 
of dangling lichens and ivies.  Almost, the little compartment seemed livable. 
They started the fire, as Epsilon had expected, with little trouble, and were soon shedding 
and arraying their articles to dry.  Naturally, the Ritesman had more to shed than his master, 
though he would keep his armor and its under padding, however it might stink, until the spares 

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from his stores could be dried.  Pandolyn watched his dancing hops with much amusement, and 
wondered silently why it was so hard for a man to rid himself of wet breeches. 
As he stalked about stringing lines and laying his things out upon them around the fire's 
warmth, Epsilon soon noticed Pandolyn's steady eyes curiously upon him.  When he could stand 
her oddly predatory gaze no longer, the Ritesman paused his work to turn and demand, "What 
would you have of me, lady." 
"What." she queried owlishly, her eyes wide with surprise.  "Was I staring." 
"You were."  Was it possible for reptiles to blush demurely. 
"I am sorry.  I had not noticed." 
"Not noticed.  What your own eyeballs were doing inside your own head." 
The wizardess laughed softly.  "You must forgive me, Epsilon.  Outside, I am this ugly 
monster.  While within, the woman yet resides.  And you are a most handsome man." 
"Oh," he returned bluntly, suddenly wishing he had not broached the matter.  Epsilon 
turned back to hang his boots from two sticks that leaned over the flames.  "I see.  Well... if that is 
all it was..."  After a moment's hesitation, he added, "I thought you were sizing me up to eat me." 
Pandolyn's toothy maw exploded in a wide grin.  "In a manner, I was." 
Now it was the man's turn to blush.  "You should not say such things, m'selle." 
"Else what." 
"Else I might forget my vows of celibacy." 
The wizardess sprayed shocked laughter.  "Would you ravish me, despite my protests." 

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Epsilon arched a brow playfully, and let Pandolyn see his lecherous smile.  “Though they 
are beautifully scaled and foreign, they are breasts nonetheless.  And they are not covered." 
"You animal!" she gasped in mock dismay, covering herself shyly. 
"But no, it is too late for that!  I have already learned every line of you, lady.  Perhaps you 
should not trot about, naked as your birthday." 
Suddenly, the mage was frowning crossly.  "Perhaps not.  Yet how often have you spied 
snakes wearing pretty under things.  How often have you spied a lizard clinging to a sunlit wall, 
its blouse dapperly tucked into the waist of its skirts." 
"I meant no offense, Lady Pandolyn," he tried, but she was turned away, feigning 
preoccupation with the array of her sodden gear.  He did not see the tear that rolled from the 
corner of her hidden eye. 
Exasperated with the fickle nature of a woman, Epsilon shrugged his shoulders and turned 
back to drying his things.  In this situation, he felt further comment would only serve to mire him 
deeper in the bog, much as a man might drown himself in quicksand while attempting to struggle 
free.  In stillness lay his only hope for salvation. 
Thus, in silence, they passed the hours away, avoiding one another's gazes as if eyes were 
plagues quickly catching.  Their little fire burned cheerily for a time, then faded to dully glowing 
embers, even as the last courage of their numbed hearts faded to ashes. 
Outside, a cold rain fell in torrents, filling the gullies to overflowing.  Lightning smote the 
earth, tuned to a base rhythm of crashing thunder, while tumultuous and foreboding storm clouds 
raced across the heavens, bound north to south rashly, as though in a great panic.  And the sun 

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was but a lesser shadow amid the darkened skies, its light impotent and unable to illuminate these 
shadow lands of foul Bac Tur. 
Upon the next dawn, Epsilon found himself leaned against the crumbling wall that was the 
entrance into their unlit hovel, wondering how much water the world could swallow before it was 
drowned altogether.  A brilliant flash of lightning erupted quite startlingly nearby, silhouetting his 
stern form for a blinding instant, which awesome display was quickly followed by a crash of 
riotous thunder that deafened him, before it was gone in a rumbling chase that pursued all 
directions at once. 
He was thinking of dashing back out into the flood to gather further fuel for a fire, and 
dreading the prospect, when movement away to the south caught his eye.  So dense was the air 
with rainfall that he could not be certain of his eyes for a moment.  Much blinking and rubbing 
told him his vision was certain enough, however, and he was dismayed. 
For there in the distance, not more than a league away, a vast host was on the march, 
despite the flooded valleys and violent downpour.  Though their passage was marked only by an 
occasional flash of the sun's dulled light where it reflected off their armor and weapons, Epsilon 
had seen large forces on the move often enough to know exactly what it was.  The unknown army 
was cresting a low hilltop in the distance by rank and file, the sounds of their unworldly passage 
muffled to a dull murmur by the storm.  Judging by the length of the train, Epsilon estimated 
several thousand men (or whatever) were involved in the foray.  Far, far too many to combat 
alone, to say the least.  And it seemed they would pass uncomfortably near. 

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Before he could turn to warn his master, however, her large, roughly scaled hand came 
down gently on his shoulder.  Softly, she declared, "I should apologize for my-" 
But he silenced her with a harsh, "SHHH!"  When he turned to see her unhappy face, 
Epsilon realized Pandolyn mistakenly thought he was still angry about their nonexistent quarrel of 
the previous night.  Unwilling to inform her with words, the Ritesman shook his head grimly, and 
directed her gaze to the south with a jutting arm and forefinger. 
Using only motions of his hands, he indicated they should break camp, conceal their recent 
habitation of these ruins, and disappear into the rain.  The mage nodded her agreement 
immediately, and both hurried to gather their things. 
Epsilon was yet struggling to gear Helmcleaver for a hasty flight, when the unmistakable 
sounds of approaching footsteps interrupted him.  They were wet sounds of a single man slogging 
through a clinging mire, a man so confident of his own safety that he was unconcerned to hide his 
approach.  The Warfarer vowed this single mistake would be a fatal one, and drew his steel 
noiselessly.  On cat quiet feet, he and Pandolyn arranged themselves to either side of the crumbled 
down wall that was the hovel's entrance.  There they waited patiently for the conflict to develop. 
Cursing breathlessly in a foreign tongue, Sin's minion apparently paused just outside the 
'door', perhaps to debate the merits of further examining the shadows harbored within.  Epsilon 
sucked a cool, calm, deep breath, and willed the evil bastard to come on and quickly, ere others of 
its kind could join it in a fatal curiosity. 
Upon completing this thought, an obsidian shelled jetla stepped cautiously into view, its 
horned head turning warily to scan the shade just beyond the entrance.  Seeing nothing of 

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Pandolyn or of Epsilon initially, the monster advanced further, and spied Helmcleaver shuddering 
in a far corner.  It uttered a surprised epithet, and took two instinctively greedy steps forward.  
Whereupon the Ritesman's sword spitted it through and through, even as the wizardess smashed 
its helmed head with a mighty blow of her right fist.  The jetla crumpled lifelessly to the ground 
and did not rise again. 
Disdainfully, Epsilon toed the corpse over onto its armored back.  He used the beast's 
soiled cloak to wipe his blade clean of clot, and noticed it was emblazoned with a familiar 
standard, that being the sign of a half moon. 
Pandolyn took note of his attentions, and remarked, "It is the insignia of Sin Supri's 
northern armies."  Kneeling beside her fallen enemy, the wizardess searched beneath its armor and 
through its pouches for contraband.  "This foul creature has perished far from home.  And it was 
marching south." 
"Does this mean something to us." 
"Possibly."  She had retrieved a pendant from beneath the monster's clothing, which was 
strung around its loathsome neck by a strap of weathered leather.  With a quick jerk, the 
wizardess freed it, and held its glittering shine up to the dim light.  "Just as I thought," declared 
the mage with a gasp.  "It seems the First Emperor has waged a secondary assault in the north, 
even as his latest conquest of the south has succeeded.  This monster has apparently participated 
in the looting of Astarock, a last holdout of men in the frozen northern regions of Argentia."  She 
sighed in grave sadness, suddenly weary of the world and its evil ways.  With a trembling hand, 
she offered her general the bauble, and turned to finish gathering her gear.  "I have long feared for 

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Astarock, but deemed it safe enough for the moment.  Sin Supri has not expressed much interest 
of late in the icebound kingdoms that lie beyond the Towers of Dreams, as all his most recent 
forays have been directed exclusively southward, along the coast.  Obviously, something must 
have distracted him." 
Epsilon grunted and finished loading Helmcleaver.  As they pressed unhappily into the 
drowning rainfall, the Warfarer paused to admire the pendant's golden glitter and the wondrous 
skill that had fashioned its intricate design.  At once, he recognized the jewelry to be some sort of 
royal crest, though its specific details were indecipherable.  The standard was of a lion standing 
atop a slain deer, surrounded by an indication of holly boughs.  It was an interesting piece, to say 
the least, and it adorned the jetla like a brilliant white diamond might adorn a rat swimming in a 
cess pool.  Thus, it could only have been stolen from a slain noble at some point in the past, 
whether by this dead beast or by another of its kind that had lost it in trade at a later date. 
Regardless of this revelation, Epsilon thought Pandolyn was wrong to have assumed that 
this particular rat had participated in the sacking of Astarock, a city unknown to him until today, 
or even that Astarock had been sacked at all.  This bit of gold might have been taken anywhere, at 
any time.  Perhaps a royal had wandered too far from the city's walls while on the hunt, and had 
befallen his (or her) fate alone. 
But when he broached this possibility in a hushed whisper, as they hurried away into the 
storm afoot, the wizardess only shook her head direly, her countenance as clouded as the 
darkened skies.  At the first opportunity, as they followed a flooded creek in search of a safe ford, 
she returned, "I might have broached these same doubts, Sir Epsilon, save for the fact that I have 

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seen that pendant before now.  And it was not strung crudely about a foul, reeking jetla's neck at 
the time, either." 
"This same piece.  How can you be certain." 
"Oh, I am certain enough.  Once, while on a distant errand in a distant time, I entered 
invisibly into Astarock, the last city of a vast shire that once sprawled across the whole of 
Northern Argentia, and there spied that same bit of gold.  It was resting atop the withered breast 
of a long dead matriarch that had been enshrined in Astarock's hallowed Tomb of Queens."  When 
Epsilon appeared not to fully grasp the import of what she had said, Pandolyn added further, "The 
Tomb of Queens was situated at the center of the city, you see, and was its most cherished 
landmark.  No vile servant of Sin would have possession of that bauble, unless the tomb, and thus 
the city, had been plundered." 
As his head rotated warily atop his neck and his eyes were in constant search of the 
horizon, Epsilon asked further, "And you had not foreseen this happenstance." 
"Alas, no.  Not that I might have done anything to prevent its fall.  It simply chills me that 
mine enemy so dangerous has made movements in stealth, while I have remained utterly ignorant 
of his endeavors.  I must perforce wonder what other undertakings he has completed in secrecy, 
and how they might affect our intentions." 
Before he could offer reply, the lizard woman leapt into the midst of the stream at a 
shallow and waded across.  Epsilon mounted briefly to follow on horseback, only to dismount 
again once they were safely on the farther side. 

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Blowing icy water from his whiskers, Epsilon sputtered, "According to my learning and 
experience, m'selle, waging war is often akin to fighting shadows at sundown.  Rarely is the 
enemy fully in sight until it is fully upon you." 
Pandolyn glanced nervously back over her shoulder, not at her general but at the rain 
swept country at his back.  They had not been pursued.  Thus far.  She retorted sharply, "Your 
words are wisely spoken, General, but they do nothing to ease my doubts." 
"They were not meant to ease your doubts, Pandolyn, as much as they were meant to 
simply validate them.  Your concerns are reasonable and healthy.  The sudden appearance of this 
unknown army must necessarily raise questions in your mind.  Where are they going.  Where have 
they been.  What are their intentions."  He paused a moment to leap a broad rivulet with 
Helmcleaver.  It flowed downhill into the creek at the bottom of the shallow valley, which would, 
in turn, flow further along into wider flues, until all that water somehow ended up in the oceans 
far, far away.  "I take it from our diverging directions that those troops are not bound for Ilmacht, 
at the least, and am glad to suppose it.  Let them march vainly south, unaware that they are soon 
to be sorely needed in the east.  By the time they correct their course, we may be finished with our 
business and long escaped." 
The mage said nothing, and they marched through the downpour in silence for a time.  
Indeed, they progressed so long unmolested that Epsilon began to wonder if they had not 
completely eluded a confrontation with Sin's forces. 

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When a dim shout of alarm sounded at their backs.  Which shout was all too quickly 
followed by a riotous blowing of horns and baying of terrible hounds.  Shortly thereafter, sounds 
of a concerted pursuit reached their ears, and they were dismayed. 
Epsilon leapt into his high saddle with a harsh grunt.  "We are undone in this matter, Lady 
Pandolyn.  We must flee for our lives or die." 
But the wizardess had already broken into a fluid lope, which ate up the ground by the 
long stick.  Helmcleaver surged forward mightily to follow, and the chase was begun. 
Even as the unseen sun raced across the clouded heavens bound from east to west, 
Epsilon and Pandolyn fled from west to east, driven across Bac Tur's flooded wastes as two hares 
fleeing before a pack of ravenous predators.  It was arduous work, as the ground was a running 
mire and every depression a raging river.  Rain fell steadily throughout the day.  Lightning 
savaged their eyes and thunder assaulted their ears.  They slipped and slid and fell, only to 
scramble to find feet again that their flight might continue unabated.  And always the snapping 
maw of doom was loud at their backs, its fangs gnashing, its serpentine tongue choking on foul 
epithets and alien curses.  As Sin Supri's own black, defiling hand, a horde of obsidian shelled 
beasts reached for them with every clumsy step, with every advance.  It was a relentless reach that 
knew no certain bounds, that was as untiring and eager as it was intent and patient. 
Sin's pursuit of them was a hangman's noose slipping irrevocably through its unforgiving 
knot.  Every missed step, every weary stagger, every unlucky break in their path was another 
cinching inch to strangle them. 

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As the day progressed toward evening, these inches became feet that became sticks that 
became whole miles, or so it seemed to Epsilon.  Thus, the enemy neared all but imperceptibly, 
subtly, slowly, as a cold-blooded serpent slinking ever nearer to its unhappy prey.  From 
occasional glimpses he had of them, the Warfarer estimated they were being sought by more than 
two hundred well armed troops, which ranged in size and shape from jetlas to uglucks and 
included not a few rhiners.  Far, far too many to combat at once.  Thus, it further seemed to him 
that his and Pandolyn's bloody fate was both evident and assured.  Sin's forces must inevitably 
overtake them, and, once overtaken, devour them utterly in slaughter. 
It was not a quick thing, as many deaths so often are.  Rather, it was a slow, tortuous 
affair.  Slow, because the living do not easily relinquish their souls.  Tortuous, because the 
promise of freedom, of redemption, of safe harbor hung ever before them.  Rescue was as near 
and visible as the purple horizon.  And as distant... as unattainable.  With every plunge into Bac 
Tur's shallow valleys, their persecutors disappeared from sight and it seemed escape was at hand.  
But all valleys have hills to ring them round, and all hills have summits.  From each, Epsilon dared 
to snatch quick, hopeful sightings over his fleeing shoulder, only to find the black devils always 
there, coming on without pause, perhaps a few feet closer than the peak before. 
No, theirs was not to be a sudden, painless end.  Or peaceful.  Their enemy promised all 
manner of endless torture and terror ere they were slain, and hinted at darker things to be done 
magically to their souls after all their lifeblood was drained away.  Their enemy taunted and 
insulted them from the vantage of their pursuit.  Their enemy laughed and called out vile jests at 
their expense, jests about their guts soon to be spilled, their skin soon to be flayed, their bodies 

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soon to be desecrated.  None of it was funny.  All of it was terrifying, for Epsilon discovered Sin's 
servants could be genuinely sincere when they wanted to seem so.  Every ugly promise issued 
from their beaked mouths was honest in its claims regarding his and Pandolyn's eventual murders. 
 No horror, however sheer or gross, seemed unimaginable, when it was voiced from that scuttling 
horde of vile, contemptible devils. 
As never before, an incomprehensible weight of foreboding settled down upon the 
Ritesman's slumped shoulders, and he was forced to contemplate the absolute certainty of his own 
demise.  And he was afraid. 
Which fear only served to armor his resolve, even as it appeared to have hardened the 
stallion's will to flee.  Helmcleaver had the scent of doom in his nostrils, and had found it utterly 
unwholesome.  Drawing upon unknown reserves of energy and stamina, the fierce warhorse 
carried its master all the long day without failing or surrendering the chase.  When it stumbled and 
fell, it was quick to rise again and did not shy away when Epsilon set his anxious boot once more 
to the stirrup.  Nervous and skittish with terror, Helmcleaver accepted the man's considerable 
weight in each instance, and was on the run again before its high saddle was completely filled.  So 
determined was the powerful animal's flight, that it outstripped Pandolyn's own endeavor, pace for 
pace, and seemed bound to send Epsilon flying into the heavens. 
Or carry him crashing down into the depths of hell.  With a sharp and stinging pang of 
dread, Epsilon noticed the stallion stumbling more and more often as the afternoon wore away, 
and he longed for Helmcleaver's sake to pause and rest.  Yet this could not be.  A minute would 
see the devils atop them in a savage, crushing wave of assault.  And so, regardless of his animal's 

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flagging endurance, the Ritesman was loathe to dismount and make the attempt afoot, as doing so 
was a certain method of dying. 
At the end, an hour before sunset, a breathless and exhausted Helmcleaver stumbled one 
last time, spilling Epsilon headfirst into the mud, and did not rise again.  Instead, it lay weakly on 
its side, flanks heaving, lather flecking its mouth and lolling tongue.  The animal's bulging, 
straining eyes rolled sickly, and seemed almost apologetic when its bruised master returned to 
stroke its burning neck.  Epsilon was at once horrified and filled with pride to see blood flecking 
the foam at its slobbering lips.  Horrified, because it was a sign of impending mortality.  Prideful, 
because it was also a sign of the stallion's deep love of life, of its iron, undeniable will.  That it 
would run unto death and beyond, all the while carrying Epsilon upon its back selflessly, was a 
shocking feat of strength.  And the Warfarer was duly impressed. 
Epsilon slid his knees beneath the horse's once elegant now wasted neck, and pulled its 
heavy head onto his lap to keep its flaring nostrils free of the mud.  “Oh, gods," he wailed, 
unashamed to weep in his abject misery, his tears mingling unnoticed with the falling rain, "What 
have I done.  I hath slain thee in my cowardice!  I hath murdered thee to no good reward!" 
"Leave the animal, my general," croaked a wearied, footsore Pandolyn as she returned to 
the stricken stallion's side.  "We must be away at once!" 
"Then go!" he cried angrily.  "I am filled to my belly's depths with running!  I will stand 
and fight now, while I am still fresh!" 
"Fight." gasped the dumbfounded wizardess.  "There is no fight here, Epsilon, only 
slaughter.  Our slaughter!" 

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"So be it!" he bellowed in return, wrenching his anguished face up into the dim light of a 
storming sky.  Rain water washed his muddied expression and flowed in cascades along the 
reinforcing ridges of his helm.  "I will stand and die here, in this place, at this hour!  If Nars 
demands it, my exodus ends today!  Now!"  And he began gathering and arraying his weapons 
readily to hand. 
Exasperated, the wizardess squatted in the mud, panting.  "I will treat your stallion, if you 
like.  There is still time.  But we cannot make a stand here." 
"It is as good a place as any in this gods forsaken country.  And Helmcleaver could not 
carry me another step, even were he enchanted."  Epsilon turned a martial eye on the terrain.  
They were positioned at the summit of a low hill, which was capped by a shallow depression.  
Though it was not as defensible as he would have liked, at least they were not prone in a valley, 
uncovered and unsheltered.  "It will be a valiant struggle." 
"Aye, and terminal." 
Epsilon shrugged, but made no reply.  He was busy removing his gear from his prostrate 
mount.  The Warfarer arranged his long bow and quiver atop Helmcleaver's heaving flanks, which 
weapon he would employ first.  Next would come his crossbow, and after that, his sword and 
shield. 
Standing, he hefted his great ash bow and strung it, shielding its cord from the rain with a 
swath of oilskin.  Sin's forces were following its quarry's trail around the skirts of another low, 
rounded hilltop across the shallow, barren valley.  The vile creatures pursued a double row of 
slogging footsteps through the mud along the run of a torrential creek and across it. 

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With a long practiced and judicial eye, Epsilon revised his initial estimates of the force 
arrayed against him.  Either he had misjudged at first count or Sin's forces had been reduced 
during the long pursuit.  Whichever the case, only two score of the monsters remained.  
Unfortunately, most of these were of the larger, multiply limbed variety, the uglucks and rhiners.  
Several jetlas tagged along at the fore, slow and exhausted.  Epsilon decided he would not worry 
about these sorry specimens for the moment. 
Instead, and despite his master's protests, he raised his bow with its lethally ready missile, 
and took aim on a pair of uglucks jogging along near the rear of the pack.  When the two were in 
proper alignment, Epsilon let his arrow fly, disappointed that it did not have the desired affect in 
the distance.  Only one of the monsters toppled to the ground. 
At his back, Pandolyn hissed angrily, "Now you have done it." 
But the other devils seemed not to notice their fallen comrade.  Its lone stumble was 
overlooked in the long, continuous stumble that was their entire soggy pursuit.  So Epsilon was 
free to fire again on an unsuspecting foe.  This time his missile flew true, and he managed to injure 
two further uglucks with a single bolt.  Though their wounds were not immediately life 
threatening, the devils were all but instantly stricken by Epsilon's powerful poisons, and the 
monsters both collapsed without alarming their comrades, as their brief cries were muffled by the 
tumultuous rainfall.  Disbelieving his good fortunate, and happy that the weather was finally 
working to aid rather than hinder, Epsilon fired a third time, then a fourth in rapid succession, 
working always from the rear ranks forward.  Indeed, he emptied his first quiver, and was half 

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way through his dwindling supply of crossbow bolts, when the fifteen or so remaining rhiners and 
uglucks at the fore of the party took notice of the damage being done them. 
The shelled demons had mounted the hill atop which Epsilon was standing, and had finally 
spied his form in silhouette against the sky above them.  But when the foremost rhiner turned to 
urge his fellows forward, it was only to discover a trail of bodies leading back across the flooded 
creek, not a few of which corpses betrayed the feathered shafts that had slain them.  Howling with 
anger and surprise, the leader admonished its underlings severely for their inattention, before it 
called for an immediate attack and charged headlong up the gentle slope. 
A pitiful shower of arrows arced over Epsilon's head, which he returned as best he was 
able, expending the last of his own bolts carefully but with much haste.  When the last one was 
gone, he gathered up a few of his foes' missiles that had landed nearby, and fired these back down 
the grade, wounding several of the remaining rhiners in the process. 
By then, it was time to come to blows, and Epsilon was forced to discard his now useless 
spring weapon for his shining sword.  Drawing this with his right and retrieving his shield with his 
left, strapping it into place, the Warfarer found a comfortable stance, and prepared himself for 
what was likely to be his final combat.  At his side, Pandolyn also stood ready for battle, shed of 
all her encumbering gear and baggage, her fangs and lethal claws gleaming dully in the brooding 
half light. 
As she eyed the survivors of Epsilon's stealthy attack with flat, hateful eyes, Pandolyn 
whispered, "I could destroy those evil creatures with but a flick of my wrist, Epsilon.  Yet I dare 

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not employ my magic here, so near to Ilmacht, for fear of alerting our hated enemy to my 
presence in these lands." 
"Then we shall finish it by Empirical standards, with everwear steel." 
"If only I could be so flippant.  Though you have whittled the wood down considerably 
with your deadly bow, the hardened pulp remains." 
"They are but seven now." 
"Seven that might be ten thousand, for all we shall care in time." 
Epsilon shook his head unhappily.  "I am not ready to die easily or well.  They will be 
exhausted and demoralized, to have come so far and lose so many.  While I am fresh and 
undeterred.  I am not afraid." 
"You should be." 
The Warfarer opened his mouth to speak, when all time for speaking was suddenly spent.  
A bristling, black, armored body came hurtling out of the downpour, all arms and weapons and 
earnest attack.   Epsilon dodged a final hail of arrows with his shield, then emerged to hack one of 
the rhiner's four arms away with his first stroke.  The segmented appendage fell at his feet, 
spraying a greenish clot from the stump, its terminal pincer yet clasping a massive battle axe in its 
claws. 
Which axe Pandolyn hastily snatched up, even as the enraged beast rounded on Epsilon to 
overwhelm and destroy him with its superior weight and size.  Much like a vast, hulking mantis, 
the rhiner was larger and more capable than the shail Epsilon had faced in Draven's cleft.  Not so 

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bulky or clumsy as the ant-like uglucks, it was agile and quick.  Its limbs worked wildly to strike 
its opponent down, and each arm wielded a deadly weapon. 
Parrying the attacks as best he could manage, Epsilon backed away in the face of this 
irrepressible onslaught, using his shield more than his sword to deflect the rhiner's remaining battle 
axe and the two short swords it was swinging from its lesser arms.  Before the Ritesman could be 
undone completely, Pandolyn stepped in to end the contest with one mighty overhead blow from 
her purloined weapon.  The rhiner's grotesque body was cleaved nearly in twain by her blade's 
descent, and its limbs twitched spasmodically as it toppled forward. 
Only just managing to scramble away from the dying hulk, Epsilon scurried to his feet to 
face down a brace of uglucks that had topped the hill close on the heels of their fallen comrade.  A 
quick, stabbing thrust of his sword dispatched the devil on the right, while the one on the left 
came around to attack Epsilon's vulnerable flank.  He raised his shield to turn the first series of 
blows, even as he retracted his long blade from the first ugluck's collapsing body. 
Now he leaned into his shield and used it to drive the second monster backward.  Before 
he could engage it with his sword, however, Pandolyn was there once again to finish the contest.  
In a blind fury of bloodlust, she hacked the chimera into large, gory chunks, bawling esoteric 
curses or spells with every stroke.  Before she was finished, a second rhiner had attained the 
summit, then a third, followed closely by the last of the seven, an ugluck (which Epsilon noticed 
had been wounded by one of the un-poisoned bolts he had fired earlier). 
Pandolyn bellowed raucously in anger and defiance, and it was the sound of a raging bull 
olifant blowing its fleshy trumpet.  So shocking and unexpected was this eruption, that their 

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attackers faltered in the face of it and their attack came up short.  In the gap, the wizardess 
dispatched one of the two surviving rhiners, even as Epsilon's flashing blade took the wounded 
ugluck's head off in a fluid sweep. 
A single rhiner remained standing at the end of it all, and the devil seemed stunned by this 
unforeseen turn of events.  Pandolyn and Epsilon each began circling warily.  It struggled to keep 
both of them before it, its many arms and legs skittering and scratching at the muddy earth, its 
armor and weapons flapping and gnashing together.  It hissed evilly, and rattled a set of rasping 
wing-like dermal plates at its back. 
From the distant west, a dim sound of baying hounds could be heard above the rainfall, 
which sound spoke of reinforcements soon to come.  The rhiner tilted its round little head to catch 
the noise in its insect's ears, which head was capped by an oddly shaped helmet of black, 
unpolished steel.  It gestured with the battle axe in its right, uppermost arm, as if pointing out the 
intrusion to its persecutors.  Then it belched something in Sin's foul language that Epsilon could 
not understand. 
Pandolyn reacted violently, and jumped forward abruptly to dash out the monster's brains. 
 But it was gone with a mighty jump, up and over her charging head and down the hillside, where 
it landed running and did not look back. 
The wizardess rounded quickly at its evasion, and made as if it follow it down the slope.  
Epsilon stopped her with a stern hand, however, shaking his head.  "Let it go." 
"Let ME go!" and she jerked her massive arm free of his grasp. 

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"No!" and he reached for her again.  "Stay and treat my animal.  Perhaps we may yet 
escape with the coming of darkness so near." 
"Escape."  The wizardess halted her advance and turned to face him, the fever of bloody 
combat burning brightly in her eyes.  "When you have vowed to stand and die." 
"I have made my stand lady, and lived."  His hand yet on her arm, the Ritesman led his 
master back to tend his stricken mount.  "Surprise was on our side in this assault, and the numbers 
were fewer than I expected.  This time.  Next time, I do not believe we shall be so lucky.  And 
Ilmacht remains.  Or have you forgotten." 
The mage relaxed her resistance, and rubbed a scaled hand across her rain wetted face.  "I 
have not forgotten, and you are right, of course.  We must take this opportunity to seek shelter in 
the coming of night."  She returned to gather her baggage and search among them for means of 
treating Helmcleaver.  "You must forgive me my baser ways, Sir Epsilon," she mumbled as she 
worked.  "It is Semmelweiss' old spell working within me.  When the fugue of combat overcomes 
me, it as if a veil has been lowered over my eyes and ears and mind.  I cannot see or hear or think 
but to consider the blood letting before me." 
Epsilon waved her apologies away.  "I, myself, have suffered from this same affliction 
from time to time.  It fades only at the behest of much discipline and martial training.  But come, 
what can you do for my valiant stallion.  Is the animal doomed to die." 
"Not if I can prevent it.  Stand aside, Ritesman, your beast may thrash a bit at first."  And 
she bent down to force a short, thick wooden tube into Helmcleaver's foaming mouth.  Then she 
bent closer, and blew through a small hole in the free end of the apparatus, forcing a wad of 

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medicated herbs down its throat, which the protesting stallion was obliged to swallow.  Standing 
well back away from the prone stallion, the wizardess announced grimly, "It is not a cure for the 
injuries it has suffered, merely a treatment of their affects. Though it will not carry you again for 
many days, we may coax your Helmcleaver a league or so further in this manner." 
"And from there." 
"From there, I can do nothing more to aid its suffering, save minister its death quietly." 
"Like hell you will." 
At that precise moment, Helmcleaver's wasted body jerked spasmodically, and seized into 
a rictus of frozen muscles.  Then it was on its feet all at once and capering about as a freshly laid 
foal.  Shaking its great, wildly maned head and blowing haughtily, the stallion stamped and posed 
rigidly, as though calling its master to come climb aboard for the wildest ride of his life. 
Gathering its whipping reins to soothe the animal as Pandolyn instructed, Epsilon was 
struck by a thought.  It was a thought that had nagged him early in the morning, only to be 
dispelled by the sudden appearance of Sin Supri's northern armies. 
Slowly, carefully, as if fearful of dispersing his tenuous thoughts again by giving them 
voice, Epsilon asked, "Tell me this, if you can, lady, where do these creeks flow when they are in 
flood." 
Distracted from her examination of the miraculously recovered horse, Pandolyn queried, 
"Hmm.  What.  What did you say." 
"These creeks and gullies are awash with a flood of water, and all flow generally east.  I 
was simply wondering where they emptied." 

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"Into the-" and she gasped, startled by his thoughts that were now become her own,  "Into 
the Shalt River!  Of course!" 
The Warfarer smiled.  "Then let us fill our empty water and wine bladders with air and 
float with them down to our destination." 
"And your warhorse." 
"It is easier to swim ten miles on the float than it is to walk or run the same distance." 
It was Pandolyn's turn to smile.  "By the gods, Epsilon Three, you are a surprising wealth 
of insight!  I should have thought of it hours ago." 
"Hours ago," he returned softly, reaching for his empty water skins to inflate them, "We 
did not have the time." 
They walked along eastward, blowing into the un-stoppered necks of their bladders, until 
they found a stream that was wide and swift enough to carry them away.  Epsilon eyed the 
rushing, rain dappled stream direly, while his hands were busy making certain all his gear was 
lashed tightly to his body.  He strung a pair of tethered floats under his armpits, then fixed the 
remainder of his inflated skins, a half dozen of them, to the harness of Helmcleaver's saddle, two 
on either side and one fore and aft. 
The exhausted stallion had not the strength to protest when he was led into the frothing, 
icy waters, but waded in with the measured pace of a doomed felon descending into a den of 
hungry lions.  Immediately upon entering into the raging flow, which torrent they would never 
have willingly attempted to cross, the three hapless forms were borne away at a terrifying speed.  

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Pandolyn went first, then the horse, and finally Epsilon, who slipped on the muddy bank and went 
in with an unexpected plunge. 
Gasping and sputtering, the Warfarer came to the surface in the middle of the current, 
where the turbulent waters were a constant wash over his head and face.  Though he struggled at 
first to keep a grip on Helmcleaver's reins, Epsilon soon found the hydraulic forces bearing them 
along to be much too violent and fickle to fight.  He was eventually forced to relinquish his grip 
and surrender the stallion to its fate, as he was soon preoccupied with preventing his own 
drowning. 
In a loosely held group, they were carried with amazing rapidity away from Sin's pursuit, 
and into the growing shadow of nightfall.  Epsilon careened from one side of the flue to another, 
sometimes barking his booted shins on submerged obstructions, always fighting to stay 
somewhere in the center and topside of the deluge.  It was a prodigious fight, more so even than 
his surprisingly brief encounter with Sin's forces earlier in the day.  It was the kind of constant, 
grinding struggle that did not so much attempt to destroy in a single death delivering blow, as it 
sought to slowly, insidiously, subtly sap his vital energies to the last ounce, leaving him a quaking 
babe, weak and trembling in the cascade, easily drowned. 
Time upon time, they were delivered into wider, more terrible flows, until at last they 
found themselves trapped in a white water nightmare that was too powerful to resist, but bore 
their battered bodies away undeniably so they had no hope of getting a toehold on shore.  All 
while the sun settled lower and lower at their backs, foreboding darkness to come. 

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Epsilon's pale face paled further to consider combat with these rapids in the grips of 
blinding nightshade, and he called out, "Lady Pandolyn!" when he saw her head bob to the surface 
many sticks downstream, not far from a sluggishly swimming Helmcleaver.  "We must be free of 
this channel at once!  I am drowning!" 
She managed to raise an arm, before she was overcome by a froth of turbulence and gone 
again.  Sticks further along the flow, she was up once more and shouting something he could not 
hear.  Now her arm was up again.  She was pointing.  Toward the southern bank.  Go that way. 
Foolishly, perhaps delirious with shock and fear, Epsilon nodded dully and started to 
swimming.  All his most valiant efforts had no effect, however, and it was only then, with a pang 
of mortal dread, that he realized they had passed the point of no return.  The churning waters 
were too powerful, too fast, the banks too sheer and high, to allow them easy egress now.  The 
torrent was a roaring behemoth in Epsilon's ears.  Its indomitable force penetrated every fiber of 
his being, dispelling all his thoughts as dandelion fluff driven before a hurricane gale.  Its ebbs and 
surges alternately sucked and compressed his body, while the buffeting currents dashed him to 
and fro, side to side, until it seemed not even his armor could withstand the pounding. 
Then something strange and pleasantly disquieting happened.  They were delivered into a 
broad, smooth stretch of water that was undisturbed by more than the merest of ripples.  At the 
same time, Epsilon felt himself accelerating faster and faster, until the shore was nothing more 
than a dim blur of motion on either side.  After a time, the din of the rapids behind them was 
lessened, and the Warfarer felt he might be able to hear again. 

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He called out to the unseen mage in the near darkness.  Somewhere up ahead, he heard 
her dim, strident voice calling back to him.  "-think I can make it to the south side now!"  The 
echoes of her words lingered long in the gloom, trapped as they were by the silence that had 
enveloped them.  "Follow if you can!  Bear south to the Shalt River if we are parted!  I will await 
your-" 
The rest of it was lost to a strange rumble, which was not so much heard as it was felt 
within the hollow spaces of his body.  Still, the waters remained calm, if they seemed to flow with 
excessive speed.  Perhaps foolishly, Epsilon paused in the deceptive reprieve to catch his breath 
and marvel that he had not been drowned.  Then he suffered a nasty thought, and called out, "Is 
Helmcleaver safe with you."  (His echo sounding, '-ou.-ou.-ou.-ou.-ou.-') 
"Yes!  Your animal is here!" (-ere!-ere!-ere!-ere!-ere!-)  While beneath the lingering 
echoes, that odd rumble was growing louder and more powerful from moment to moment.  
Epsilon could feel it fluttering in the chambers of lungs.  "It is safe!"  (-afe!-afe!-afe!-)  "We are-" 
then a loud, mind numbing screech of abject terror, "EPSILOOOOOONNNN!" with the last syllable 
trailing off into the distance, as if the mage had been swallowed into the unfathomable bowels of 
the planet. 
He opened his mouth to call out her name, but was forced to suck a final, desperate gasp 
of air when he felt himself falling, falling, falling.  Only then did he realize he had gone over the 
brink of a towering waterfall and was tumbling through the void, blinded by an absence of the sun. 
 Though it was impossible to discriminate between the air and the water, between the waterfall 
and the main body of the river into which it must undoubtedly empty, Epsilon felt he struck 

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bottom many seconds into the descent, as he found himself suddenly rolling and pitching beneath 
an oppressive weight of a crushing down wash. 
It seemed he was submerged for an eternity.  Indeed, he was on the verge of 
unconsciousness from holding his last breath, when sound was returned to his drowned ears and a 
cool evening breeze struck his face.  The Warfarer instantly gulped a double lung-full of sweet air, 
before a powerful undertow snatched him down into the jaded depths once more.  Again he was 
sent rolling and cart wheeling through the turbulent waters until he lost all sense of direction and 
could no longer discern up from down.  Only the inflated bladders tied beneath his arms saved 
him, sent him bobbing to the surface many, many long sticks downstream.  There the river was 
calm and placid, its sluggish flow scarcely disturbed by the waterfall that had nearly killed him.  
Epsilon rolled over on his back, sputtering, and blew an icy froth from his whiskers, grateful to be 
alive. 

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When he felt equal to the task, the Ritesman started swimming toward the far south shore, 
intermittently calling Pandolyn's name between strokes.  She went so long without offering a reply 
that he feared the mage had drowned.  Which fears were laid to rest only when the wizardess 
reached out her powerful arms to help him mount the steep and treacherous river bank. 
Both collapsed into the reeds after his rescue, spent and too weak to do more than simply 
lay upon their backs and breathe rapidly and deeply.  Pandolyn choked and coughed and shivered 
and generally played the part of an intensely chilled, half-drowned reptile. 
After a length of time, she groaned softly, "And so we are come to the befouled Shalt 
River." 
"It was a spectacular ride," gasped Epsilon stoically, trying to still the chattering of his 
own teeth.  He rose to a sitting position, and began checking his weapons and gear.  Everything 
he had lashed to his body yet remained in place, but Helmcleaver was nowhere to be seen or 
heard. 
She nodded unseen in the utter darkness of a new night.  "Aye, it was that, but I would 
not do it again for a kingdom's wealth in gold." 
Epsilon grunted and struggled to stand.  His knees weak from the ebb of adrenaline and 
superhuman expenditure of energy, the Ritesman wobbled, but did not fall.  "We did not do it for 
gold this time, either, if you recall." 
Incredibly, the wizardess managed a bleak, half hearted bark of laughter.  “No, I suppose 
not."  She also struggled to stand, and managed it with her general's unsteady aid.  "Though it 
was not a graceful journey, it was an effective escape.  And we are all but laid out on the cobbles 

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of the Cal Deca Ora."  Fumbling to right her many satchels and pouches, which were in a comical 
state of disarray, Pandolyn turned to examine the cataracts high above her head.  The white water 
flow sparkled and shimmered in the dim, clouded moonlight, its throaty roar a loud and constant 
thunder in her head.  "I know these falls well, now that I have seen them from this side of the 
drop.  They are born of the Stony River, and empty into the Shalt mere leagues west of the 
highway." 
Now she shook like a wet dog, spraying a hail of droplets in all directions, further dousing 
an already drenched Epsilon.  He protested softly, and left her there on the bank to search for his 
warhorse. 
Calling the stallion's name and whistling softly, he started south, fearing he would find the 
horse's broken body drawn up into the shallows of an eddy, drowned and quite dead.  Instead, he 
found the charger very much alive, lying on its side half on shore, panting in exhaustion.  A 
cursory examination of the animal betrayed no broken bones or serious injuries, and Epsilon was 
greatly relieved.  He sat beside his four legged friend, his booted feet resting in the gently washing 
current, and cradled its heavy head in his lap. 
Later, Pandolyn succeeded in dragging the stallion higher up the bank, where it could rest 
free of the Shalt's chilled touch.  But they dared not light a fire or seek further shelter in the near 
absolute darkness of this heavily overcast night, lest they stumble upon Sin's minions unawares.  
So they could but huddle together in the open weather, shivering and damp, anxious for the 
eventual sunrise, which seemed bound never to come. 
At least, noted Epsilon dourly, it had stopped raining.

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25 

Nowhere at All 

By dawn's first light, Epsilon discovered that he had lost all his heavy weapons, including 
his bows and shield, when they were apparently torn from Helmcleaver's packs sometime during 
their tumultuous excursion down from the highlands.  Only his sword and dagger and the mail he 
was wearing remained of all the fancy, expensive arms and armor he had carried from far Empire. 
 His saddle bags and the smaller bundles of his gear remained, as well, and he deemed himself 
fortunate to have so much, given the circumstances of their rescue. 
Not to say their harrowing escape had been granted by the gods without a greater price to 
pay.  Helmcleaver was more sorely spent than they had at first guessed.  Three entire days and 
nights were devoted to the stallion's partial recovery, which was slow in coming, though Pandolyn 
worked all her best spells of healing and used her most potent salves on the animal’s abuse 
muscles and limbs.  When she had expended all that remained of her magical stores, much of 

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which had been lost to the river, Pandolyn declared unsatisfactorily that she had done all she could 
do, and left the matter there. 
On the fourth morning after their delivery from Sin Supri's northern armies, Epsilon stood 
unhappily on the banks of the sluggish Shalt, his arms crossed atop his armored breasts, elbows 
cupped in palms, as he watched Helmcleaver hobble about lamely.  The stallion was obviously 
favoring its right forelimb, and the Ritesman was wondering if the animal had not suffered a shin 
splinter after all.  The warhorse would be no good to anyone, not even itself, should it prove to 
have been lamed.  Epsilon cursed blackly, and kicked a stone far out over the river's gently 
rippled, oily surface.  It landed with a splash and a hollow sound of submergence and was gone.  
"Damnation," he complained aloud to no one in particular, "How can a man of war monger 
warfare, without a good horse beneath him.  Without his heavy weapons and shield.  I am an 
artisan in lack of proper tools, and am therefore rendered utterly useless." 
Sitting among the reeds nearby, weaving herself a basket in which to carry an armload of 
tubors she had dug up yestereve, Pandolyn clucked her tongue in a chiding fashion.  "Shall I 
simply cut your head off, then, and be done with your suffering." 
"Would you." he queried sharply, his own tone snide and sarcastic.  “Would you just." 
The mage stopped weaving momentarily, and turned a reproachful eye on her general.  
"Your animal will heal, Epsilon.  And your weapons may be replaced.  At the moment, these 
matters are the least of our worries." 
"The least of YOUR worries, perhaps.  Not mine." 

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"What of your grumbling belly, then." she returned smugly, bending to her basket making 
once more.  "Or have you failed to note that all our rations from Lucky Lady are gone.  We have 
naught to eat, naught to drink, and many long, dangerous leagues yet to cross before our stores 
may be replenished.  Do these things concern you not at all." 
"Of course they do!" he snapped harshly, more so than he intended.  Softening, he added, 
"Of course they do.  I only-  Well, it goes better for you, suffice it to say, since you have those 
great, long legs of yours to carry you with the speed and ease of a bounding elk.  While I am left 
naked and afoot, here in this wilderness of hells, here in this Wilderland of Wilderlands.  What will 
happen to me, do you think, the next time we are come up against another of Sin Supri's marching 
armies." 
"We shall not." 
"We should not have the first time.  Yet we did.  Ergo, it is likely we shall do so again." 
"Then I shall watch over you." 
"What good would that be, when you can scarcely watch over yourself in such matters." 
"I suppose none at all.  You are right, my general.  You are doomed as surely as your 
lame horse, and I should leave you both here to perish or prosper as you will."  And she smiled to 
betray her jest. 
His frown could not long stand in the face of such a genuine assault, and it was soon 
replaced with an abashed smile of his own.  The Warfarer exhaled slowly, and rubbed the bridge 
of his nose with a thumb and forefinger.  "Forgive me, lady.  It has been a long and difficult 
journey.  I am weary, and anxious for its end." 

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"As am I.  Time grows shorter with every day idly spent."  Pandolyn finished her basket, 
and tested its strength with a series of quick, sharp tugs.  "I have pondered the utility of 
employing the Rod of Serpents once more, that I might better know what evils our enemy has 
worked since I last spied him out, but I cannot convince myself it is a wise maneuver.  No matter 
how I couch the proposition, I cannot justify the risk of betraying our presence within Bac Tur.  
Especially when I cannot be certain of what I shall see." 
Epsilon shrugged his shoulders, and hurried to help his master load her cleverly fashioned 
basket with potatoes.  "One of two things.  Either you will see Sin Supri where you last left him, 
or you will find him and his armies returned home again." 
"In which case we should turn back immediately." 
The Ritesman stiffened and paused working.  "Perhaps you should not employ your rod of 
black magic after all, Lady Pandolyn.  For, if you turn back from this destruction of hated 
Vandegarte now, you shall turn back alone." 
Now it was the wizard's turn to stiffen.  "You worry me, my general, when you speak so.  
We are not come these many thousands of leagues to slay your foul First Emperor.  It is Ilmacht 
we have come to destroy." 
"Aye, our contract yet holds.  You will have no dishonor from me, for I am bound to help 
you overthrow that rotten capitol city of corruption.  But there it ends between us.  There am I 
finished with you and your esoteric errands." 
"And what would you do, pray tell me.  Simply stalk the monster to ground and shoot out 
its heart with your poisoned arrows."  The mage fought to keep her tone neutral and void of 

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belittlement, but it was a difficult endeavor in the face of this child's boasted intentions of slaying a 
demigod.  "What significance you, alone.  How shall you succeed when ten thousand times ten 
thousand other men have failed at the same attempt before you.  This man, this beast, you know 
as Vandegarte is simply the most powerful creature on the face of this earth.  Yes, more powerful 
even than the absent Sin Apica.  He has survived seven hundred years of assassins and would be 
usurpers.  He has successfully plotted to overthrow more kingdoms and nations in his time than 
you have ever seen or heard tell of.  And what have you done."  Here, the Ritesman blushed, and 
glanced down at the large and ugly spud he was holding in his hands.  Pandolyn choked back the 
words she had been about to expel, and redirected her discourse.  She did not want to ruin the 
man's lofty opinion of himself, but at the same time she felt it was time for Epsilon to better 
understand his true place in the scheme of things.  "What have you done." she asked again, more 
softly.  "Do you not see how it will go. 
"You are the gnat that would torture the olifant to death.  For a brief time you are an 
annoyance, but only briefly.  Then you are simply swatted."  He looked away, dropped the tubor 
into the basket, reached for another.  She clucked her tongue unhappily, afraid she had said too 
much.  With a soft, scaly paw, she reached out to grasp his armored shoulder, turn him to face 
her.  “Make no mistake, Valiant Sir Epsilon, it is a righteous direction, and I applaud your 
resolve.  Sin Supri must be slain.  I, myself, have vowed to make Vandegarte's destruction my 
life's work.  Why else should I labor so long to tear down the walls of his castle keep.  But there 
are proper and improper ways to do everything." 

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Epsilon shrugged her grip away, and angrily began cramming the remaining roots into his 
master's crude carryall.  "What of it.  Why waste your breath.  You cannot deter me." 
"I do not wish to deter you, Epsilon, merely... direct you another way." 
"And what other way did you have in mind." 
She started to respond, but stopped, sighing tensely.  "You are most correct.  Why should 
I waste my breath here, now, when the end of this long journey is but just begun.  It will wait.  
Once our attempt on Ilmacht has won or waned, perhaps we shall both be better arrayed to 
determine our further destiny." 
He scoffed.  "You speak as though our destinies are married together as one, when they 
clearly are not." 
Pandolyn hefted her basket and stood, unwilling to say more.  She had not missed the 
implications of the Ritesman's final statement, which were chiefly that he was free to go his own 
way, no matter what she might say or do.  And she received this news with more than a 
professional pang of dread.  It stirred something personal within her bosom.  Something forlorn 
and lost and lonely.  Something human and emotional.  His words reminded of her ugliness, and 
of the many and vast differences between them, which differences were like a wide, deep ocean 
that could never be crossed.  She would reach out to him in need... in affection... and he would 
grimace to deny her, much as a child might shy away from a gruesome insect of some kind that 
has been thrust at its face.  Yet this was not the saddest depth of her sad, twisted story.  Sadder 
still was her inability to blame Epsilon for his abhorrence of her.  Sadder still was her acceptance 
of his intense loathing. 

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Still crouching near to the ground, Epsilon watched his master's back as she stalked away 
eastward without another word.  And he wondered what he had said to affect her so deeply.  
Something in the carriage of her body spoke of a mortal wound, though she was obviously 
unharmed.  What could it be.  What had he done. 
With a rare insight like a bolt of lightning from an unclouded sky, Epsilon understood.  It 
was the threat of loneliness that had hurt her.  That he had forebode she should one day return to 
a solitary life, without even Ubar to comfort her dark and lonesome dusks, was more daunting to 
that daunting woman than an army of uglucks and rhiners. 
Gods, what have I done. he moaned mentally, and hung his head.  Epsilon sucked a deep, 
stinging breath, and prayed silently.  Nars, I know not the ways of humanity, of friendship given 
and accepted, I know not how to love.  But let me love this woman.  Let me love her, not for her 
flesh that is disfigured, but for the true lines of her character, for her soul that is pure and loyal 
and good.  Let me see beyond her ugliness, into the shining light of her fierce heart that is fit for 
a Ritesman of the Highest Degree.  Let me love her and treat her well from this day forth.  Aid 
me in holding my ungentle tongue, that it might never again do such unwarranted damage. 
Whereupon he rose and trudged after Pandolyn's stiffly marching form.  "Lady, I-" he 
began, stopped.  Started once more, "We should pause a moment to, ah-" 
"To what.  To hear more of your boorish boasts and warrior's fatal vows." 
He winced, fearing he might never pull himself free of this woman's mire.  "No, I, er, uhm, 
I think we should have further words on this matter, ere we start east again."  When she showed 
no signs of stopping or of slowing down, he added, "A shadow has quite suddenly fallen between 

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us, my lady, and I fear it is too dark to see clearly.  We should take time to dispel it now, else it 
might fester beyond all good sight." 
That stopped her.  Without turning, she asked sharply, "What words further would you 
say to me." 
"Please, turn to face me.  Do not make me do this to your back, much as a whipping boy 
might vainly beg pardon of his spoiled master."  She turned about suddenly, and her face was 
angry.  In anger, she was the towering predator, poised to devour him, and no longer the woman 
he had asked to love for his only friend.  Epsilon swallowed with difficulty, and repeated his silent 
prayer to Nars.  Something softened in her countenance just then, and he accepted this invitation 
to say, "I- I am not accustomed to words of platitude or placation.  I am better suited, as you say, 
to boorish boasting and warrior's fatal vows.  Forgive me my stumbles. 
"But I would simply further say that this journey, despite its hardships, has not been an 
unpleasant one.  I have... enjoyed your company, m'selle.  I respect your wisdom and have 
appreciated your wit.  And I-" he halted again, uncertain if he should continue with what he was 
about to say.  It seemed suddenly foolish to speak of a future so far advanced, when the presence 
was so gravely in doubt. 
"Yes." she queried gently, her tone pleased and not a little surprised. 
"And I suppose... since our intentions are as one... that we should be better off..." 
"Better off, you say." 
"Better- er, uhm, that is to say it would be best if we continued on together, after this 
business is finished, I mean.  If you would have me along, of course." 

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Happily appeased, Pandolyn let her stern glower of rage fade into a coy and absurdly 
girlish smile.  "We shall see, my general.  We shall see.  Naturally," she hedged playfully, eager to 
be rid of the black emotions roiling in the darkness of her thoughts, "It will depend on how you 
act from now forward.  I should advise you to behave." 
"Aye, m'selle.  It is my own advice to myself."  The Ritesman tried to sound flippant, but 
his intent was sincere.  "I hope you will forgive me," he added, following after as she resumed 
their long march, "If my earlier words caused you undo anxiety.  I did not intend them to seem so 
cruel." 
"Anxiety.  Whatever do you mean." 
Epsilon sucked another deep breath, and tumbled into the rest of it all at once.  "I know 
the well honed edge of loneliness very well, m'selle.  It is the one blade capable of cutting any 
flesh, regardless of armor.  And I can well see that you are not altogether immune to its bite, no 
matter how you might deny it.  Just now, the prospect of wandering alone once more struck your 
heart with the impact of a heavy spear... and I instantly regretted having thrown that spear.  It was 
loosed on the knee jerk, without thought, and should never have flown." 
The mage seemed both surprised and confused by Epsilon's disclosure.  She returned 
hesitantly, "I am uncertain what you mean to imply." 
He groaned in frustration, realizing he had fired a quiver of vocal bolts that had all missed 
their mark by a wide margin.  "I suppose I only wanted you to understand that I did not hurt you 
intentionally, that I understand how you must feel, and that I would never use so vile a weapon 

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against one so... dear."  Having said it, his eyes fell to the ground before his feet, and the 
Ritesman was deeply ashamed for himself. 
Her reptilian eyes twinkled merrily, however, and the wizardess laughed quite suddenly to 
hear it.  "Oh, I see," was all she could manage to return at first, stunned as she was by Epsilon's 
unsolicited declarations.  Which only caused the proud man of war to blush more deeply still.  
"No, do not regret your soft words, Holy Warfarer, for they have not been voiced in vain.  They 
have done more damage to my stern, un-healing heart than a hail of arrows.  And now it is my 
turn to apologize." 
"You, m'selle.  Apologize for what." 
"For forcing you into making such an obviously painful disclosure.  A great deal of 
discipline and resolve must have been required to see it through." 
"You have no idea." 
She exhaled forcefully, and sidestepped a deep pool of standing rain water.  "We are 
bogged hip deep in the grimy suck of Bac Tur, Epsilon, and here am I playing the twittering 
school girl, demanding attentions of you as if we were trysting on the playground.  Twiddling my 
pigtails and twisting my toes in the dirt, I would prod you into confessing your obvious love of 
me, merely to appease my own silly vanity." 
His expression neutral, the Warfarer nodded somberly.  "I thought I was at fault.” 
"And usually are, no doubt.  Still, I think it only fair to acknowledge my complicity in this 
matter.  In the future, I will endeavor to be less sensitive to your blunt words, if you will also 

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endeavor not to use them against me inconsiderately."  After a brief pause, she added, "Synodal 
Wizards are not immune to lashings of the tongue, after all, immortal though they be." 
"I will remember it, lady." 
"Good.  Our walk shall proceed the better for it, I think." 
Helmcleaver seemed to agree, for he raised his head from munching fodder at that exact 
moment and whinnied softly.   Snorting and bobbing its head, the stallion hurried lamely to catch 
them up and nuzzle Epsilon's ear affectionately. 
The Ritesman laughed happily and returned the fierce warhorse's gentle nudges measure 
for measure.  "He appears to be feeling better!" 
"Aye, your animal is healing at last.  He may be fit to ride again soon." 
Releasing the horse to return to its earnest feeding, Epsilon hastened to keep pace with his 
master.  "It would be good to be mounted again and quickly shed of these reeking lowlands.  Yon 
Shalt River has these three long days been an abomination in my nostrils, and I am eager to be rid 
of it forever.  What makes it stink so." 
Pandolyn shrugged simply as she lurched along.  "Sin Supri has occupied Argentia's 
forsaken mines in the mountains behind and before us.  Ever are his ore refineries and smelters 
working to replenish the madman's lust for steel weapons and golden coins, regardless of the 
land's protests and unholy suffering.  Thus, the Shalt and every other river in this befouled country 
runs rife with stinking poisons.  The land is dying, I think, and there is nothing we may do to 
prevent its demise." 
"Nothing save undo the bastard that works to ruin it." 

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Wistfully, the mage turned her raptor's gaze on Bac Tur's churning, roiling, threatening 
skies and clucked her tongue.  "Your brash courage reminds me of the fearsome little mouse that 
would rescue a lion from the hunter's trap." 
"If I recall that story well, lady, the lion was saved.  Was it not." 
"Aye.  In children's watch fire tales told to monger sweet dreams and even slumbers, the 
lion was saved.  And the mouse was not eaten.  In the midst of this hellish land, though, such 
fantasies are laughably inane.  Why not hope to pull down the moon for its mountains of cheese.  
Both feats are equally feasible, it seems to me." 
"Does it." he enquired sharply, grimacing to pull his heavy boots from the clinging mud.  
"Then why are we gone so long to come against Ilmacht.  Tell me truly, when was Vandegarte's 
capitol city ever sacked and destroyed." 
"Truly, never.  Never before has that fiend been forced to surrender so much as an acre of 
his ill gotten holdings." 
"Yet we are vowed to do this very thing.  On the heels of this defeat, might there not be 
others." 
Pandolyn snorted contemptuously and sought the high ground.  From the vantage of the 
low hillock she had climbed, the mage could look south and see the Cal Deca Ora wending its 
way from east to west.  It crossed the broad, reeking Shalt via a high, arched bridge of ancient 
construction, and continued on into the hazy morning horizon seemingly forever. 
Bearing southeast, parallel to the Shalt's banks, Pandolyn asked derisively, “Defeat on 
what frontiers.  Rebellion from what internal domain.  Would the cowed people of Oreset take 

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heart at Ilmacht's fall, and rise up against their feared overlord and master.  He that graciously has 
allowed them to live as rational human beings all this time, while nation upon nation has 
succumbed in the darkness of his blighted shadow.  Do not fool yourself, Epsilon.  I cannot 
foresee any quick victories after Ilmacht."  Brooding, she added unhappily, "If the world is 
affected by our hoped for victory in the east, I fully expect it to be affected in the worst ways.  If 
anything, the madman will be roused by our insults into a great rage and lust for vengeance.  My 
heart chills to consider the brutality and bloodletting that will be the inevitable reward of our 
distant conquests.  The earth will run red as it never has before, ere all is finished." 
"Then why should we go there and do this thing." 
She chuckled blackly, her forked tongue writhing sinuously behind the fangs of her 
bristling maw.  "Why lance a boil, when lancing dares a deadly infection." 
"Because a gruesome death is certain without treatment, regardless of the risks." 
"So we must overrun Ilmacht and dig up its cancerous roots, simply because I briefly have 
the power to do so.  When Sin Supri returns to his capitol keep, he must return to find it utterly 
ruined." 
"Which sight will certainly goad the madman into a larger madness, while we that would 
spawn it slink away meekly into the sheltering Earthbones, leaving innocent peoples in the lurch to 
absorb Vandegarte's demented hatred in our stead." 
"Unfortunately, so must it be," returned the wizardess with a tone of finality.  Pandolyn 
left the discourse there, unwilling to divulge her plans prematurely or amid such drab, hopeless 
surroundings. 

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Despite Epsilon's words to the contrary, the mage was not at all certain that flight was 
their best option after Ilmacht's destruction.  In fact, she was uncertain of anything beyond the 
success of their quest.  Her further designs were tenuous and preliminary, at best.  Her intentions 
in Bac Tur were much like the last, desperate jab of a punch-drunk prize fighter that has stumbled 
and is verged on utter collapse.  If it landed squarely and had the hoped for affect, her thrust into 
Sin Supri's heartland might save all.  And if it fell short or failed entirely, all would be irrevocably 
lost.  Naturally, she could share none of her doubts with the Ritesman for the moment.  Doing so 
would only serve to confuse him, and one never knew when Sin's minions might be lurking about, 
listening from the shadows unseen. 
Instead, she sought to distract her general by pointing out the bridge looming in the haze 
before them.  "The Cal Deca Ora," she announced bleakly, pausing to catch her spent breath, 
gasping slightly.  "It runs straight and true through these northern wastes for many long, 
uncounted leagues, eventually delivering its travelers into the shadow of the Towers of Dream far 
to the east.  From its terminus, we face but a short march south to Ilmacht."  Lowering her jutting 
arm, Pandolyn raised her feet one at a time to shake clots of cold mud from her webbed digits and 
ankles.  "At least we shall be rid of this damnable mire." 
"Is it safe to travel that deserted avenue openly." he asked dubiously, shading his eyes 
against the sun's diffuse eastern glow. 
"As long as this gloom lasts, it is safe enough.  Once the skies are clear again, however, 
we will travel only at night, for fear of roving illdross and the like." 

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Epsilon shivered to consider marching along that abandoned road by the moon's eery 
glow.  It seemed a forlorn and forsaken way.  Only ghosts and fell spirits might tread those 
cobbles happily. 
Despite the Ritesman's dire misgivings, however, he followed after his master when she 
led down the hillside, across a broad, shallow quagmire of a valley, up another set of hills, into a 
second valley, this one filled with a torrential and treacherous stream, and finally up onto the 
uneven cobbles of Argentia's lost northern turnpike. 
Stamping wet earth from his boots, Epsilon stood at the center of the highway and warily 
eyed its length, sighting alternately east then west along its gently wending course.  The Shalt 
Bridge dominated his eastern view, while the western horizon was a distant, blurred line that was 
penetrated at its center by the crooked shaft of the Cal Deca Ora.  Back along that way, he knew, 
lay Verdune and the Sand  Sea, and beyond that, Oreset and Empire.   How distant they are here, 
now... how very distant, he thought sadly. 
And he wondered briefly what had become of Ipani and his newborn kingdom.  He 
wondered what manner of revelry was underway in the Emperor's Court at Alcorde.  Was it all 
sunshine and happy faces back there.  Is that how he remembered it.  With fondness and wistful 
nostalgia. 
But, no, they were not happy lands and these were not happy times.  Try as he might, 
Epsilon could not recover smiles or visions of peaceful bliss from his memories of those distant 
western regions.  While he should have glanced in that direction to think of home and ponder the 
fates of loved ones left behind, instead the sacrificial warrior stood there, shoulders drooping, and 

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measured himself among the castaway and drifting.  For good or ill, Epsilon felt he was precisely 
where he belonged, and that was quite simply nowhere at all. 

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 26 

Callathorne Awake! 

Fortunately for the footsore travelers, or perhaps unfortunately so, Bac Tur was a gloomy 
realm, one given to long, dreary days of brooding overcast and roiling storm clouds that 
pregnantly threatened but never delivered further rain.  Regardless of this respite from relentless 
drenching, the ground remained muddy and all but impassible off road, as if the impotent sun had 
lost its power to purge the soil of moisture here.  Thus, they were forced to keep to the Cal Deca 
Ora's uneven pavement and its ruinous bridges as they worked their weary way eastward dawn by 
dusk.  They stopped only briefly to rest beneath Bebblegeth's ever vigilant eye, and ate what they 
happened upon in the course of their long, arduous journey, which was shockingly little. 
In the tortured course of their wandering, the two errant rebels passed many sights and 
ruins that the un-traveled Epsilon found to be strange and wonderful and sometimes frightening; 
skeletal remains of dead behemoths, evidence of battles fought and lost ages past, indications of a 

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vast and powerful nation that had been reduced to nothing more than so much dust and crumbling 
granite vestiges.  And, perhaps most unnerving of all, they passed city after slain, wasted city. 
Each was a sorry and unspeakably foreboding vision of destruction.  Each cowered behind 
inevitably shattered walls that bristled with abandoned defenses.  Each had countless eyes that 
were un-shuttered windows and gaping, unshielded doorways.  Each was a tossed down work of 
devastation wrought in charred masonry and rampant weeds.  Each was a facet of the sprawling 
stony carcass that was wretchedly slain Argentia. 
As they passed these ruins one by one, Pandolyn named them where she could, and filled 
her companion's ears with their rich histories to pass the time.  Naturally, each history so recited 
ended in the same fashion, with Vandegarte's violating grasp coming to close about the walls in 
unbreakable siege and undeniable conquest. 
Knowing the First Emperor's ignominious character and the history of Argentia as he well 
did, Epsilon was not surprised by the individual evidences of Vandegarte's bloody passage 
through this land.  Yet he eventually became deeply concerned that there should be so many, so 
damned many.  Citadel after proud citadel, ruin after ruin.  Dozens.  Scores.  Hundreds, it 
seemed. 
As the numbers compiled, Epsilon found his mouth gaping to consider the ponderous mass 
of people that had been emptied from within those busted sanctuaries, never to return.  Whole 
cities.  Whole nations.  Whole universes of people, of women and children... happy, playing, 
loving, innocent children.  Children that once might have picked dandelions alongside this twisted 

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Cal Deca Ora, sheltered in the harboring safety of their tiny, peaceful worlds soon to be so 
tragically and irretrievably unraveled by a raving lunatic's abiding lusts. 
Whatever had befallen them, those ancient peoples had never returned to reclaim their 
abandoned possessions and fallow fields.  Nothing of them save the remnants of their disastrous 
last hours remained. 
Milestone upon milestone, pace by pace, the unchanging terrain of Argentia unfolded 
before them silently, with the eery passage of a ghostly cemetery steeped in macabre mists, only to 
ease closed again at their backs, its many puzzling mysteries revealed but unresolved.  No calls of 
wild animals accompanied the sluggish breeze.  No birds sang by the dawn or fluttered to nest by 
dusk.  All was stillness and morbidity.  All was quietude and pregnant pause.  All was broken 
spires jutting from low fogs and shattered walls disgorging their toppled stones onto the highway. 
By day's light, Bac Tur was a brooding graveyard.  By darkness, it was an unbearable 
agony of nightmare. 
For ghosts seemed to march alongside them in the night.  Less seen than felt, a crush of 
wraiths seemed to press to and fro along the Cal Deca Ora, hastily bound on obscure, ethereal 
errands that had nothing to do with the world of living men.  Epsilon often thought he heard 
distant echoes of nonexistent combats; the relentless ring of steel striking steel, cries of mortal 
rage and terror, screaming of the wounded and the dying.  And sometimes it was the tramp of 
countless marching troops, which sounds were inevitably accompanied by the murmur of 
disembodied voices that were long slain warriors softly debating their impending doom.  He heard 
refugees fleeing before the devouring front of Vandegarte's advancing hordes, which were sounds 

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of crying babes and cooing mothers, of the moaning elderly and the protesting young, of shuffling, 
uninspired feet marching, relentlessly marching from and into a night bound oblivion. 
And while they marched, these fell sprites whispered portents of annihilation and defeat.  
Whispers that were the mumbles of a gentle breeze in Epsilon's ears, scarcely heard and largely 
indecipherable, but which conveyed an infinite sadness and regret all the same.  Whispers that pled 
chiefly, 'Do not go east.  Turn back now, while you yet may.  That way is death.  Do not go east.' 
Nightfall after nightfall for seventeen revolutions of the planet, he and Pandolyn waded 
this crush of oppressive, discorporeal human traffic.  Until, on the eighteenth night, Epsilon felt 
his hold on sanity slipping loose to let go entirely. 
At his back, as he trudged along the unkempt cobbles leading his skittish mount, a rasping 
voice twittered harshly, "Shhh-na-na-na-shhh." 
"What." he queried aloud, alarmed and confused.  Pandolyn, limping along at his side, 
jumped at his unexpected speech.  "Did you say something." he asked of her. 
"Me.  No.  Nothing." 
"I thought I heard..."  Heard what.  The sigh of Bac Tur's unpredictable breezes. 
"Shhh-na-na-na-shhh," came the harsh, guttural nothing again. 
"There," gushed the suddenly animated mage, "I caught it that time."  She checked her 
stride abruptly, and spun to face back the way they had come.  In the darkness and dense ground 
fog there was nothing much to see, however, save a short stretch of cantered paving stones that 
were outlined by weedy growths.  "It seemed to come from behind us." 

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Now Epsilon, too, stopped, and turned to the west.  Seeing nothing, he opened his mouth 
to speak again, only to snap it shut once more when he heard, "Shhh-na-na-na-na-NEVER!" 
which shout was a peal of ghostly thunder that rumbled off into the distance mightily.  "Never 
shall we yield!  On!  On!  Callathorne direly awaits!" 
And a mounted knight came trotting out of the mists.  Apparently unaware of the living in 
its midst, the dimly glowing spirit halted his anxious and heavily armored charger in the center of 
the roadway, not more than fifty sticks distant.  Tall and lean and powerfully armed, the knight 
twisted in his high saddle to admonish unseen troops marching behind. 
"Ye stout men of Lollennacht, do not fail your hearts now, do not waver!  On!  On!  On to 
Callathorne!" 
Incredibly, a sharp retort answered from beyond the fog, "CALLATHORNE!" which oath 
was borne of ten thousand angry men shouting all at once.  The unseen troops accompanied this 
utterance with a unified strike of their fists upon their armored breasts, CLAP! 
"Callathorne!" cried the mounted captain once more, raising a gauntlet sheathed fist, his 
tone ragged with a maniacal martial urgency. 
"CALLATHORNE!" and CLAP! 
The salute was repeated a third time, whereupon the captain wheeled wildly about and let 
his eager mount canter forward slowly.  "If dreams are days, then I be ages old!" bellowed the 
mounted knight musically. 
To which his soldiers responded, "BUT DAYS ARE DYING, AND MY HEAD LONG 
SOLD!”  CLAP! 

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"If miles are minutes, then I be worlds unwound!" 
"BUT MINUTES BE RIVERS, AND WE DEEP ARE DROWNED!"  CLAP! 
"If loves last forever, then my heart be steel!" 
"BUT FOREVER IS FLEETING, AND THE SLAIN NOT FEEL!"  CLAP! 
"If combat is fever, then my veins rage sick!" 
"BUT FEVER MAY MURDER, AND THE DEATH NOT QUICK!"  CLAP! 
"If I am a lion, then my roar be heard!" 
"AYE, BE THE LION, AND YOUR ROAR ROCK THE WORLD!"  CLAP! 
By now, the front ranks of Lollennacht's errant army had emerged from their cloak of 
mists, and it seemed the wraith warriors were intent on marching right over Epsilon and Pandolyn, 
standing as they were with open mouths in the center of the road.  Unwilling to tempt their fate in 
this godless country, the two living travelers hurried off to the side of the highway, where they 
stood still to observe the macabre procession, eyes wide and disbelieving, spectators attending a 
parade of the unburied dead. 
Their captain fallen into silence, he galloped eastward to be lost in the night's thick shroud 
once more.  While his men trudged unhappily after, their feet sounding against the uneven cobbles 
like a singular heartbeat, CLOMP!  CLOMP!  CLOMP!  CLOMP! 
Above the din, Pandolyn whispered loudly, "Yes, now I remember.  Callathorne.  If I am 
not mistaken, the ruins of that city lie just around the next bend.  I wonder what we shall find 
there in this hour of darkness." 

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"Perhaps we should not go further," returned an anxious Epsilon, his hands busy soothing 
the terrified Helmcleaver.  "By the looks of that bunch," he hissed abhorrently, "It will not be a 
pleasant show." 
"We cannot afford the delay."  Her statement was blunt and brooked no debate. 
Epsilon shrugged, his head turning gently back and forth to watch rank upon rank of well 
prepared warriors marching grimly forth to wreak havoc among their enemies.  Since it was not a 
human army, but one of softly glowing mists, the Warfarer sucked a deep breath and stepped out 
onto the highway.  Expecting to collide with the host, he was instead merely washed over by a 
cool, smoking breeze that broke about him without impact, only to flow back into form again 
further along the road.  The Ritesman shuddered vilely and practiced a mental chant of well being, 
but suffered no obvious ill effects from his excursion into the netherworld. 
Pandolyn followed reluctantly, wishing no doubt that she had held her tongue and not 
goaded in the Ritesman into so hasty a start.  Oddly, as she moved deeper and deeper into the 
width of the file, those ethereal soldiers appeared to take note of her obstruction, for they 
marched easily around her when they were able.  Epsilon similarly discovered that slow, 
predictable movement kept the wraithlike forms away, and he was content to allow them their 
maneuvers, rather than have that sickly glowing mist smash weightlessly around his face time and 
time again. 
Thus, as an island of life surrounded by a river of death, he and his master pursued their 
doomed trek more deeply still into Bac Tur's corrupted flesh, rounding the next bend in the road 
only to arrive, as predicted, at the night bound outer barricades of desolate Callathorne. 

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Dimly seen in the obscured moonlight and buried in a thick mist, the city's daunting walls 
over-arched the highway entirely to form a massive gateway, through which the army of 
Lollennacht marched as a single body.  Seeing no other way around to their eventual destination, 
Pandolyn and Epsilon were forced to enter into that shaded necropolis on the heels of this host of 
wraiths, though the living did so with less obvious enthusiasm than the dead. 
As they entered into the city proper, sounds of ponderous gates slamming shut assaulted 
their ears, and horns began blaring all around.  A din of many alarmed men echoed through the 
tumbled down avenues and off the crumbling walls, and it was readily apparent from the 
acoustical chaos that Callathorne's end was neigh once more. 
Epsilon stopped short of fully penetrating the arched gateway, and swallowed hard.  "I- I-
" he stammered uncertainly, ashamed to hear the stark fear in his tone.  He tried to swallow again, 
found he could not, and instead spat to one side.  "I like the prospects of this not at all, master." 
The wizardess also stopped.  "You have passed similar cities in the darkness before now." 
"But we have never before been forced to enter into one.  I do not like it." 
Pandolyn nodded and licked her scaled face with a pink, forked tongue.  “Aye, it is an 
unwholesome undertaking, but we must press on." 
"We should wait out the dawn, I think." 
"Nonsense," she scoffed caustically.  "I have traveled this way many times.  There is 
nothing here that we, of the flesh, should fear.  Only impotent spirits and their doomed dramas.  
Ignore them, and let us be on our way."  Indeed, she started off again, only to stop at the shaking 
of Epsilon's head. 

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"No, I think not." 
The lizard woman growled impatiently.  "Why are you suddenly become the reluctant 
child, my general.  It is all rocks and weeds and eery shadows, but none of these things may do 
you harm."  He shook his head again without taking his eyes off the mist enshrouded city beyond 
the gates.  "Are you deterred by these visions of otherworldly armies on the march.  What 
deterrence they, when you have already felt their forms come against you as soft as nothing." 
"I am uncertain of my tremors' source, lady, except to say that I would not like to enter 
into this dark place in this dark hour.  Let us wait until morning, when the sun's light may show us 
the way more clearly." 
She sighed leadenly and yearned for a respite, herself.  But she could not allow it.  They 
were come too far at too great a cost to slacken or slow now.  Why should they pause here at the 
threat of harmless wraiths, when hordes of chum and other monsters had not turned them aside 
earlier.  To even briefly consider it seemed an absurd proposition.  Thus, she was decided to 
convince her general of their larger need of haste, and ignored his well honed senses that warned 
of danger. 
"As I recall," heaved the mage, reaching for a half empty bladder of water to slacken a 
thirst she did not feel, "Callathorne fell more then two hundred years ago, when a treacherous 
gate keeper turned the locks to loose Vandegarte's hordes on the unsuspecting city.  The traitor 
was lured into the madman's service with the usual promises of wealth and authority, though he 
was eventually rewarded with nothing more lucrative than a slow and painful death."  She paused 
to sip of the skin and turn her eye on the shadows of abandoned Callathorne.  A moan of spirits 

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was in the air, and the night's gentle breeze seemed to stir a muffled din of conflict from every 
eave and darkened alleyway.  "By that time, of course, the city was long fallen and looted, its 
inhabitants slaughtered or borne away in the chains of slavery.  Not all of Argentia’s inhabitants 
fled safe from these lands before Sin was come to claim them. 
"But this was not the worst of it.  In preparation of Vandegarte's dreaded approach, 
Callathorne had called in men from all its neighboring allied cities, which cities had been largely 
emptied in a vain attempt to muster sufficient forces to check Sin Supri's advance into Argentia 
here.  And they might have succeeded, too, as their numbers were so great and Callathorne's 
defenses were so well laid, save for the gatekeeper's betrayal.  Opening these same gates during 
the deeps of night's darkness," and she indicated the overarching portals above their heads with a 
sweep of one arm, while offering the bladder to her general with the other, "A single man 
murdered one hundred times a thousand of his countrymen, and himself, and prospered the cause 
of Sin immeasurably.  For within these walls the final hopes of Argentia's northern regions were 
ambushed and slaughtered while sleeping in their beds.  Entire armies perished that night, and so a 
score of lesser kingdoms were laid bare to Vandegarte's destructive designs.  As a parched forest 
that has ignited from the blaze of a single tree, this country burned out of all control until naught 
but ashes and char remained.  While to the south, the world was emptied of people, who fled 
across the salt water sea, never more to be seen." 
Epsilon drank of the tepid water and shook his head dourly.  A chill shiver chased along 
his spine and raised the hackles at the nape of his neck.  Moans and whispers and wails and hisses 

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echoed psychotically among the ruins.  He heard a tramp of marching feet, the ring of flailing 
steel, cries of mortally wounded men. 
"I like this place less for your recital of its history, lady."  Wiping at his whiskers with the 
back of his hand, the Ritesman returned her vessel, his grip trembling slightly.  He hoped 
Pandolyn had failed to notice.  "You might have spared me its miseries." 
Pandolyn shrugged and slung the bladder over her shoulder.  "Ignorance is the refuge of a 
weak mind, Sir Epsilon.  I related what I knew of this fell place only that you might understand 
how little we, of Rit, need fear it.  These distressed spirits in your ears are your allies rather than 
your enemies." 
"I am not so certain," hedged the Warfarer, turning his soothing hand on Helmcleaver's 
nervous twitching.  "We have journeyed far through this haunted land, and visited many drear 
ruins by light of moon and sun.  I have known fear as I never knew it beyond the Earthbone 
Mountains, and yet nothing has been so horrific as to compel my digression.  Until now.  This... 
this mausoleum has a reek of evil about it such as we have not previously encountered.  There is a 
presence here that unnerves me." 
"Aye, shadows may be unnerving," she returned, taking her general gently by his arm and 
leading him deeper into the ruins with a confident stride.  "They are a concealing darkness, a 
harbor of the unknown to hide what we cannot see.  They are a void in reality, and our minds 
loathe a void.  So we fill the shadows with our own thoughts, and thus it is our own imaginations 
that we fear." 

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"You need not counsel me in ways of mental discipline, master.  My mind is a flaccid pond 
on a spring day, even here in the grips of this hellish citadel." 
"Then what delays you, if not a foolish dread of the shade."  And she drew him forth a 
pace further. 
"As I have already stated, there is an unwholesomeness here that gives me just cause to 
ponder caution.  It is nothing I can describe or lay my finger to, but I assure you I can feel it 
here," and he pointed to his armored gut. 
"You are merely hungry."  Another step further to the east.  They were almost passed 
beyond the innermost set of gates, which were swung wide and remained intact. 
"Do not belittle the pit of my stomach, m'selle, as it has saved my life many times over."  
Despite his words, Epsilon allowed himself to be drawn further along. 
"Perhaps you need to belch."  Another step. 
"It is not a belch!" 
"Well, whatever it is, you should ignore it for the moment.  Our crossing will be a quick 
one."  Two more advances in rapid succession followed her words.  “It is but a short passage to 
Callathorne's eastern barricades." 
Helmcleaver blew and stamped, his steel shod hooves dashing sparks from the cobbles.  
Epsilon clucked his tongue softly, and shifted the weight of his great sword.  Pandolyn's anxious 
feet shuffled, her talons rasping across the rough, uneven stone pavement.  While unseen throats 
moaned and babbled and complained ethereally.  While un-mourned souls lauded their lives and 

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detested their deaths.  While whispers like the scurry of ten thousand tiny rat's feet chased through 
deserted streets. 
As if in a dreamer's daze, Epsilon tottered forward pace upon pace, leading his beloved 
warhorse by its reins, unwilling in the attempt but at the same time unable to turn back or falter or 
fade.  Perhaps it was Pandolyn's insistent clutch at his elbow that urged him onward, or a morbid 
fascination that ever spurred him to confront that which he feared.  Or more likely it was simply 
the unnatural majesty that was toppled and forlorn Callathorne, that was the whole of wasted 
Argentia, for the entire nation was a spectacle of enigmatic ruination that demanded a curious, 
fatal sort of attention. 
By the time that gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach flared to a full blown rage of 
alarm, Epsilon found himself aroused too late.  At the wild sounding of madly blown horns and 
the disturbed cries of surprised men, the Warfarer spun on his well worn heel to face the 
ponderous gates at his back.  Which had swung silently to and were all but slammed shut!  A 
startled cry of horror escaped his throat before he could choke it off, and for a moment the still 
waters of his mind were violently upset to consider confinement with Callathorne's cursed walls.  
"The gates!" and he pointed needlessly. 
Pandolyn spun about and hissed.  "What magic is this."  And she was both enraged and 
indignant, as if Sin knew no sense of propriety in coming against her here, in Callathorne of all 
places. 

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"We are trapped!" he cried unhappily, looping his reins tighter and reaching for the 
pommel of his high saddle.  "Ambush!  Ambush!  To flight!" setting his foot to Helmcleaver's 
unsteady stirrup. 
The wizardess hesitated uncertainly, her head whipping wildly about in search of the 
aggressors.  "But wait!" she demanded, reaching for the stallion's bridle even as Epsilon found his 
seat and made ready to spur the beast forward. 
At their backs, Callathorne's inner gates clashed together at the center of the highway, and 
unmistakable sounds of bars locking down assaulted their ears.  More fiercely blown now than 
before, ghostly horns of alarm brayed to awaken a sleeping city that could never awake, 
TOOWAH!  TOOWAH!  TOOWAH!  
"Wait." returned the stunned Ritesman, shouting above the din.  "For what.  For our 
enemies to fall upon us." 
Gathering her wits now, the mage's stern reply was, "I have seen no enemies thus far, my 
general, merely a set of gates swinging shut." 
"At our backs, with the whole of restless Callathorne between us and safety!" 
"To be sure.  Yet there are many unknowable things in this land, many ways to die.  We 
should not be in a hurry to choose one way over another." 
Calming himself, forcibly stilling the roiling waters of his martial mind, Epsilon lowered his 
reins and drawn weapon, which he could not recall having drawn, and relaxed a bit in the saddle.  
"What need have we to ponder the way, when there is but one way before us.  While we palaver 
morosely, our foes will be mustering all along the road to lay in wait for us." 

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"If they have designs to muster, I think surely they must already be in place.  Why should 
they spring their trap, ere it is adequately arrayed.  No.  We are expected to flee madly for our 
lives.  In madly fleeing are we undone in this matter.  So let us pause and think a minute." 
"As you would have it." 
Epsilon turned his grim eyes on the ruined fortress, and studied its threats.  A broad killing 
field of perhaps fifty sticks width separated the outer wall from the city proper, which was an 
open space they must cross to reach the lesser inner wall and Callathorne beyond.  Much of this 
inner wall was laid low by time or ancient combats, so it was naught but a regular pile of toppled 
masonry.  Exposed behind it, countless empty structures, palaces and hovels alike, brooded 
beneath the pale, diffuse glow of a gloomy moon.  While the Cal Deca Ora ran nearly straight and 
true directly through the middle of it all. 
Pondering their predicament individually and in silence, Epsilon and Pandolyn retired to 
the inadequate shelter of the outer wall, and there crouched in the moon shadow to decide.  For a 
time, their hushed whispers were added to the general spiritual debate that seethed all around 
them.  And still the horns were blowing madly from the battlements high above. 
"It is a conflict of sensations," hissed the lizard woman sharply, her eyes bulbous and 
flitting skittishly this way and that.  "Sin and Rit are together in this, I think.  I feel both forces 
alternately and as one, as if I am caught in the surge of a fickle sea that first wanes cold then hot 
then tepid then cold again.  Hands are clutching for us from the shelter of yon remnants, even as 
other hands reach out violently from these towering walls to slap the aggressors away." 
"What are you saying, master.  What hands." 

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"We are attacked, and we are protected in the same instance." 
"Protected." he queried next, his own eyes keeping a constant vigil.  "By whom." 
She shrugged her scaled shoulders and licked her eyes with a pink, forked tongue.  "I 
cannot say.  They remain unnamed in my mind.  Perhaps they are the spirits of Callathorne's 
betrayed and slaughtered host." 
"And those that would grip us from the city side." 
"Sin.  Evil.  The Enemy." 
"Naturally."  Epsilon sighed and longed for his good shield.  "But of flesh or of spirit." 
Another shrug.  "One or both or neither." 
"You are a well spring of information, my lady," grumbled the Warfarer sarcastically.  
Then he turned his attention to the undeniable horns, which were yet busily bellowing 'TOOWAH! 
 TOOWAH!  TOOWAH!'  "What of these alarms, then.  Have we aught to fear from them." 
This time she shook her head certainly.  "I think not.  They have called out a warning to us 
from our fist approach, but I did not hear." 
"Did not, or would not.  Recall that I, also, attempted to dissuade you of this attempt.  
Recall that I counseled for the dawn." 
Pandolyn was angered by his hindsight.  "Counseled, aye.  And with the same breath 
fueled your legs to enter into the city." 
"Well, no matter the blame.  We are come into the thick of it regardless, and now we must 
find our way out again." 

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She cursed.  "It is a curious thing, this conflict.  I might have heeded Callathorne's 
forewarning, or your own, had it not been for this inconstant flux of influences.  Now it is colored 
of Sin, and now of Rit.  And now of both again, an unholy mixture." 
"I feel nothing whatsoever." 
"You are not bound to the wheel, and so cannot feel its turning as do I.  We are caught in 
the middle of an old contest, I think, one that rages in stalemate and remains undecided.  Back 
and forth, back and forth it rolls across this ancient killing ground.  One would escape, while the 
other would confine."  She paused to deliberate and suck her sensate tongue.  "Or perhaps one 
repels, while the other invades." 
"Why should these fell spirits maintain so determined a combat all this time.  For what 
good purpose or reward." 
"Perhaps for none at all.  What do the dead know of reason or of gain." 
"But why contest possession of such a desolate and gods-forsaken place." 
Yet another shrug.  "Hatreds deep and long lived.  Emotions so frustrated and so great as 
to deny the grave and live beyond death." 
Epsilon shook his helmed head sadly.  "We have encountered much of this sort of thing in 
the course of our long journey into doom's oblivion.  In each instance, I am reminded of 
Boatswain Becker's words.  He said, 'It is the unreasoning loathing that lasts.'" 
"Aye, it is true enough.  For if passion were a thing of reason, then it should have the 
good sense to fade upon death.  Yet the grave is no barrier to fierce loves or intense hatreds." 

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"But what sort of men were they, I wonder.  Such emotions and the minds that harbor 
them are a mystery to me." 
"They were men of their times, Sir Epsilon, and it was a violent age.  It was an age of 
warfare among men when men were fast fading.  In gall of their harsh extinction, the dead now 
blow their horns and slam their gates and let their mortal agonies prosper beyond the bounds of 
mortality.  Yet I sense there is more to this place than mere spirits and wraiths.  Something lurks 
yonder, cowered 'neath the sable cloak of night's shade.  Something watches.  Something waits." 
"Some thing." 
"Aye.  Something ancient and unspeakably evil." 
The Warfarer blew a dissatisfied breath away.  "Oh, I am not disappointed to hear it, you 
see.  I did not expect fuzzy rabbits, after all." 
She smiled despite the situation.  "Well and good, for it is not to be fuzzy rabbits." 
"If not, then what." 
"I know of only one way to answer your question." 
Epsilon groaned and gripped his reins tighter.  "And so we are come about to my original 
intention.  We must flee to the east." 
"And into the face of this latest threat."  The wizardess sucked a deep breath and steeled 
herself for the passage. 
Before she could take her first loping step, however, Epsilon cleared his throat intently 
and held himself in check.  "Now I am changed in my mind, master.  Perhaps it is best that we 
tarry a bit longer here, after all," he declared softly, reining Helmcleaver back a bit further into the 

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shadow of the wall.  His eyes were fixed on something at her back, directed north along the run of 
the barrier. 
"Why." she queried huskily, her blood having come up for the run.  Turning to follow her 
general's gaze, the wizardess was only slightly startled to see a ghostly form descending from the 
parapets high above. 
An ethereal phantasm of luminescent vapors, the wraith was formed as a man armored for 
war at close quarters.  He carried a semblance of a short sword, a long dirk tucked into a wide 
belt, a small buckler, and was wearing leather and ring mail for armor.   His head was unadorned, 
the hair long and flowing and glowing, though the figure's brow was marked by strange symbols 
that had apparently been tattooed into the skin there.  Soundlessly, the spirit's feet tread a roughly 
fashioned and crumbling stairway that was part of the wall, which descent would land the ghost at 
the northern side of the inner gates. 
As it neared, Epsilon could discern further detail of its countenance and bearing.  Most 
striking of all its features were the eyes, which were bright and blazing and sane.  While in the 
same instant they were infinitely sad and careworn and... ashamed. 
"Who are you." exacted Pandolyn, her voice more shrill than she intended. 
"I am of They That Guard," returned the phantom.  It had touched ground now, and was 
approaching their hiding place in the shadows of the arches.  "I am the Cursed Gatekeeper of 
Callathorne, he that has been wrongly accused of treachery and mass murders.  I am Londale of 
Pathingway, Master of the Third Watch, Keeper of the Barrier Key." 
"Ah, yes," hissed Pandolyn, "Now I recall the wretch's name." 

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"I am come bearing warnings you will not heed.  I am come claiming catastrophes you 
cannot redeem.  I am come to point out the way for the blind and stumbling.  And I say, DO NOT 
GO EAST!  EAST IS DEATH!"  This last came in a great, booming voice that rumbled as 
thunder through the ruinous remains, that seemed to beat the shadows violently with acoustical 
force. 
"Yet we must pass along the Cal Deca Ora," returned the wizardess nonplused. 
Epsilon kept his eyes on the brooding city, and viewed Londale's essence from the corners 
and edges of his vision.  The wraith's brow was scrolled with a flowered sort of script that might 
have been an esoteric spell or merely an abstract pattern of lines.  And his eyes... his eyes were 
fanatical. 
"They That Guard know you well," rattled the specter, its tones hollow and empty.  "You 
are a light in this land of darkness.  You are hope in a hopeless world.  You are the One That 
Walks Far."  His ghostly luminescence wavered and flickered, and Londale suddenly moaned, his 
anguish directed at the city behind him, "Oh, gods!  Will you not leave me be.!  Will you never let 
me rest." 
From the side of her mouth, Pandolyn whispered, "It is the unknown evil I spoke of 
earlier.  They spar for dominion beyond our sight." 
The Ritesman nodded but said nothing. 
At last Londale's attention was returned to them, and his flashing, mortified eyes were 
opened up wide again in a fanatical expression of great earnestness.  “Many times have you 
passed this way, Walking One.  Many times have I held the gates at your back and watched your 

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comings and goings from the secrecy of my ancient demise.  Earth's wheels turn beneath your 
scaly feet, and your able hands are coming to grips with the levers of the world.  Now you are 
returned to Callathorne and faced into the rising sun once more, yet this time, this time of all the 
times before, I must say, DO NOT GO EAST!  EAST IS DEATH!"  Londale paused to allow the 
reverberations of his powerful warning to fall still.  Then he added, "If you will turn now, They 
That Guard have consented to open the gates at your back that you might return from whence 
you came." 
"We cannot." 
The treacherous gatekeeper bowed his shining head.  His tone fatal, he sighed, "I am come 
bearing warnings you will not heed." 
"And the rest of it."  Pandolyn shifted her weight from one foot to the other impatiently. 
"Claims of catastrophe you cannot redeem." 
When the wraith did not immediately continue, but rather flickered and swayed in silence, 
its expression bunched painfully, Pandolyn prompted, "I am ready to hear it, Gatekeeper, and 
quickly.  Else we must away empty headed." 
"Forgive me my divergence," begged the luminescent man miserably.  "It has been a long, 
prodigious combat, and I am sorely weary.  I fear Callathorne's walls may fall, and soon, if further 
reinforcements do not arrive on the morrow." 
"There will be no further reinforcements for Callathorne." 
Londale sighed and opened his burning eyes again.  "I am charged in your lies against me, 
oh, Walking One, for they are lies I must set aright.  How bitter the taste of these words that must 

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beg your patronizing indulgence, that must hasten to counter unwarranted attacks from one so 
esteemed, that will never be believed.  Often have you passed me by in silence, never uttering so 
much as a restless whisper from your sleeping dreams, and I was content as a feeble moth to bat 
about impotently at the fringes of your brilliant halo.  As a torch bearer that is the torch and the 
bearer all in one, you have crossed this cursed country time and time again, your appearance and 
fading much like the sun's rising and setting.  For your presence here, we of the dark side may see, 
though only briefly.  For your absence, we are all in mourning, and long for the next coming of 
the One That Walks. 
"And now you are returned to us.  And now you speak into mine ears for the first time.  
As a virgin knowing his first foreign touch, I heard your voice and was thrilled.  So immaculate 
and overwhelming were my initial impressions, that I could not immediately discern individual 
words from your speech, for the whole was a raging symphony in my mind, an ensemble of many 
instruments and tones that could not be pried apart into individual notes.  I felt as warm and safe 
as the boy I once was, sleeping in my lover's arms. 
"Then you fell into your recital of Callathorne's fall, and wrongly named me as the 
murderer of a nation.  And I was undone at heart.  As fine and sensuous as your tongue had been 
before, now it was turned to a stinging whip and its bite trebled in contact."  He wept softly.  
"Imagine, if you can, my distress.  The torch bearer, the torch, would denounce me for a 
despicable scoundrel and curse my good name before all that would listen.  Imagine my horror to 
hear your propagation of the Evil One's ancient lies, knowing as I do the truth of how Callathorne 
was undone." 

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"And what truth, that." 
Londale's glow trembled and flickered and wavered.  He stumbled suddenly as though the 
world had shifted beneath his feet.  "Let me hold me still," hissed the gatekeeper through 
desperately clenched teeth.  "Let me plant mine feet firmly and brace myself at the hips.  Let me 
stand here but a moment longer and yet hold the beast at bay." 
Epsilon's sharp eyes, having never ceased their vigilant survey of the calamitous shadows, 
detected a spurious movement just where the Cal Deca Ora penetrated the toppled inner wall.  
The Warfarer leaned over a bit in his saddle, and stealthily whispered into Pandolyn's ear (or its 
reptilian equivalent), "Something stirs yonder, lady." 
"I have both seen and felt its presence, myself.  Perhaps it is Londale's beast." 
"THE BEAST!" wailed the specter, as if in confirmation of the wizard's supposition. 
Whatever it was, the disturbance was still now, and Epsilon could not say precisely what 
he had seen.  It might have been a wild pig or a deer.  Though he did not genuinely believe this to 
be the case. 
Now the gatekeeper's eyes were open again and blazing with moist desires.  "Hear me first 
claim catastrophes not to be redeemed!  I am steady now.  I am at peace.  Let me lay my tongue 
to words and tell you this; 
"On the eve of that night, the Last Night, the moon shone full and high in the sky, and it 
was the hue of freshly spilled blood.  I remember how I stood behind the parapets atop the gate, 
this very gate, and assumed my final watch.  I remember how I turned my gaze upon the moon as 
it rolled across the heavens, and how I clucked my tongue unhappily.  It was an ill omen, you see. 

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 How ill, I would be shocked to discover, though I quickly forgot my own troubles for the 
moment. 
"For just after midnight, I was called upon to open the west gates.  A large force had 
arrived late from Lollennacht, and were anxious to be let in, as they claimed the enemy was hot on 
their heels. 
"Now Lollennacht was our sister city across the River Tulde, and its peoples were our 
trusted allies.  I had nothing to fear of them, you see, and no call to doubt their bona fides.  Their 
standards were properly arrayed, and their herald knew all the proper words of entry.  At his 
approach, I hailed him, and we parlayed in length.  I was suspicious, after all, as our enemy was 
nothing if not corrupt and sneaking.  Many times in the past had they attempted to enter into 
opposing cities under the guise of friendly reinforcements.  Yet this man proved true in every 
attempt of mine to prove him false.  Save one."  Londale sighed, but his form did not waver. 
When he continued, it was with a slower pace and a lower tone.  The shame in his eyes 
had seeped into his voice, and it was dismaying in its intensity.  “I had asked of the Lollennacht 
herald a simple question at the end of our exchange.  It was nothing to do with entry protocol, 
you understand.  I merely remarked how tired he and his fellows must be, after that long forced 
march from across the river.  But the herald claimed not to be wearied by the journey at all.  I was 
puzzled by his words, for it is a long trek of three days to Lollennacht, which they had finished in 
one, but I thought him merely boasting of their superior stamina. 
"So I turned to unfasten the locks upon the bars of the gates, thinking how I would show 
that mouthy young cock what men of Callathorne were made of as soon as I got the chance.  And 

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I thought nothing further of it."  Now his ashamed recital faltered with the heaves of silent sobs.  
"I had turned the key three times and thrown back all three catches, when I began to feel quite 
suddenly sick to my stomach.  'Something is wrong here, Londale,' I remarked out loud to myself, 
but I was damned if I could say what it was. 
"Shaking my head, I thought to rattle the cobwebs of sleep out of my ears, and called for 
my men to slide back the bars and loose the chocks from the hinges.  Now I had something witty 
to say, you see, having considered the herald's taunt for so long, and I wandered back to the 
parapet to make a return.  I remember how I shouted at the man's back, and how he seemed not 
to hear.  I remember how I attributed his deafness to the sounds of Callathorne's opening gates, 
and shrugged my shoulders, almost turning away.  But that is when I realized the nature of the 
disturbance in my stomach. 
"As Master of the Third Watch and Keeper of the Gate, I had greeted many travel weary 
men, men that had marched lesser distances than the distance from here to Lollennacht, and let me 
tell you that not one of them, not one of them I say, failed to greet my opening portals with a 
limping gait.  Yet this herald seemed true to his words, in that he showed no signs whatsoever of 
footsoreness or exhaustion. 
"And then I thought perhaps he had rode the entire way.  And the gates were swinging 
wide.  And I waited for the approach of his comrades, hoping to see what I felt certain I must.  
And while I waited, the gates were swinging wide. 
"Then, from out of the gloom of a gathering ground fog, those alleged men of Lollennacht 
invaded, not one of them limping or dangling his weary head.  Each was erect and well postured 

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and fresh as troops that have marched but shortly.  Each was a shining eye and a strong arm and a 
willing mind.  For I saw it in them then, their evil intent, and I realized these were slivering devils 
come to feast upon Callathorne's fatted flesh.  Further, I realized that I, Londale of Pathingway, 
had turned the key to loose the lock to unfasten the bolt to open the gates that would let them in." 
 The tortured gatekeeper hung his head, shining forelocks dangling, and wept unabashedly. 
"How I raged in my discovery!  How I screeched and screamed for the hinges to be 
chocked, the bar to be let down, the garrison to be aroused!"  More anguished sobbing.  "All for 
naught.  Laughing derisively at my incompetence, doom's hordes came on in a crush, and the 
crush was too great.  The levee had been breeched and the world was become a flood of 
destruction.  Sin's forces washed into fair Callathorne in an undeniable fashion, and with such 
bloodlust in their hearts that the frenzy of murder and mayhem lasted but a few short hours.  By 
dawn, the most of it, the worst of it, was finished.  I cannot tell you how many of Argentia's men 
were spitted and impaled in the darkness, then left along the city's ruined avenues to die in bloody 
agony.  I cannot tell you how many women were ravished and murdered, how many babes were 
roasted alive.  I cannot describe the awful, terrible screaming that would not stop, nor can I find 
words vile enough to relate to you the grate of devils' ghoulish howls and delighted grunting.  It is 
all too unspeakable." 
Epsilon cleared his throat and addressed the specter for the first time.  "Yet you apparently 
survived to see the end." 
"Aye.  And for ill purpose."  Londale's image shimmered and shivered, his ancient battle 
apparently waning hot once more.  "Do you know, sir," ejaculated the wraith suddenly, his voice 

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trembling with a sort of a horrified pride, "That the Evil One, himself, actually laid his touch upon 
my brow.  These runes you see engraved here," and he pointed, "Are his legacy to me. Can you 
read them, I wonder." 
The strange symbols glowed brighter for his attention of them.  Epsilon bunched his face 
and looked to his master, who shrugged her shoulders casually and shifted her weight impatiently. 
"They are Synodal glyphs," hissed the mage unwholesomely, "Which do not read as simple 
words.  Each rune is an entire story unto itself, and every slightest mark is of consequence.  
Though the tale upon your brow is long and extravagantly detailed, the basic message is simple 
enough.  Vandegarte has branded you for his comrade-in-arms, and his single most valuable asset 
in his conquest of Northern Argentia." 
Epsilon sucked a hateful breath to hear it.  Londale's imaged blanched and winced 
painfully. 
"What think you of me now, Lady Light, Far Walker." he whimpered. 
Pandolyn was silent for a moment.  Nothing stirred among the moon shadows of the city.  
"I can only say that I better understand your persecuted existence," she returned neutrally and at 
length. 
Londale sighed.  "So must it be, I suppose.  Claims of catastrophe... not to be redeemed." 
 Then he was suddenly angry, that old fanatical light returned to his eerily shining eyes.  "But do 
you not see the jest of it.  Do you not know the madman's nature well enough to realize what he 
has done.  In truth, I might have been his single greatest aid in eliciting Callathorne's fall, but it 

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was not a deed of intention or of wantonness.  It was merely a thing of error, a mistake.  And I, 
unfortunately, centrally at blame." 
The Warfarer was frowning sternly, his own brow wrinkled with a blight of abomination.  
"An error.  A mistake."  He scoffed unhappily and spat to one side.  “Aye, and so it was.  Yet in 
erring, are you not the fault.  Should the blame be shifted to your deceivers.  No, for it was your 
duty to beware deception, to find failure in perfection, to suspect the unsuspected.  Your crimes 
are not worthy of pity or of forgiveness, Pathingway."  Epsilon jerked his reins savagely and 
brought Helmcleaver smartly about to more directly address the apparition.  "By the gods, man, 
you and you alone were charged with the keep of ten thousand sleeping children.  You and you 
alone were responsible, RESPONSIBLE I SAY, for the surety of their sound slumber and sweet 
dreams.  Mothers looked to you for such safety, all doe eyed in their innocent trust of your 
abilities, of your vigilance, and it is therefore you that must indeed claim this catastrophe to be 
your own.  For it IS your own.  Vandegarte has marked you deservedly." 
Pandolyn clucked her tongue and reached out a scaly paw to still her errant general.  
Londale's form collapsed to his knees, his torso a draped shroud, head hung, shoulders heaving. 
Before his master could cut him short, the Ritesman added, "Oh, weep, you miserable 
bastard, weep and harvest further scorn from me.  Coward.  Boob.  Bumbling worry-me-well.  
Defecation be wasted upon thy sorry head." 
"Epsilon Three!  Be still!" demanded the wizardess.  "You are as ignorant as your harsh 
words render you!"  This time her urge to silence was undeniable, and the Ritesman was forced 

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back into the seat of his saddle.  "Would you ally yourself with the First Emperor in your 
persecution of this hapless, tortured soul." 
From his wracked sorrow letting, Londale sniffed, "What.  Would the Light question 
truth's false facade." 
"I would and often do.  Rise, oh, Hated One, and know that I have not judged you a 
murderer of small children in this matter.  For, while it is true that you failed in keeping the gate, 
which blame you must claim without defense, I do not believe you were further culpable in 
Callathorne's fall, and so should not bear the brand of collaborator, as you do."  The wraith rose, 
his eyes moist and fanatical, shame fading.  "Unfortunately, neither can I entirely forgive you your 
crimes of negligence.  Yours was a charge of great import, Londale of Pathingway, one that could 
not sustain oversight of any kind.  Yours was a charge of watch in time of war, and should have 
demanded your every attention and suspicion. 
"Aye, you were aroused by your enemy's ruse, but aroused too late to save.  And now this 
has come about," and she waved one massively powerful and scaled arm to indicate the ruined 
city, "All of it, every toppled stone, must rest as a crushing weight upon your shoulders."  The 
mage clucked her tongue and shifted her impatient stance.  "I am truly sorry for you, Hated One, 
but there is naught I can do to ease your suffering or release you from your torturous un-death.  
These runes that mar your brow are a powerful magic, which I cannot undo." 
The wracked gatekeeper shimmered and wavered.  "So be it," he moaned softly. 
Something stirred among the ruinous moon shadows beyond the killing field.  Pandolyn 
stiffened, and hastened to add further, "Now I have heard your warnings that I cannot heed.  You 

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have claimed your catastrophes, which I have not the power to redeem.  What of the way.  We 
are indeed blinded and stumbling, so quickly point out the way and tell us, if you can, what 
manner of monster lurks in wait for us beyond the inner wall." 
Londale's fanatical eyes burned fiercely.  He replied, "They That Guard have kept the way 
for you, Oh, Torchbearer, Far Walker.  In your absence, They That Guard have long watched the 
Cal Deca Ora and yearned for your return.  It was They that provided for your recent rescue from 
Bac Tur's Northern Army," Epsilon sucked a deep breath, but said nothing, "And They that have 
ensured a scarcity of Sin's minions during the course of your every crossing of these cursed 
wastes.  For They That Guard advance before you and follow behind and are ever readily arrayed 
about your flanks.  They are a host unseen to sweep your enemies before you, that your unknown 
and unknowable intentions might prosper unhindered in the east." 
When the specter cryptically stopped speaking, Pandolyn queried shortly, “And why 
should they do this." 
"Draven's revenge is not forgotten, Far Walker.  Neither is it forsaken, even here." 
"I see." 
"Perhaps.  Yet you do not see clearly.  Else you should have long ago noticed and rid 
yourself of the evil shade that is bound to your companion's feet.  It follows so closely and so 
tenaciously that it might be his shadow.  But, no, do not turn to look.  You will not see it now.  It 
is gone." 
"Gone where." queried a suddenly piqued Epsilon, his thoughts on Dellas Dembar's Son. 

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"To monger trouble," returned Londale ominously.  "They That Guard know not what 
sort of monstrous devil you have offended, Holy Warfarer of Empire.  They know only that its 
power is both vast and grotesquely evil.  They fear it. 
"Yet, strangely enough, it also fears Them.  It will not come against Them."  Londale's 
image wavered and flickered sinuously, and he cast his ghostly gaze back over his long dead 
shoulder to abhor Callathorne.  "It will not come against Them while you, Far Walker, are in 
Their charge.  For it also fears you.  You, who would drape your protective arms about a killer's 
shoulders as though the fiend were a babe and you his coddling mother." 
"And the beast." 
Londale sighed wearily, leadenly, and returned his tortured, shameful eyes to Pandolyn.  
"Summoned by the shadow to part you from your Empirical puppy.  That unknown evil cares 
nothing for you, but harbors all manner of malice for the swordsman.  Thus I must point out the 
way to the blind and stumbling, those that will not see and cannot follow.  Thus I must say to you 
now, Torchbearer, Far Walker; the way is divergence.  The way is abandonment.  The way is 
solitude." 
Epsilon swallowed with difficulty, and felt his guts do a slow roll.  He was shocked to 
realize that his master was being counseled to leave him for the beast and be on her way.  What 
would she do.  He had never doubted her fidelity and did not now, but at the same time he 
realized the import of her cause.  Weighing this absolute need against the balance of his own 
miserable life, the Ritesman understood how steeply the scales were tipped against him here. 

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Pandolyn drew herself up to full height with a great breath, as though she would soon 
speak loudly, only to let it out again in an impotent gust.  Softly, she asked, "Are you demanding 
my companion's life, in exchange for my own." 
"They That Guard are interested only in the Torchbearer and her well being.  Empirical 
warlords are of little consequence.  Do not go east, lady, but turn back now.  Let Them open the 
gates and release you from cursed Callathorne, as I so long to be released.  Veer south to the hills 
of the Tulde River, then go where you may from there.  Return to the Cal Deca Ora no more.  It 
is watched beyond Callathorne." 
"Watched.  By whom." 
"By alien others that are too dark for Them to see.  You are no longer safe, I fear." 
"Yet I must press on, and my good general with me." 
"No.  Leave him for his unwholesome shadow and the beast it has blackly called forth 
from hell."  Londale shuddered sickly.  "The sooner it is finished, the better for all." 
Epsilon spat suddenly.  "Coward.  If you had a head, I should free it at once!" 
Londale only smiled wanly.  "Threats mean nothing to the dead.  I am persecuted well 
beyond your mortal epithets, Empirical dog of war.  Let loose my head, and no matter.  Your 
predicament will remain unchanged." 
"But what manner of beast is it." demanded the Ritesman hotly, wishing once more for his 
lost bow and stout shield. 
The doomed gatekeeper turned to leave, however, and strode eerily toward the ascending 
stair, shaking his shining head direly.  "Alas, must it always be so.  That my every word and 

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pleading should have its opposite effect... that I should ever so clearly point out the way, my arm 
outstretched and urgent, only to find my charge trudging off at my back, oblivious and 
unbelieving.  Must it always be so." 
Somewhat petulantly, Pandolyn called after the apparition, "I did not claim disbelief! I 
simply cannot follow where you, where They, would lead!" 
A frowning, angry Epsilon wheeled his mount grimly about.  "Forget that one, may he rot. 
 What will you do, Lady.  Turn, or follow me into the face of this lethal threat." 
Before his master could reply, Londale shouted out one last time, "Let slip the bolts!  
Drop the chocks!  Free the gates!  Many stout men of Lollennacht have but lately arrived, and the 
enemy hot at their heels!" 
All the while, Callathorne's clarions were busy sounding alarm, 'TOOWAH!  TOOWAH!  
TOOWAH!'  And something stirred restlessly among the ruins of the city, just where the highway 
penetrated the toppled inner wall. 
Pandolyn licked her eyes nervously, and whispered, "I am quite suddenly chilled in my 
heart, Epsilon, and sorely afraid." 
"You.  Afraid." 
"Aye.  Terror stricken.  For the tide has turned mightily, and we are awash in a horrible 
flux of Sin.  Almost, I am cowed into seeking Londale's offered sanctuary."  Epsilon stiffened, but 
held his tongue.  As she spoke, both travelers kept their roving eyes wide open for any slightest 
sign of attack.  "A strange and potent magic is at work here, a magic infinitely more awesome 
than my own.  It is empowered beyond the wheel, I think, and poised to crush me for a gnat." 

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"Oh, Nars," moaned the disheartened Ritesman, "You should not say such things.  
Knowing this truth can only serve to weaken my arm and slacken my resolve." 
"And there is one other thing to consider in this matter." 
"Beyond a violent death." 
The mage nodded soberly, and clutched one of her many bundles more tightly to her 
bosom.  "The Rod," she whispered intently.  "Above all else, it must not be returned to the Apical 
Wizard.  Having shielded it with my most powerful incantation of keeping, thus far it has 
remained hidden from your stalking devil.  But only because Apica has not directly sought his 
staff among my meager possessions.  Were he to suspect its presence, we should surely be 
undone, for he would no longer have so much to fear from his subordinate, Sin Supri, were he in 
possession of the Rod.  He could move openly once more, even within foul Bac Tur, and openly 
would he come against us." 
"Is that not now the very situation.  I have many times spied spurious movements 
yonder," and he nodded his helmed head in the direction of the slain city.  "It seems an open 
attack, if ever I saw one." 
"Yet it is not allied with the Wheel.  Therefore, I believe your vengeful demon remains 
fearful of drawing the attentions of Bac Tur's hated master.  Rather than falling upon us in full 
fury himself, he has sent the monster to do his bloody work, knowing as he does that I, also, 
cannot employ magic so near to Ilmacht.  Thus, when we face the beast, we will do so on purely 
temporal terms." 

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"But what manner of beast is it." asked the exasperated Epsilon again.  He was both 
anxious and loathe to start the combat, both anxious and loathe to finish it in a rush, for good or 
ill, and the strain of his anxiety sounded in his abrasive tone.  Helmcleaver stamped and stomped 
and chomped at the bit, snorting his derision of humankind. 
"That, I fear, remains to be seen.  And now the time has come to sally forth into 
discovery." 
Epsilon hesitated further.  "Why not climb these walls at our back and unfasten the gates." 
But the wizardess was shaking her head.  "No.  It is decided.  Londale's unseen guardians 
have designed this matter well.  They have trapped the beast within Callathorne's enchanted 
barricades, and vowed not to let it loose.  At the same time, Dellas Dembar's Son has set the beast 
against you, and vowed not to let YOU loose.  While I may exit these gates at any time, you, my 
dear general, are bound to face this combat, whether you would or no." 
Epsilon swallowed a hard lump in his throat and steeled his nerves at the news.  "Then call 
for Londale Slack-eye Slow-wit to open the damned gates," and he gripped the reins and his 
sword's hilt with more determination.  "Free yourself for the cause, master, and leave me to my 
fate." 
"But it is not your fate alone, Sir Epsilon.  The cause will surely fail without you, and so I 
am bound to your side.  To leave you behind would be to abandon all my labors and let them 
come to naught, which I have vowed not to do, on pain of my own death.  So we shall face this 
threat together, and overcome it together, if we can.  If we cannot..." she sighed and raked her 

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hind claws across the cobbles as a bull rutting to charge, "...if we cannot, then we shall die 
together." 
Despite his own fears, the Warfarer smiled broadly, his teeth forming a white and even 
crescent that was shadowed by the dark whiskers of his beard.  “Lady Pandolyn," he called boldly, 
his voice loud and booming for all to hear, though the wizard was but sticks away, "You would 
have made a fine Riteswoman!  I will not be shamed in keeping your company beyond the River 
Styx, if the gods should will it."  He said nothing of the fact that she, at least, was born of an 
immortal nature. 
"Let us hope that they do not." 
Bravely, cautiously, she exited the shadows of the barricaded gateway and started once 
more along the eastern length of the Cal Deca Ora, Epsilon and Helmcleaver following close by 
her side. Overhead, an omnipresent cloak of thin, wispy clouds shrouded the full moon, which 
shone with a piercing light that was not to be utterly denied.  It highlighted the upper reaches of 
the city's crumbling spires and arches, and served to deepen the impenetrable shadows down 
below.  All was quiet and tense and still.  Even Helmcleaver's steel shod hooves were muffled to 
silence by the presence of a thick cover of loamy soil that spilled across the highway from the 
surrounding killing green. 
Nervous and dreading absolute quietude, Epsilon began working his sword and sword arm 
back and forth, round and round, so his flashing blade whistled through the air and shattered the 
stillness.  He calmed his mind and relaxed the muscles of his body, preparing himself for the 
insults of combat to come.  By the time they had crossed halfway to the inner wall, the Ritesman 

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felt as ready as could be expected, given the circumstances and situation, though he longed more 
earnestly than ever for the return of his shield. 
At that moment, Callathorne's infested shadows erupted, and a small army of ghouls 
scrambled over the ruined inner wall.  By the eery lunar glow, they were a ghastly lot, all tattered 
raiment and rusted armor, their weapons and bucklers pitted by the passage of much time and 
neglect.  And where their flesh should have shown, from within the hollow recesses of their helms 
and through gaps in their garments, naught of flesh could be seen.  Only the dull glint of sun 
polished bone was apparent, bone that was animate and carnal enough to march into war bearing 
weapons and much malice against unsuspecting foes. 
Epsilon gasped involuntarily and was repulsed.  Pandolyn hissed and shuddered. 
The Warfarer managed, "I thought you said this was to be a purely temporal dispute." 
"This is not Synodal magic, Sir Epsilon.  These... creatures were not born of the Wheel, 
but of the beast." 
"And the beast, itself." 
Pandolyn shrugged and paused her advance.  "Doubtless the monster remains concealed 
deep within Callathorne's rendered remains.  It will come against us in time, when we are laid low 
by yonder skirmishers or have won the day at the expense of our fighting strength." 
More of the skeletal warriors emerged from hiding and entered onto the killing field, their 
bones and armor rattling with each awkward step.  Ten.  Twenty.  Thirty.  And evidence of more 
approaching from the dreaded east.  A hideous moan sounded from Callathorne's outermost walls. 
 Those ethereal horns let peal one final, drawn out note, then fell silent at long last. 

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Epsilon blew a relieved breath through his pursed lips, and declared, "Ah, gods, I thank 
you.  It will be good to finish this fight in absence of those baleful alarms." 
The mage nodded her agreement and breathed deeply of the abruptly silent airs.  "I only 
regret that the danger does not pass so easily."  While she spoke, Sin's morbid little army 
advanced unsteadily, its ranks swelling minute by minute.  Her voice trembling slightly with fear, 
the wizardess asked, "What shall we do now, my general." 
The Warfarer stirred Helmcleaver back and forth in the center of the road in an attempt to 
fully encompass the approaching skirmish line within his judicious gaze.  "These bags of bones 
seem as though they might easily crumble to dust at the first sword stroke.  Get behind me, then, 
master, and follow where I will lead.  We shall make our flight through Callathorne's nether 
regions a rapid and costly one." 
At the last word, he gouged his mount's flanks with the studs of his well worn boots, and 
they were away at a full charge.  Pandolyn dutifully fell in behind her dog of war, and was 
awestruck by Epsilon's courage and awesome martial ability.  The man bellowed defiantly, his 
sword held high, and they fairly flew across the remaining distance to the inner wall. 
Where the Ritesman veered suddenly away from the Cal Deca Ora in avoidance of a tight 
knot of skeletal defenders, choosing instead to enter the city proper by way of a lesser side avenue 
that was meagerly occupied.  Helmcleaver grunted and snorted and blew while climbing and 
descending the chaotically tossed stones of the inner wall.  They had managed to evade the first 
line of attackers, which reached out skeletal arms and rusting weaponry to strike at them 
impotently in spite.  But now confrontation could not be avoided. 

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Slowed as it was by the arduous surmounting of the inner barricade, Epsilon's warhorse 
had lost the initiative of their surprise deviation, and the beast's pawns were allowed time to come 
to grips at last.  One approached from the right, its own notched blade raised to hack off the 
Ritesman's leg, when Epsilon's sword descended undeniably.  Its sharpened edge swept through 
the chimera's upper left arm and into its mailed rib cage, which shattered into its component bones 
at once.  The skeletal warrior was thus undone, and its upper section went flying while the hips 
and legs and parts of the spine settled to the loamy ground, void of animation. 
Two more of the unholy combatants fell into the fight, one wielding a heavy axe and the 
other a long pike.  This latter weapon was the greater threat, as it could easily disembowel 
Epsilon's charger, and so he chose to attack it first.  A swing of his blade turned the pike's rusted 
yet lethally sharpened head aside, and a goad of his spurs sent Helmcleaver surging forward, 
closer to the pike's haft and its bony wielder.  Just as he brought his shining weapon back around 
to have the devil's head, Epsilon had a penetrating glimpse into the skeleton's armored innards.  
The monster had glanced up in apparent surprise at the Warfarer's advance, baring its skull face 
through its visor-less helm. Cobwebs festooned the creature's empty eye sockets, and its lower 
jaw was absent. 
The monster collapsed into a pile of bleached remains immediately upon removal of its 
head.  Now Epsilon gouged his warhorse again, and they left the third attacker abruptly behind.  
This skeletal warrior swung its axe at Pandolyn as she passed, but the mage simply reached out 
with her powerful right hand and caught the haft of the heavy weapon in mid-flight.  So forceful 

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was her removal of it, that the armored skeleton wielding the axe was yanked apart, its bony arms 
yet clinging to the handle. 
Pandolyn shuddered, but did not hesitate to follow her general deeper into Callathorne's 
nighted flesh when he fled further east.  She freed the axe of bones, and held it at the ready, 
swinging it at another wasted creature that had reached out from a gaping doorway to bash her 
brains out with a mace.  At their backs, the frustrated horde clamored and scrabbled to give chase, 
moaning and protesting their escape. 
Before her, Epsilon cried out savagely and dispatched two more attackers with a pair of 
quickly delivered blows, one to either side.  Pandolyn leapt over the thrashing bone piles that were 
left in his wake, and hurried after. 
Blindly, the Warfarer chased along Callathorne's deserted avenues, turning this way and 
that without any real knowledge of the compass, hoping only that he was headed generally east.  
Time and again he fell upon clots of bony warriors where they had assumed positions to block his 
escape.  Time and again he emerged triumphant, masses of twice slain opponents gathered at his 
horse's powerful shanks. 
Now they were arrived at the mouth of a close alleyway, where it emptied into a central 
plaza of the city.  A tight knot of bony defenders filled the street from wall to crumbling wall, yet 
Epsilon did not slow the pace of his flight.  They crashed headlong into the mob, man and horse, 
and forced their way through almost to freedom, only to find the mire too deep, the forces 
repelling them too strong.  The Ritesman's fleet warhorse was brought to an unexpected halt.  
Arms of bone and tattered sleeves reached out of the darkness to drag Epsilon from his high seat 

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and rip his body to bloody pieces. The quarters were too restrictive, Epsilon's elbows were 
hindered at the swing, and so he could not bring the full might of his arm into his blows.  
Pandolyn screamed shrilly like a little girl that has discovered a grasshopper in her skirts, and the 
violent frenzy of her defensive movements sent bones and armor flying in all directions.  Then, 
just as the Ritesman felt himself being lifted from his saddle, Helmcleaver reared defiantly and 
thrashed out with steel shod hooves, undoing whole platoons of brittle foes in the attempt. 
In a tumble of dusty body parts and clattering steel, the stallion bolted into the broad plaza 
and freed itself of the lethal tangle.  Pandolyn kicked out savagely at a last gathering of animated 
corpses, blasting their withered remains into showers of unwholesome grit. 
Coughing and sputtering and dashing the powdery silt from her shoulders and head, the 
wizardess cursed blackly and complained of the wretchedness of it all.  His own trail of bone 
shards following him as a whirlwind of trail dust, Epsilon urged Helmcleaver across the broad 
plaza at a gallop, anxious to regain the Cal Deca Ora and follow it more surely through 
Callathorne's eastern quarters. 
As he fled, Epsilon cast his gaze full circle around the wide open space, searching it for 
threat and potential salvation in the same instance.  Menacing shadows stirred at its edges in every 
direction, including that which lay before them, and the entire area was ringed all around by 
impaler's pikes, some of which yet upheld hapless victims.  Toppled sculptures dominated the 
center of the common among a thicket of weeds and saplings, which obstruction they rounded 
cautiously, wary of ambush. 

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At full gallop, Helmcleaver raced for the far side, equine eyes bulging, flanks heaving.  
Epsilon lay low over the horse's straining neck, his blade held point first into the charge, and let 
go an extended, jarring roar of battle rage.  Pandolyn accompanied with a vocal blast of her own, 
and it was long indeed ere the echoes fell silent again. 
By then, they were smashed into the eastern edge of the marauders' ring, and another half 
dozen skeletal zombies were rendered to shattered bone scraps.  On this side of the city, however, 
having been granted so much time to muster by their quarry's long debate, the beast's cursed army 
was well amassed, their numbers greater and concentrations thicker.  Their fallen were easily 
replaced, while Pandolyn and Epsilon and Helmcleaver were tiring with every advance and futile 
combat.  Callathorne's streets teemed with resurrect warriors, which became a macabre sea that 
Epsilon's charger must wade to its stout chest. 
As he worked, Epsilon cursed foully, "Gods' offal!" he cried, hammering a devil down to 
the ground with a descending blow of his heavy blade.  "Un-dead felons!" another animate 
corpse's head came off, its bony body collapsed to the earth where it was trampled by its frenzied 
mates.  "Servants of Sin!" five clutching arms came off at the fleshless elbows, as they reached for 
Helmcleaver's bridle by the right side.  Switching hands and chopping down on the left, Epsilon 
performed the same service there, freeing his mount's head with a cry of, "Vandegarte's ghoulish 
lovers!" and "Fiends!" and "Defecation of Hades!"  Each oath accompanied by a blow, and each 
blow dealing a second death to some hapless unburied devil. 
Finally, the maddened Ritesman let his mount rear, risking its delicate and unprotected 
belly, and screamed, "BY THE GODS, STAND OFF AND LET ME BE!"  Whereupon he stood 

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in the stirrups and leapt off Helmcleaver's back, into a tumultuous tangle of foes.  Which foes 
clutched and reached and swung for him vainly, though the Holy Warfarer was become a 
whirlwind of destruction that could not be touched.  A harvester of bones, he cut through the 
crushing mass uninjured, finding his opponents less than capable, finding them but clumsy fodder 
dispatched only to deplete his resolve and reserves of strength.  Yet he knew in the same instant 
that these incapable chimeras would easily have him apart at the seams, should he falter or fail in 
any single stroke or parry.  And so he fought as though this were Alcorde and he a contestant in 
the Final Combat.  His enemies came at him from all directions, wielding all manner of defense 
and angry weapon, but not one alien blade touched him or so much as laid a scratch to his mortal 
flesh.  Then Pandolyn was there at his side, Helmcleaver's reins clutched in her teeth, her lethal 
claws and purloined weapons slashing violently in all directions.  The charger whinnied and 
brayed, and its hindquarters lashed out time and again to blast Sin's minions into flying bits. 
Together they worked their vicious way through the last of Callathorne's twisted, toppled 
avenues, until they were delivered at the far edge of the forsaken citadel and entered into the 
eastern bounds of the killing green.  At their first footfall upon the overgrown lawn, all the 
skeletal warriors collapsed into heaps and lay still. 
Epsilon's final stroke bit only empty air, and its over projection all but whipped him off his 
weary feet.  Coming up short, the Ritesman shook a spray of sweat from his brow, and steadied 
his stance.  His arms and legs trembled wearily, and his lungs burned with the strained effort of his 
breathing.  The Warfarer's gaze was shocked and wide.  He took a few short, stumbling steps 
backward, shaking his head dazedly.  "W-what has be-come of them." 

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Pandolyn leaned over her knees, panting.  "I know n-not.  Suffice it th-that they are 
undone." 
"Wh-what next." 
His master sucked a deep double lung full of air and replied simply, forcefully, "We must 
face the beast, of course." 
The Ritesman felt his sphincter pucker and his bowels loosen to spill.  "But I am 
exhausted.  I could not fight another pace."  He did not add that he was verged on utter collapse.  
Had they not reentered the killing green and escaped the reanimated corpses when they did, he 
would certainly have perished. 
"That, I fear, is the monster's intent."  She managed to straighten a bit, and toed one of 
their fallen assailants over by its corroded breastplate.  The mummified corpse within crumbled to 
dust at her disturbance of it.  "These miserable creatures were but puppets to try us.  Spent, we 
are easy prey." 
He swallowed and swayed and wiped the back of his left hand across his creased brow.  
"Then let it come on and quickly, and see for itself how easily an Empirical Warfarer may be 
slain." 
Before he could add further to his boasting, Pandolyn's cautious hand fell gently upon his 
shoulder to turn him slightly and direct his attention.  Peering into the moon shadow of 
Callathorne's sealed western gateway, Epsilon watched a small child emerge onto the rampantly 
overgrown killing field.  It was a young girl in pig tails.   She was wearing a gaily colored dress 
and was apparently singing some sort of song. 

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Another apparition.  Another of this damned city's forlorn immortal inhabitants.  No, she 
did not glow as Londale had glowed, and Pandolyn's instincts confirmed that her form was of the 
flesh. 
As she progressed further and further west along the Cal Deca Ora, bound in their 
direction, Epsilon became more and more convinced that this was a genuine child, inexplicably 
lost to the Wilderlands.  How she had come to this fell place was beyond the Ritesman's ability to 
guess, and so he could but stare at her fair face in wonder, his eyes wide and mouth agape. 
His stomach heaved and rolled and belched up alarm, even as voices inside his head 
screamed that this was trickery.  The beast's magic was strong, however, its spell absolute.  Even 
Pandolyn appeared to be enthralled by the tableau, for her own jaw was slack and dangling open. 
Epsilon's heart thrilled with an exquisite rush of fear for the child's safety.  She was a babe 
crawling through a lion's den.  Somewhere out there, nearby to be certain, the unknown beast 
lurked hungrily, maliciously.  What would it do with such a tender morsel.  He shuddered to think 
of it. 
Now Pandolyn's hand upon his shoulder gripped tighter and her touch crossed his 
threshold of pain.  Wincing to free himself of her clutches, the Ritesman's gaze followed where 
she pointed, and he was stunned to witness the abominable form of a heavily armed and armored 
shail bearing down on the unsuspecting little girl. It, also, had seemed to emerge from the moon 
shadow of the western wall, where it had apparently been lying in wait for Pandolyn and Epsilon. 

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The wizardess was thinking how little they had to fear, after all, if the beast was a mere 
shail, but her general's mind was focused only on the little one.  He started forward at once, a 
strangled sound of grief on his lips. 
"Oh, horror," he choked, "Gods, save the child!" 
But his master caught him by the shoulder once more, and jerked him forcibly backward.  
"Stand fast, fool!" she hissed, shaking her own head free of confusion. "It is subterfuge." 
"No!  It is real!"  He struggled violently to be free. 
"What is real.  That Sin is nothing if not devious.  Or that a fledgling princess has 
magically appeared upon the road to trouble us, now of all times." 
"I- It- She...."  Epsilon's mouth snapped shut, and he let himself be pulled backward.  
Though he blinked his eyes and shook his head and slapped his own face, the little's girls illusion 
would not fade.  Step upon step, she entered deeper into Callathorne, singing brightly, while 
behind her, the shail stalked silently and with obvious intent.  "Look," he growled urgently, "And 
see her shadow by the moon's light!  Listen, and hear her voice and the patter of her skipping 
feet!"  He jerked away from his master and ran out onto the killing green, expending his last 
reserves of energy.  Limping and brandishing his blade wearily, he repeated, “Gods, save the 
child!" 
"Epsilon!" screamed the wizardess, chasing after, her grasp falling just short of his 
billowing cloak.  "They are but foils, the both of them!  More of the beast's trickery!" 
He stumbled and skidded into the grass by one knee, but scrambled immediately up again 
and ran heedlessly on.  Above his own tortured breathing and whimpering grief, the Ritesman 

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heard Callathorne's ethereal horns resume their unnatural braying, 'TOOWAH!  TOOWAH!  
TOOWAH!' 
Now the shail towered over the little girl's back and was within striking distance.  Epsilon 
moaned and swallowed a huge bolus of fear.  "Gods, girl!  Run!  Run to me!  I am sanctuary!" 
She looked up at last, her face pale and innocent and unaware of her mortal danger.  Her 
light-hearted song was cut short, and she seemed to notice the Ritesman for the first time.  A 
quick and genuine smile spread across her sweet face.  "Will you come play with me." she 
squeaked happily. 
Behind her, the shail leered and raised its weapon.  Epsilon's legs burned and tired, but he 
forced them to move faster with each step.  Many long sticks separated him from his hated enemy, 
and there seemed naught he could do to save the little one. 
When he stumbled again, the contest was decided, and Rit had lost again.  From wounded 
genuflection, his knees pinned in exhaustion beneath the weight of his trembling haunches, Epsilon 
violated the first article of war, the Martial Rite's prime discipline of combat, and threw his sword, 
his only remaining weapon save for his dagger. 
All the fading strength of his upper frame was focused into the attempt, and his ornate 
blade turned end over end fluidly and in exquisite detail, as though it flew in a slowed motion that 
knew not the constraints of time's passing.  Forever, that Empirical steel seem to turn and flip and 
tumble, haft over point, point under haft.  Epsilon drooped over his wasted body, head dangling, 
sides heaving to suck wind, but kept his eyes rolled sharply to the action.  Through the greasy 

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tangles of his dangling forelocks, he watched the Warfarer's blade whistle over the child's head to 
bury itself hilt deep in the shail's armored thorax. 
An awful thud accompanied the impact, and time was returned to its normal pace.  The 
slain shail flew backward off its feet and lay twitching in death, its weapons scattered.  While the 
little girl appeared to notice nothing at all. 
She smiled brightly again, and asked, "Will you come play with me." 
Epsilon exhaled in relief, and slid forward to find his hands and knees, head dangling 
limply.  From that prone position, he struggled to stand.  His right knee came up beneath his 
mailed breast, while his left extended slightly backward to push off.  For a brief moment, his too 
trusting gaze was removed from the little girl's immaculate face. 
When she next asked, "Will you come play with me." Epsilon found something curious in 
the child's voice.  It was more resonant, and of a deeper pitch.  Its overtones were no longer of 
innocence and cherished youth, but of malice and hateful menace. 
Pandolyn was screaming wildly at his back, something about the beast which he could not 
fully decipher.  While before him, Callathorne's ghostly defenders vainly sounded the alarm. 
Even as the Warfarer raised himself to stand, he also raised his head to further examine 
this strange alteration in the child's demeanor.  Looking up, he saw her approaching with a child's 
tiny steps.  Nothing of her physical form had changed, but her voice was a devil's.  "Will you 
come play with me."  And when she next smiled, the Ritesman was horrified to see that her teeth 
were all slender, sharpened serpent's fangs.  A flickering reflection of the moon lingered hatefully 
in her hateful orbs.  "Will you come and die." 

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Too late, he began to retreat before he was fully erect, his thighs coming up hard against 
his drooping torso.  The child pursued sedately. 
As she advanced, she crooned mockingly; 
 
Dilly, dally, all the day, 
take a moment longer. 
When work is waiting 
come and play, 
do not search 
but wander. 
 
At her back, the shail was miraculously returned to good health, and it stood to gloat over 
its prey, the Warfarer's shining sword clutched in its left, uppermost claw.  Upon seeing Epsilon's 
shocked and disbelieving face, the monster cocked its head curiously, and gargled a twisted sort 
of laughter. 
The child approached demurely, twiddling her pig tails, while her demon's voice croaked; 
 
Willy, nilly, neigh the noon, 
long a lifetime linger. 
What worth your labors 
that nothing do 

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save degrade 
and leave you leaner. 
 
And now the two, child and hideous, Synodal monster, were become one, as the latter 
stepped forth and... blended somehow... with the little one.  Epsilon's tortured mind struggled to 
realize and comprehend the impossible, for, no matter how vehemently he disbelieved, he had 
witnessed the melding with his own horror stricken eyes and so could not convince himself of the 
spectacle's falsity.  With a surge of fluid flesh, the shail made contact against the little girl's back, 
and the two simply flowed together.  On spindling, uncertain legs, the Warfarer backed way 
empty-handed and eyes wide. 
The shail's face and form were changing as it spoke.  "Once there dreamed a dreamer," it 
began with a mouth that was twisted and transforming, “A dream of being awake."  It towered 
over him and assumed its natural state, that evil beast, all the while waving the Warfarer's sword 
contemptuously this way and that.  "In dreaming, walked he a mile to nowhere," it growled, its 
form at last settling to stillness.  Epsilon saw a wild man standing before him, all unkempt dread 
locks and greasy skin, and standing fully three sticks tall.  "Found him nothing there to take."  Its 
all too human lips were full and flecked with foam, and its flatly squashed noise was pierced 
through and through with a tiger's fang.  Its flesh was spotted like a leopard's, and it had a devil's 
sinuous tail at its back.  "And talked he a time with no one."  Its hindquarters were that of a some 
sort of malformed bovine beast, for it walked upon cloven hooves that were powered by huge, 
straining hams.  "Whom knew no conversations fit to make."  The beast's arms were long and 

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rippling with raw, inhuman strength.  “And used he words old and molding," it grunted, its 
approach as sly and demure as the little girl's had been moments earlier, "Formed upon a tongue 
gone rotten through."  Epsilon's sword, removed from his own grip, wove sinisterly back and 
forth before his eyes, its edges catching the moon's flashing light.  “Said he nothing thoughtful, as 
thought was naught to do," It raised up the ornate Empirical blade and ran a forked tongue along 
its lethal length, "But pondered the color of the sky, which was clearly colored blue," the beast 
surged forward a final step, so it was mere sticks distant from the stricken Warfarer, "And 
wondered at his nature, to seek more nothings to misconstrue." 
Epsilon drew back and managed to straighten his shoulders somewhat, his eyes fixed on 
his foolishly discarded weapon.  The beast chided its quarry by clucking its forked tongue and 
waggling the forefinger of its free right hand. 
"Now let us have this finished and at an end," it growled affably, "And tell me, if you can.  
What manner of dreamer is it.' 
The Ritesman was perplexed, and let his puzzlement show on his face.  "W-What." 
"A riddle, foolish man-child!" hissed the beast, and it swung the sword, which Epsilon 
instinctively dodged, so its sweep scarcely missed his armored guts.  "Answer correctly, and your 
death will be swift."  Now the sword paused, then accelerated into a back swing.  Epsilon rolled 
away, stumbling in his weariness.  "Fail, and I am bound to leave you for yon vulture!" and it 
indicated a shadow on the face of the moon, a shadow shaped as a raven-winged monster on 
heavenly patrol.  Dellas. 

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When it had recovered the return of its stroke, the speckled wild giant took another step 
forward, its evil face in a glower.  Yet it did not immediately strike, despite Epsilon's vulnerability. 
Realizing he had been granted time to answer, the Warfarer jerked to his feet and began 
backing suspiciously away.  He was suspicious because the riddle was as ancient as it was simple. 
 In fact, it was too simple.  Why should this foul creature offer up a painless demise to him, after 
all the trouble it had taken to wear him down.  Even as he opened his mouth to speak, to answer 
correctly that the dreamer was a corpse dreaming its afterlife, the beast's words echoed once more 
through the Warfarer's exhausted mind.  Near the end, it had said, 'Answer correctly, and your 
death will be swift.' 
The correct answer, therefore, was not the correct answer.  Shuffling cautiously backward 
a bit further, he gasped, "What manner of dreamer is it."  Impatiently, the towering wild man 
followed with another step of its own, and jabbed at Epsilon with the sword, its way of prodding 
a return.  Epsilon wiped sweat from his brow, staggering, and managed to flippantly offer, "I 
know not.  But I know what manner of beast are you.  You are a fair flower, m'selle," which 
caused the chimera's glower to descend into a deep scowl, "And I, the hand that would pluck 
you!" 
It roared with ear-shattering power and dashed into the assault at once.  Having nothing 
better to hand, the Ritesman drew his great dagger, and lurched away from the creature's initial 
enraged blows. 
Though it stood head and shoulders above Epsilon's helm, the beast was awesomely quick 
on its unnatural feet.  It anticipated and preceded his every evasion, and pounced smugly on his 

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every pathetic rally.  Indeed, it might easily have slain him on the first attempt, except for the fact 
that it seemed intent on seeing its prey grovel in the dirt.  As a cat batting a mouse about, it 
worked Epsilon from one edge of the killing green to the other, across the Cal Deca Ora and back 
again, its use of the sword studiously calculated to corral and herd rather than kill. 
Struggling for his life, the Ritesman sought his master among the city's ruins, but found 
her not.  She had fled into the unknown, and surrendered her general to his fate. 
Finding no help to the west, the Warfarer rolled his eyes and groaned and dodged the 
beast's taunting blade to start across the overgrown clearing one last time. He stumbled and fell 
more and more often, and was slower to rise with each exertion.  He wondered why the monster 
did not simply lop off his head, and imagined Dellas soaring high above, laughing, laughing, 
laughing. 
Finally, with his last step, Epsilon collapsed against the roughly hewn outer wall and 
leaned there, panting violently, his flushed cheek pressed to the cool, slimy stone.  All thought of 
self-defense was banished, as he fought simply to breathe and remain conscious.  At his back, the 
beast approached on muffled hooves, a demented chuckle sounding from deep within its black 
bosom.  The Ritesman felt the point of his own blade press into the small of his mail-sheathed 
back, where it threatened but did not penetrate. 
Its fluent tongue writhing mere inches from Epsilon's right ear, Dellas' revenge hissed, 
"What but a slug could be crushed underfoot, as I shall now crush you." 
Its vile, calloused right palm settled hotly at the nape of Epsilon's neck, and its rough 
fingers circled around to his throat in a firm, undeniable grip, forcing the Warfarer's face up hard 

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against the abrasive granite.  "What but an insect could be sucked from its shell, as I shall now 
suck you from yours." 
It forced him with surprising gentleness to the ground.  "What but a worthless man could 
beg and plead for mercy, as you shall soon beg and plead for mine." 
When he was stretched out on the killing green, his hand yet clenched tightly about the 
haft of his all but forgotten dagger, the beast replaced its hand with its cloven and unclean right 
hoof.  Gloating, it stood over its stricken victim as a hunter posing atop a prized kill.  As it 
pressed his face into the weeds, Epsilon choked, "Rather, beg me for mine!" 
The beast chuckled more heartily still, and leaned more heavily on Epsilon's head.  
"Empirical fool!  It pleases me that you should so fearlessly court your demise!" and the chuckle 
turned to laughter.  "After all, what matter to me whether you go well or poorly, provided you 
somehow simply go!"  It pressed the point of its purloined weapon deeper still into the small of 
Epsilon's armored back. 
"I have not consented to go, or die," grunted the hapless Warfarer, his humiliated face all 
but buried in the weeds and loamy soil of Callathorne's rampant defensive common. 
"Your words," it chortled glibly, "Are the squeaking of a tiny mouse mortally caught in a 
dead fall trap.  You struggle and heave at the hinge of your broken back and protest your demise, 
all the while boasting of how you shall one day slay your slayer."  It clucked its forked tongue and 
rolled Epsilon's helmed head back and forth in the filth with its hoof.  "Ah, I have not been so 
amused in many long, long years.  Is this the nature of all Empirical Farers of War. 

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"If so, I should soon journey west, for the dwindling peoples of this land are all played out 
and no longer pleasure me.  They own nothing of courage or of valor, but die meekly and without 
protest." 
"What love of contest," grunted Epsilon, speaking simply to delay his own murder for a 
short time longer, "Has a slinking cur.  You are come cringing to the scrounge, all tucked tail 
virtues and slobbered jowls.  Feed and run away, coward, but expect no groveling from me."  The 
Ritesman struggled a bit to free his head, which prompted the beast to kick him savagely in the 
ribs, driving away all his breath in a single gust. 
Gasping and choking silently, the man fought to recover, while his tormentor was content 
to back away slightly and take pleasure in his thrashings.  Since the monster's hoof was 
temporarily removed from the back of his helmet, Epsilon rolled over on his side to clutch his 
injured torso.  When the stars settled out of his vision and his pain receded a bit, the Ritesman 
opened his eyes into a tight squint and examined the speckled demon standing over him.  It was 
leaning on the haft of Epsilon's sword by one hand, and scratching itself with other, legs crossed 
casually.  All it wore for clothing was a sort of extended loin cloth of uncured hides that had one 
side tied over its grimy shoulder.  Its massive penis and testicles could clearly be seen from this 
vantage, as they dangled loosely and without restraint. 
Noting this secretly, Epsilon tightened his sweating palm about the haft of his dagger and 
wondered how he might emasculate the foul creature, ere it slew him.  Through racked and 
clenched teeth, he uttered, "Expect no groveling from me, for I am happy to be here." 

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The monster seemed to be genuinely surprised to hear this.  "Happy.  But how can you 
be.  No, this is simply more of your impotent boasting." 
Epsilon was shaking his head and fighting to muster the strength to sit.  “What warrior 
would not be happy to see such fear in an enemy's eyes.  Especially in the eyes of a giant such as 
yourself." 
"Fear." it belched, spraying laughter.  It raised its stolen weapon and gestured angrily at 
the heavens with both arms upraised, its head thrown back.  (In this instant, Epsilon saw his 
chance to strike, but he was too far away and his initial reaction too slow to take advantage of the 
opportunity.  Next time, he vowed, inching closer to his foe through the weeds...)  "Fear." it 
bellowed again above its own raucous mirth, returning its evil gaze to its quarry.  "Is that what 
you see in these eyes."  It lowered the sword, point first, and thrust it at Epsilon face to harvest a 
flinch.  "This is not fear.  It is lust.  Lust of your blood, that it run hot and red in the moonlight to 
nurture this hated ground.  Lust of your violent death, that it release me from yon vulture's 
detested grip and remove your mortal disease from this earth." 
Epsilon continued to shake his head, and sat despite the threat of his own weapon.  
Pushing this away with a surly thrust of his left forearm, he returned, “Lust.  No, lust is a thing of 
contact, of proximity, of equality of flesh.  You have come against me in subterfuge, behind the 
ranks of an entire army.  You have won your combats through deceit and trickery, and owe 
nothing of your victory to the strength of your sword arm or the speed of your wits.  You have 
taken great pains to avoid direct contest with me.   I, therefore, deem your fear of me to be 
great." 

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It cocked its head and was silent a moment, as though considering what the Ritesman had 
said.  "Lies.  This cannot be your understanding of the world." 
"Look as deeply as you dare into these green eyes of mine, and see for yourself.  Find you 
there fear, or happiness." 
And it leaned closer, squinting.  Epsilon also leaned closer, his damp hand on the pommel 
of his dagger, feigning that he would grant the monster a better look.  He struggled to bring a 
glad, shining light into his eyes, to mask the mortal terror that must be burning there, which effort 
he found to be all but impossible.  Still, his deception must have been somewhat effective, as the 
beast leaned closer still, its squint more inquisitive and suspicious.  It took a slight step forward. 
This was all the room that Epsilon required.  He let his mask of happiness slip, and his 
mortal fear show clearly.  The beast's eyes went wide at once, and a huge, toothy grin spread 
across its unclean face. 

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When it tossed its head back to bray triumphant laughter once more, two things happened 
in rapid succession.  First, Epsilon sprang forth atop his coiled and ready haunches, his dagger 
slashing out viciously to remove the monster's scrotum (with testicles) and half the length of its 
dangling penis in a single stroke.  Second, a large shadow glided across the short distance of lawn 
that separated them from Callathorne's outer wall, which flight ended in a bone jarring collision 
that sent the screaming, wounded wild man tumbling. 
In the fall, whether it was loosed by the jar or when the monster reached for its rendered 
manhood, Epsilon's ornate blade was lost to the night sky.  Tumbling end over end, it landed point 
down some distance away, where it tottered to stand, its pommel available to the first hand that 
could reach it. 
Without knowing how he managed it, unaware even that he had managed it at all, the 
Ritesman felt the comforting return of his weapon to his grip, and found he was using it in an un-
fatigued fashion to slash and chop at the roaring beast.  In a fury of vengeful hacking, the 
Warfarer took his enemy's right forearm and its tail, and delivered a ruinous blow to its right ham 
that left it hobbling. 
Whereupon its shape shifted into that of another fell creature, a horned and four footed 
sort of demon, which was curiously missing a foreleg just below the elbow, but which also 
possessed powerful hindquarters that enabled it to leap mightily like a frog.  With a single bound 
and demented screech of agony and rage, it was up and over Callathorne's western wall and 
disappeared into the night. 

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At its departure, Callathorne's alarms ceased their mournful sounding, and the western 
gates swung open wide at once.  The full moon rolled out from behind its veil of clouds, and all 
the city's ghoulish lamentations were stilled in the same instant. 
Epsilon leaned upon his sword in exhaustion and let himself slide down to one knee.  
There, he offered up a grateful prayer to Nars for his salvation, his head bowed against the cross 
brace of his ornate weapon, unashamed tears streaming silently from the corners of his eyes.  And, 
though he made every attempt to hide his humiliation, it must have shown, for Pandolyn's hand 
was soon pressed to his trembling right shoulder, her fingers gently caressing and massaging him 
there. 
His master stood behind him without speaking, and softly offered her support until 
Epsilon's frame was still once more.  Then he rose into her arms, and together they limped 
through Callathorne's gates. 

 

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27 

Towers of Dreams 

Loathe to stay anywhere near haunted Callathorne, and aware of Londale's warning that 
the Cal Deca Ora was watched to the east, Epsilon and Pandolyn limped sorely southward 
immediately outside the city's gates.  Helmcleaver came charging out behind them, and soon that 
forlorn city was left far behind.  The moon set at their right hand and the sun had risen on their 
left before the three weary travelers deemed themselves safe enough to stop again. 
They sought shelter in a scraggly stand of trees that stood near the high bank of a sluggish, 
poisoned stream. There they slept restlessly, Epsilon most fitfully of all. 
When she awoke in the late afternoon, Pandolyn decided they were too close to Ilmacht to 
travel by day, and so they rested while the sun ruled the sky, their bellies growling and their 
exhausted limbs aching.  As he watched the baleful sun set far away over Empire amid a blush of 
blood-colored cumulus, Epsilon rubbed his empty stomach and grimaced. 
"I would gladly give up all my gold coin for but a chunk of Mary's fine venison jerky." 

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Pandolyn groaned unhappily.  "As I recall," she harrumphed, gathering her things 
mechanically to prepare for the night's journey, "It was not so fine.  But I, also, would gladly 
surrender all your coin for a huge bite of it." 
"Is there nothing to eat in this cursed country.  No game.  No fallow grains or nuts." 
The mage shook her head dourly.  "It is said that Sin Apica, when he was yet in power and 
allied with Sin Supri, stripped this land of its sustenance, binding it with spells that have long left 
its rich soils barren and infertile.  Little that pleases mankind can be found here, though Bac Tur 
sprouts thorns and nettles in great abundance." 
This last fact was not unknown to the Ritesman, as it seemed he had slept in a bed of 
nettles through the night, having cast himself down heedlessly in his terrible exhaustion.  His 
entire body was a welt of rashes.  Every muscle, every joint, every bone was alive with pain.  And 
his head ached miserably. 
Epsilon rose to a sitting position and cradled his head between his upraised knees.  "Oh, to 
be a horse and eat yon hay.  To be a hare and run away." 
"To be a dog and bark a fool.  To be a fish in a cool, deep pool." 
Despite his misery, the Warfarer cracked a slim smile and added further to this children's 
rhyme.  "To be a crow that wakes the dead.  To be a’dream in a peaceful bed." 
"To be a stone and not to roll.  To be a child, and ne'er grow old.  Fa-la-la-la-la laaa!" 
Helmcleaver snorted derisively and raised his head from munching Bac Tur's sparse 
fodder, as if to dismiss the land's tough grasses in comparison to Empire's lush, green fields.  
Indeed, the long journey was at last showing on the valiant charger, for its flesh hung gauntly 

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from bones that verged on protruding at the hips and shoulders.  The stallion whinnied softly and 
slapped flies from its flank with a brush of its tail, before returning its attention to the business at 
hand. 
Sighing and easing back against the knotted trunk of a short, stunted tree, the Ritesman 
interlaced his fingers behind his neck and turned his gaze on the far horizon.  The copse of trees 
that had sheltered them through the day was perched on a low hillock, which was half eaten away 
on its southwestern side by a tepid stream that flowed westward slowly but with much 
determination.  For as far as the eye could see, Bac Tur's high plains were void of further trees, 
and nothing larger than a tumbleweed grew on the coarse grasslands for many miles in all 
directions.  Their tiny thicket home was comprised of a mere dozen or so twisted cedars, which 
appeared to be the last holdout remnants of an entire forest that had faded to dust ages past. 
"What a gods forsaken place," he commented dryly, gently shaking his head back and 
forth.  Far away in the distance of the north, Callathorne's dim outline could yet be seen from this 
high vantage.  Its skeletal ruins brooded on the horizon like a festering scab that could never heal. 
 "How far to Ilmacht from here." 
"Five nights at the trot, ten at a walk," she replied, standing with all her bags in tow only 
to sit again by her general's side.  Fishing out her best map of Bac Tur, Pandolyn traced the Cal 
Deca Ora with a grime encrusted nail until it was arrived at the ink blot that was Callathorne.  
From there, she let it wander down (past the River Tulde) to a blue trail labeled as the Alderberry 
River.  "That is what it was named while this country was Argentia and its hillsides were bright 
with wild flowers.  Now this foul ditch is called the River of Ten Thousand Poisons."  Her finger 

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next traced the Poisoned River's meandering representation due east to yet another ink blot.  This 
blemish was named Ilmacht, and it looked to have been unprofessionally added to the map by the 
wizard's own hand.  "And for good reason, once you note its source." 
The Warfarer nodded sagely.  "We are closer than I imagined." 
"Aye, so near and so far."  Her thick, scaly digit tapped the scrolled parchment 
thoughtfully.  "Mere leagues separate us from our destination, yet now is our time of greatest 
danger.  These regions surrounding the madman's capitol are plagued by patrols and watched by 
countless unseen eyes.  We must be cautious at every step from here forth." 
"I had not thought to go with a beat of drums and bang of gongs, lady." 
She laughed sharply, briefly, but the sound was enough to elevate their drooping 
demeanor.  In the wake of her merriment, the mage added, "At least we shall be shed of the 
cursed Cal Deca Ora." 
Which statement caused the Ritesman's faint smile to disappear abruptly.  He turned to 
face the sunset, lest she catch a glimmer of shame in his gaze, and changed the subject.  "What 
makes the sky take up such a gods awful color, do you think." 
The wizardess shrugged and returned her eyes to her map, lest she see what her general 
would hide.  "I could explain the science of it to you," she answered distantly, deliberately 
engrossed in her brief studies, "But you would not understand." 
"Perhaps it is best left unexplained.  What need has natural beauty of explanations, after 
all."  He let his head roll back further over his bunched hands and closed his eyes, leaning more 

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certainly on the trunk at his back.  "Once," he added softly, his tone whimsical and lost, "I thought 
I understood this world.  I thought I understood beauty. 
"But now... now that I am hell and gone half way across the planet, now I see how little I 
truly understood.  Once, it all seemed so comely, those trappings of Empire, of the Emperor and 
his lavish courts, all those painted women and their extravagant dresses, and those princelings in 
their jeweled gowns.  Once, I believed beauty was a sparkle and gleam of shining gems and 
precious metals.  Once, I believed beauty was in the squeak of new leather things and in the lethal 
touch of highly polished steel.  Once... once, I believed...." 
When he stopped speaking, the wizardess glanced up concernedly.  “And now." 
He turned a tortured, moist gaze on her.  "Now I am lost and void of all understanding of 
any kind, false or true."  The sun's fading light glowed in the Ritesman's liquid irises and shone 
upon his bearded face with a golden hue.  He removed his hands from the back of his neck, and 
let his uncovered head dangle ashamedly, finding something interesting between his knees to draw 
the attentions of his fidgeting fingers.  "Save for the knowledge that everything I learned was 
wrong, I would know nothing at all." 
Pandolyn shook her head to chide him, and lay her massive right hand atop her general's to 
stop their nervous fidgeting.  "Self-doubt is the first step toward self-improvement, Sir Epsilon, 
but it should not be the first step along a pathway of self-destruction.  If you must, purge yourself 
of your Empirical prejudices and misconceptions, but do not hang yourself to spite your head.  
Once you have brushed away all the crumbled plaster that was the broken mold of the old you, 
the false you, I am certain you will find underneath but a naked man.  A simple, naked man, 

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wounded and weary.  Let him heal without further punishment.  Let him forget without regret.  
Let him rise and stand from the remnants of his facade and walk away, never to look back." 
Epsilon smiled in a sudden, glad gush.  "Your words make it seem so easy." 
"They cast you out,  Dear Epsilon," she sighed, "And not because you were the worst of 
them, but because you were the best of them.  Your greatest failures are beyond the summit of 
their highest reach.  That you have come so far to be cast so low," her tone delicate here, as she 
danced around the unspoken humiliations of the previous night, "Elevates you so far above the 
dully pointed head of every pompous and spoiled infidel of Empire, that they could never hope to 
stack up to your equal--not if every cursed one of them stood each atop the head of another." 
His smiled broadened, and he quite impulsively leaned forward and rose to kiss her full on 
her lips (or their reptilian equivalent.)  "By the gods, you are right!  The cowards!" he expelled, 
attempting to sound more heartened than he truly felt.  "What have I, a living god, to fear.  I have 
no worries!  I have no cares!  By Nars' undying passion, I am hell bent for nowhere!" 
"A living god." she mocked, her expression shocked and surprised and pleased all in the 
same moment.  "What have I done.  It is a monster I have aroused!" 
Though his legs and feet remained tender and protesting, the Warfarer scrambled to full 
erection and stretched mightily.  "A monster.  Aye, one slaved to the service of Rit, the 
punishment of Sin."  In a flash, he drew his sword and worked it round and round.  "Gone are the 
last vestiges of the Old Epsilon, the Epsilon of Empire!  He was burned alive in the grips of 
blighted Callathorne.  Arisen from his ashes, I!  Epsilon of Wilderland!"  The sword went round 
and round and round, as he danced lithely to test the resolve of his abused muscles.  Until all his 

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motion stopped at once, his blade paused in mid-thrust, his face a devilish grin behind it.  "I no 
longer claim this land as a mere Empirical Prefect, but as a Holy Warfarer of the true Martial 
Rite!" 
He drew a deep breath and howled savagely, "I AM COME TO BAC TUR, ITS GODS 
DAMNED CONQUEROR!" when the echoes of this challenge had stilled, he set his blade back 
to scabbard and offered his right hand to aid his master's rising.  More softly to her face, he added, 
"And I will have every last square inch of it, ere I am finished." 
"May your words be as prophetic as they are fearsome," she supplied, standing.  "But for 
now, we must sate ourselves with the meager morsel that is the madman's capitol.  Come, my 
fond monster, let us journey south to the River of Ten Thousand Poisons.  Our business 
impatiently awaits." 
Epsilon called for his mount's attention, that it not be left behind for munching fodder, 
then turned to follow after the wizardess afoot.  They exited the sanctuary of the thicket as the 
sun's last light perished in the west.  Down the hillock they trudged, then along the run of the 
streambed until they encountered a shallow ford.  Careful to avoid splashing that odorous liquid, 
they leapt across its width atop treacherous stepping stones until they were delivered safe and dry 
to the south shore. 
Which deliverance only served to sink them deeper into Bac Tur's stinking mire, and which 
presented them with further leagues of bogs and polluted streams to cross.  It was with a fatalistic 
sort of determination that they pressed on, their heads bowed wearily, backs bent, poised to 
endure all manner of hardship and suffering in the name of their cause.  The cause of absolute 

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freedom.  And the same forces that sought to destroy them, to deter them, were become the same 
forces that urged them forward, that hardened their resolves and cemented their intentions. 
Sin and its minions would slap them away, deny them the freedoms they craved, yet these 
hands that were daily slapping their faces were in the same motion urging them to come on, come 
destroy.  In the face of such grim perseverance, the word 'no' did not rebuff so much as it offered 
challenge.  Obstacles were not barricades, so much as they were steps in the stairway, which 
stairway would eventually deliver them to the high plateau and cul-de-sac of mountains that 
sheltered far away Ilmacht from the ravages of an angry and vengeful world. 
Despite foul weather and the omnipresent threat of roving patrols, they ventured on 
undiscovered to the banks of the Poisoned River, drinking little and eating even less along the 
way.  At midnight of their fourth night out from Callathorne, in avoidance of a search party of 
jetlas and one lone ugluck, they took shelter in a muddy ditch that fed into that befouled river. 
As those fell troops tramped noisily and obliviously along the high ground just above their 
heads, Epsilon leaned close to his master's ear holes and whispered, "I fear my strength is fast 
failing, lady.  I know not how many miles are left in me, but they are few." 
"I, also, am weary." 
But he was shaking his head, "No, I am gone well beyond weariness.  That... fight... 
Callathorne... it has undone me," he gasped at last, letting his head slump forward to the muddy 
ground, where he allowed it to rest, eyes closed.  "I am dying." 
"It is but a short distance further, my general." 

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"One league or one thousand, no matter.  I shall not see Ilmacht any time soon, I fear.  
Perhaps I shall never see it." 
Pandolyn licked a dribble of moisture from her scaly face, for it had started raining again, 
though softly this time.  "Do not say such things, I beg you.  My heart is heavy enough." 
"My apologies, m'selle," he groaned, sinking to his knees and finally into a sitting position, 
his back against the muddy ditch, his feet in the poisonous runoff.  “I do not mean to dissuade you 
of the attempt, but merely to... inform you." 
Overhead, the obscured moon lurched across the sky, while Epsilon's head drooped.  He 
was asleep, though he had already rested through the previous day.  Pandolyn might have granted 
him a few minutes of respite while the danger passed, save for an ominous rumble of thunder that 
started the Ritesman instantly awake. 
Gasping and sputtering, he sought the pommel of his weapon, struggled to draw it and 
failed, and finally collapsed back into an exhausted stupor.  "I must have ought to eat," he 
grumbled.  "I must have food and a fire and rest, or I cannot continue." 
Swaying uncertainly in her own exhaustion, the wizardess smacked parched jaws to think 
of eating.  Despite her own needs, however, she said, "We have no food, cannot afford the risks 
of a fire, and have no time to rest longer.  Yet we must continue." 
The Warfarer nodded limply, his chin upon his breast, hands laying inanimate between his 
knees.  "Yes, of course," he mumbled weakly. 
With a monumental groan, he struggled to rise again, fell, tried a second time, made it all 
the way to his knees, fell again, and finally managed to stand on his third attempt.  Clutching at 

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the slick surface of the ditch, he held himself fast until the enemy patrol had passed and it was safe 
to go on. 
Together, he leaning heavily against his master, they managed another few miles to 
eastward, before the Ritesman collapsed again and did not rise.  Pandolyn stood over his prostrate 
form, silently debating her options.  She could take a fatal pause to rest, and toss away valuable 
hours that she could ill afford to waste.  She could drape Epsilon over the back of his erstwhile 
stallion, and ride the beast down to death, gaining but a few leagues in the purchase and leaving 
her general afoot once more.  Or... or she could carry the man, herself. 
She shuddered to consider this final option, and her abused muscles and joints sang out in 
protest at the mere thought of it.  She consulted a tiny, leather bound book, which she extracted 
from one of her many kits.  This being the seventeenth day of the seventh month, she calculated 
that only three days of opportunity remained to claim their army, after which time a period of ten 
months must pass before the attempt could be made again.  Ten months she could not afford.  
And Ilmacht two days away at a trot. 
How far with a single pair of feet to carry them both.  One thing was certain; she could 
never finish it by traveling strictly at night. 
The wizardess cursed and tried not to be angry with her general.  The man was utterly 
wasted, after all, and could not be blamed for his mortal weaknesses.  Even I, she huffed, 
Immortal Wizard of the Synod and fierce lizard woman, am all but spent. 
Gazing down gently upon her stricken companion's muddy face, she whispered, "We spent 
too much time in Empire, too much time on the Desert Ocean, too much time in Draven's Cleft."  

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Now she slapped her thigh noisily and growled, "If only I had back those days we tarried in 
Verdune!  If only I had better impressed upon Epsilon our great need of haste!  He might have 
spent less time in looping back to me outside Oreset, or in dealing with that pestilent Osgarthe."  
The mage shook her head sourly, and bent to scoop Epsilon's unconscious form into her arms.  
"But, no, let the blame rest where it belongs, that being squarely upon my own shoulders."  
Grunting, she hefted him up over her shoulders, as if mocking her words, and settled his body 
there as comfortably as she could manage.  Briefly, she longed for the return of her many potions 
of healing, which had been lost to the river, but only briefly.  Such longings were passed as 
casually as wishes, and, like wishes, could never be fulfilled.  "It was I that commanded the 
timetable, and I that should have had the foresight to press on more hastily in the course of better 
days.  I must, therefore, correct this disastrous situation I have created, without further complaint 
or blame mongering, thank you very much." 
And she started off at a steady pace that was neither her fastest nor her slowest.  As she 
walked, the weather turned foul again, and the drizzle became a downpour.  It rained through the 
night and for much of the following day.  By the next evening, her gait was reduced to a dull sort 
of plodding that was as slow as it was determined, and still she did not stop. 

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Though Epsilon awakened several times during Pandolyn's tortuous flight, every attempt 
to set him afoot and send him walking ended in the same fashion, that being with him draped 
unconsciously over his master's broad shoulders.  And so, after a time, she came to ignore his 
weak pleas to be put down, but kept on marching, marching, marching, one step before the other, 
then the other up in turn.  Despite the mud that clung to her scaly feet.  Despite torrential rain and 
an overflowing Poisoned River.  Despite hail and lighting and thunder.  Despite Sin's patrols and 
watchful eyes.  Despite the harsh terrain that was ever climbing.  Despite the cruel, acidic air that 
burned her lungs.  Despite the miles, the countless, endless, undefeated miles that ever loomed 
before her, yet to be crossed. 
She walked and walked and walked and walked without stopping for two whole cycles of 
the sun, and might have kept right on walking to the ends of the world, had she not ultimately 
arrived at the sheer feet of the Towers of Dreams.  Those dominating mountain ranges were all 
but obscured by the adverse weather, and so she stumbled upon the foothills in ignorant delirium, 
unaware that she had come so far so quickly. 
Harnessing the last fading vestiges of her unnatural strength, Pandolyn carried her general 
south to a shallow draw that formed a valley between two high hilltops.  The plateau that 
harbored Ilmacht was but three leagues further south and ten east from the mouth of the draw, 
but the wizardess was not immediately interested in the city. 
First, she must hurry to claim her conquering army while the time remained. 
That last night of their long trek bled away into a blood colored morning, as she climbed 
the flanks of the Towers of Dreams in search of a secret, sacred place that was known only to a 

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precious few minds in all the world.  Her final steps delivered them to the threshold of all her long 
held hopes and aspirations, and there she collapsed into a much deserved rest, even as the sun 
rose above the peaks in the distances and the clouds were at last swept away.  When her 
bloodshot eyes finally fluttered to shut, they did so while her happily exhausted gaze rested on the 
secret portal that would soon enter them into the hidden bosom of Draven's Revenge. 

 

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28 

To Swim the Styx 

Epsilon stood unsteadily over his master, smacked his parched lips, rubbed his eyes 
blurrily, then stretched long and luxuriously.  Next he blew his nostrils clear and turned to search 
out a private place in which to relieve himself. 
The air reeked, more so than usual.  Wrinkling his nose unpleasantly, the Ritesman 
gawked curiously at his surroundings.  He rubbed his eyes a second time and gawked again. 
Unknown to him, Pandolyn had delivered them during the night into a palatial grotto, 
which natural cavern had been well worked by the hands of men so it was festooned with all 
manner of rich embossment and sculpture.  It was well lighted throughout its interior, even to its 
high domed ceiling, by the same sort of un-burning torch that Pandolyn had wielded in Draven's 
Cleft.  Frescoes ringed the ceiling round, and the dust strewn floor was laid with brightly colored 
tiles that doubtlessly formed a mosaic of some sort.  While the walls were lined with recessed 
alcoves, dozens of them, within which were kept lifelike statues of unknown men and gods. 

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"What is this place." he grumbled, disconcerted and confused.  "Are we arrived at 
Ilmacht, or am I dead and entered into Puto's strange court."  Echoes of this utterance resounded 
unpleasantly for a dreadful length of time, and the Ritesman pledged not to soon speak again. 
Spinning on his heel, Epsilon was concerned to note the uniform sameness of the room.  
He saw no indications of doorways, whether entering or exiting, and might have been utterly at a 
loss to find his way outside again, save for Pandolyn's footsteps in the silt.  These led him to one 
side of the circular room, and up to a blank wall.  The Warfarer cocked his head curiously, 
glanced down to his feet to be certain he had indeed followed the tracks truly, and reached out a 
hand to rap gently against the apparently solid granite barrier. 
But his knuckles met no resistance, and the motion of his strike was carried through 
beyond the wall's surface.  His arm disappeared to his elbow, which sight urged him instinctively 
to retract it at once.  When it came out whole and undamaged, Epsilon returned it to the flesh of 
this illusion, and followed it with the other.  Now he stuck his head through, and followed it with 
his body upon finding no danger on the other side. 
What he found instead was a sharply defined sliver of a cave, which terminated (or began, 
from his point of view) in a roughly hewn and a naturally fashioned stone facade.  Epsilon exited 
the hidden pavilion at his back, seeming to emerge from the absolute flesh of the Bac Turian 
mountainside.  Outside he paused and let his gaze roll all around, satisfying himself of an absence 
of threat, while his eyes adjusted to the near darkness. 
Up ahead, he detected a soft glow of sunlight, and followed this to the cave's jagged 
entrance.  It was scarcely large enough to allow a man through without turning sideways.  Epsilon 

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pressed himself into the gap and wondered how his master had managed the feat, burdened as she 
had been during the night. 
Beyond the entrance, a narrow walk led around a bulging spine of stone and entered into 
the general tumble of a box canyon.  The canyon was walled high and steeply on three sides, and 
seemed to be but a few hundred sticks deep.  It was strewn with boulders of all sizes, so it was all 
but impassable, and a small, rust-colored stream flowed through a stony draw some twenty sticks 
forward, the waters of which reeked of noxious poisons and offal.  Further forward, not more 
than fifty sticks total, the opposite wall of the canyon rose jaggedly, its face marred by great 
fissures and lesser cracks and other rough evidences of rocky decay.  Nothing grew here.  
Nothing save stones. 
Epsilon advanced slightly to get a view of the canyon's mouth.  Framed by the gully's 'V' 
shaped entrance, he had his first glimpse of the hellish regions that immediately abutted Bac Tur's 
capitol city.  Fumes and geysers marred the turbid sky, and fires lighted the floor of the valley far 
away.  Great, monstrous shapes were on the move down there, all black bodies and dully 
gleaming exoskeletons, which shapes seemed to labor in accord with vile, iron machines that 
smoked and steamed and belched naked flames.  Squinting his eyes to get a better look, Epsilon 
was certain he could see long trains of enslaved human forms at labor down there, as well, all 
chained together by the necks.  And if they were, they were being driven by horned devils that 
cracked brutal whips so loudly that the Warfarer fancied he could hear the reports even from his 
lofty vantage.  Vast bubbling pools of polluted ooze gathered in the valley's many stony basins, 
and streams of the stuff flowed freely there in place of water. 

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A sharp, fierce cry sounded from above, and Epsilon was forced to take a hurried step 
backward.  Having grown accustomed to a lack of danger from the air, the Warfarer was 
suddenly reminded where he was.  Rolling his eyes heavenward, he watched black, shadowy 
shapes wheel to and fro across the bloody patch of sky over his head, which shapes might have 
been illdross or other, as yet unnamed, creatures of darkness. 
Shuddering and cursing silently, Epsilon retreated back inside the cavern and urinated 
against one wall.  As his bladder emptied, he found himself wondering how Pandolyn had 
managed to evade so much activity while entering into this secret place.  Perhaps, he thought, the 
monsters retired by night to better guard their unhappy laborers.  Or perhaps, and more likely, 
these lands directly surrounding Ilmacht were thought to be so secure that little attention might 
have been paid to a lone lizard woman prowling the night, her dinner draped over her shoulders. 
And now he enjoyed an abrupt, painfully sharp pang of dread that threatened to stop his 
heart.  Helmcleaver! 
Without bothering to fleece his trousers, the Ritesman wheeled about to dash headlong 
toward the rear of the crevasse, intent on the hidden doorway he knew to be concealed there.  As 
he scrambled over the treacherous, uneven floor, stumbling over loose stones and spines of the 
fissure's walls, the Warfarer was enraged to think his master had saved him at the cost of his 
mount.  What good was he now, weaponless and afoot.  Did she not know that he had pledged to 
die atop that damned animal. 

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Just as he reached the false facade of the doorway, Epsilon ducked his head and tucked his 
shoulders lest he jar against the jam.  He fully expected to burst into the chamber beyond on the 
fly.  So it was with much surprise that he met the stone wall rudely, face first, at full speed. 
Stars blinded his vision, and a sting of impact told him his nose was bleeding and possibly 
broken.  His breath was expelled with a massive 'Humpf!', and his body bounced back with a thud. 
On his back with his booted feet in the air, Epsilon groaned and moaned and felt along the 
crest of his helm for damage.  It was dented and scratched.  His head hurt, and his spine felt as 
though it had been crushed and released like an accordion.  In his already weakened and wounded 
condition, the man could manage only to lie there in stunned agony, wondering what had 
happened to the world.  Had hunger sapped his wits and leeched his memory altogether. 
Blinded by tightly squinted eyes, Epsilon heard his master laughing above and in front of 
him.  In response, he pried his lids apart a bit to see Pandolyn standing over him, toothy mouth 
agape, half her torso immersed in the illusion of stone. 
She seemed to examine his sorry state briefly, before she asked coyly, “What are you 
doing on your back with your pants down."  She blinked her eyes curiously.  "Have I caught you 
in the course of some sort of manly thing.  If so, I can-" 
He glowered and reached down to fasten his trousers. "You can help me up!" he 
interrupted, holding forth his hand for her grip. 
She tugged him aloft, and together they reentered the domed gallery, her chuckling and 
mumbling about fools that never learn their lessons, he rubbing his head and groaning.  "It is not 
funny!" he declared blackly, which only caused her to chuckle all the more heartily.  Exasperated, 

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he demanded, "As soon as you get a grip on your heaving ribs, lady, will you kindly tell me what 
has become of my stallion." 
That query brought her up short.  "Why.  Has it gone missing." 
"It has." 
She shrugged.  "It was here last night." 
"That tells me nothing.  Where is it now." 
"Not here, obviously."  She smiled to see his face bunch angrily.  "Relax your demeanor, 
Ritesman.  We have arrived at our destination at last, and now your animal is quite safe.  I wish I 
could say the same thing for us.”  She sighed wearily and stirred her foot in the dust.  “The clog 
have doubtlessly taken the beast to mend its flesh and prepare it for the coming fight." Waving his 
concerns idly away, the mage shifted her many bags and pouches officially, harrumphing.  “Which 
fight shall never be, if we do not hastily proceed.  Are you quite ready to go on." 
He nodded, grimacing and rubbing his neck.  "But tell me why you sealed that door 
against me, master.  It was not a humorous sort of jest." 
Her expression waxed serious, and a steely glint flashed from the depths of her bulbous 
orbs.  "It was no jest, and I did not seal it against you, Epsilon.  The spell of keeping that guards 
yon entrance admits none save those that it may.  Did you think you were suddenly become a 
Synodal Wizard." 
"No, but it let me out so easily..." 
"Out is not in.  And did I not warn you when this journey first began not to touch or do 
anything without first consulting me." 

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She had, of course, and so he felt no need to make a reply.  Instead, he turned his 
attentions on the well dusted floor, which was scarcely marred by disturbance save for where they 
had spent the night.  Indeed, several of Helmcleaver's worn shoes had left their stamp on the silt, 
so it was true the animal had once been harbored safe inside.  Yet, curiously, there were no signs 
of a the horse's having exited the chamber.  Epsilon saw one trail in, and no trails out.  Had the 
stallion wandered back outside through the lone entrance, then.  He asked as much. 
But Pandolyn shook her head.  "No.  Horses are dumb animals, but they have sense 
enough not to go bashing their heads against stone walls," implying that he did not. 
His head spinning, the Warfarer sat crossed legged on the floor and rested his aching skull 
in his hands.  Changing the subject, he announced, "Oh, I am famished and parched as a barren 
desert.  What sort of clog are they, that would steal a man's horse and forget to lay out the 
customary feast." 
Consulting her tiny leather bound book again, the wizardess answered remotely, "They are 
not the same clog you knew from Verdune, to say the least.  I gravely doubt they can daily find 
enough to feed themselves, let alone provide for a starving mongrel of Empire."  When her 
general's groans waxed louder and more forlorn, she comforted him somewhat by adding, "But 
not to worry.  Your belly will soon be filled, and not with measly Bac Turian fare, either." 
That sat him up and put him back on his feet.  "Then why delay.  Lead, m'selle, and I shall 
eagerly follow." 
Stowing her little ledger away, the mage commanded him to stand next to her, whereupon 
she began reciting esoteric spells that were muffled to the Ritesman's hearing.  Though he was 

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poised mere feet away and staring directly into the wizard's face, he could not decipher what was 
being said.  So he simply turned away to wait for the end, his gaze fixed on the frescos and glyphs 
lining the walls in a narrowly scrolled band near the ceiling. 
In examining these pictorials more closely, Epsilon was shocked to recognize symbols of 
Empire among all that foreign scribble.  In particular, its capitol Tesla was mentioned time and 
again.  As was the name ‘Blackbrow Blightlover’, which Epsilon assumed to be a reference to 
Vandegarte, the First Emperor.  Tracing the glyphs back around to the east, he noted a large 
blank space that was abutted by whole passages of text written in the Common Tongue, each 
framed a set of fanciful brackets that might have been quotations or parentheses. 
One read; 
 
Of the fourteenth day 
of the second month 
of the seventy-third year 
of hated Blackbrow’s first reign 
let it be known; 
  Rit Infri, 
on an errand of scientific accumulation, 
did enter into Empire, 
intent on divining the true nature and state 
of Empirical affairs 

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despite the protests and adverse counsel 
of his Synodal Peers. 
 
Further along, yet another informed him; 
 
Of the twentieth day 
of the eighth month 
of the seventy-fourth year 
of cursed Blackbrow’s first reign 
let it be known; 
  Rit Infri, 
having been taken unlawfully into capture 
and held in torture within the confines 
of Teslan dungeons, 
was on this day murdered 
and his Synodal Powers transcorporated 
by and into Blackbrow Blightlover, himself. 
Thus and thereby, let it further be known 
of this day; 
       that the twentieth day 
of the eighth month 

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of the seventy-fourth year 
of detested Blackbrow’s first reign 
was then become 
the First Day of the Second Reign 
and the Last Day of the First, 
that this day 
be counted as the Dawn of a New Doom, 
and that all the days to follow 
be as grains of sand in the eternal hourglass 
to flow each in its turn 
until Midnight is come around again 
and a new morn looms bright on the horizon. 
 
 A lump rose in the Ritesman’s throat upon reading this last, as he was reminded of all the 
lifetimes that had come and gone since that black date, each one steeped in tragedy and sorrow 
and blood.  So many monuments and memorials and graveyards, marked and unmarked, so many 
bones lying wasted, so many ghosts... so much anger and hate, all of it, he felt, was a crushing 
weight upon his heart in that moment.  His fists clenched unbidden, and that old rage flared up to 
inferno within his breast. 

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He was filled with a sudden urge to shout, to curse, to stomp and spit, to bombast this 
world and its gods that would let a defiling maniac prosper at the expense all that is good.  And he 
might have done so, had not the planet lurched unexpectedly beneath his feet. 
Without warning, a circular area of the floor had dropped away, and the Warfarer quite 
suddenly found himself falling, falling, falling.  A startled cry escaped his lips before he could 
clench them stoically shut, and, but for all his mustered discipline, he might have leapt onto his 
master’s back like a frightened monkey.  “You might have informed me of your intentions, lady!” 
he belched unsteadily, his feet splayed against the rumble and grind of the descending stone 
platform, hands extended in search of balance.  “But for my recent starvation, I might have soiled 
my breeches!” 
Her esoteric chanting finished, Pandolyn laughed, “Have no fear, Epsilon my dear.  Your 
breeches are so thick with filth that the change would have passed unnoticed.” 
“I thank you, m’selle, for your kind words,” he returned acidly, his head swimming in 
disorientation.  “I think I shall be sick.” 
“Oh, but wait a moment longer, sir, we are near to the bottom.” 
“Of what.  Hell.” 
Even as he spoke, however, one side of the cylindrical shaft opened up as they descended, 
so it formed a sort of round, arched doorway when the platform was once more at rest.  A long 
hall extended away from the opening, which ran straight and true in the manner of the clog and 
which seemed not to have an ending.  It was lighted all along its course by the same un-burning 
lamps as he had seen above, and its floor was strewn with the same magnanimous layer of silt.  

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Leading away from the juncture of elevator and floor before their feet, a trail of misshapen, 
inhuman footsteps and one set of horse’s hooves led away into the distance. 
The beast is sorely in need of shoeing, considered Epsilon as he followed his master off 
the platform.  As for the others... I cannot say what distorts them, but its seems not to be a 
pleasant ailment, even as judged by the mere impression of their passages through the dust. 
Weary to the core of his being, the Ritesman eyed the unending perspective that 
confronted them, and groaned.  He wondered if he could march so far without failing.  Already 
his legs were burning, his feet swelling, joints aching.  Yet he could not allow his master to carry 
him further.  The humiliation of it all was too great.  Briefly, madly, he considered falling on his 
sword to end his life’s journey altogether and at once, and that thought brought him up short. 
Winded and trembling, he demanded roughly, “How far to the food.  All the way.” 
The mage shook her head weakly, “No, thank the gods.”  She lied gracefully, and reached 
out gently to take his arm, drew him close to her, despite his feeble protests.  Together, each 
leaning against the other, they continued.  “I have made this journey many times, do not forget, 
and so have become as accustomed as a living being may to the rigors of desolate Bac Tur.  
Accordingly, I have arranged a large cache of fresh supplies and gear not much further along this 
corridor.”  She gasped and hobbled and limped, pulling her general along like a drooping child to 
feed him her mother’s careworn lies.  “It is not far, now.  We are short of time, I fear, but we may 
feast fully there, provided we do so hastily.” 
“Master, if a bite of bread crossed my lips in this moment, you should never again see 
anything else devoured so quickly!” 

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He stumbled and fell upon uttering this last word.  His limp body slipped free of 
Pandolyn’s grasp, and collapsed to the floor.  The Ritesman struggled to rise, fought off his 
master’s aid once, twice, managed to gain his knees, and collapsed again.  When the mage 
stooped to slip her arms beneath his knees and back that she might carry him for a babe, he 
writhed and sputtered.  “No!  No!  No!” he cried, wriggling free and away so desperately that she 
let him go, lest he hurt himself.  “No, gods damn it all!  I will crawl, ere I am tossed over your 
shoulders again.  I... will... crawl!” and he commenced doing just that. 
“Nonsense!” she spat angrily, hovering over his struggling form.  “I, also, am tired and 
hungry.  And we do not have time to spare.  We must be set to claim our army prior to sunset, or 
all is lost for another full year.”  She bent to scoop him up once more, and this time he let her, his 
pale face turned ashamedly away from hers.  Softly, she whispered into his ear as she limped 
forward, “Do not fret, my general.  Close your eyes and think of other matters, if you will.  This 
degradation shall come to end quickly, and as quickly be forgotten.”  When he pursed his lips and 
shook his head slightly, she added, “My dear man, you have performed beyond all mortal 
expectations, you have ventured boldly into hell on your own two feet!  Should you be accused 
for your weariness at path’s end.” 
He was not inclined to listen.  Pandolyn hobbled on.  After a time, the mage declared, 
“Your ill humor dishonors me.” 
For a time he was puzzled and too angry to reply.  But his curiosity won over his 
reticence, and he eventually asked thickly, “Dishonors you.  How.” 

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“Your reluctance and shame in receiving my aid speaks worlds of your contempt of me.  It 
says many things; that I am not worthy of your perceived indebtedness; that I am too ugly to 
touch; that I am not trusted to keep this secret between us in absence of all judgment; that I 
should not expect the same aid from you, should our situations be someday reversed.  It says you 
would stand over me in my prostrate condition and heap your disregard atop my wounds.  It says 
you would leave me lay, abandoned to my fate, and no aid or succor to be had from your loathing 
hand.” 
Epsilon was aghast.  “No.  No, I would never do such a thing!  You have misinterpreted 
me.” 
“Have I.  Then you would aid me, should I find myself in need.”  He nodded.  “And you 
would carry me, should I find myself unable to walk.”  He nodded again.  “And if you should 
experience me on the grovel, I could trust you to let me up again with a gentle hand and a 
forgiving eye.”  Another nod.  “I accept your pledges of affection, then, and offer  them back 
again in turn.  Will you now accept them from me.  Are my lips esteemed enough to give breath 
to claims of love for you, in absence of your derision.” 
“Claims of love, m’selle.” 
“Yes.  Love, Epsilon Three.  Would your mother carry you sleeping to your bed.  Would 
your sister bear you hungry to the table.  Would your lover take your fumbling hand and lead you 
in your blindness.”  Yet another nod.  “Then accept that I have done all these things for you, and 
find no shame in them.  Look unabashed into mine eyes, and find you there no shade of contempt 
nor glaze of haughty disdain.”  He turned his head and looked.  A slow smile spread across both 

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their dirty, travel worn faces.  “We are, the both of us, cast off urchins, runaway vagabonds.  We 
are alone in this world.  If not for the two of us together, then we are nothing alone.” 
“Aye,” he breathed weakly, letting his head roll back into the cup of her sturdy elbow.  He 
swallowed dryly, and croaked further, “We are brothers in arms.” 
She stiffened a bit at that, but let the remark fade.  Sorely, the mage limped along the 
shadowed depths of hell’s black heart and saved her breath for the passage. 
They journeyed for an interminable period of time in this fashion, all the while descending 
into the cooler regions of the earth, while receding from Bac Tur’s diseased, hateful skies.  The 
hall ran straight and true all the while, and was in excellent repair for all its signs of immense age.  
Epsilon found himself fading into and out of awareness moment by moment, and so could not 
remember much of it, save for the angry faces of animals and men carved into the grotto’s ceiling. 
 Of these, he recalled thinking only that the craftsman of yore must have been an unhappy, 
brooding lot to leave behind so many obvious indications of past violence and seething, black 
thoughts. 
As he slept fitfully in his master’s arm, the sacrificial hero lapsed into a dream world that 
was populated by ghosts and the walking dead.  As one, the disembodied populace of Bac Tur’s 
wastelands raged in his ears to vainly cry for vengeance or sorrowfully moan his name.  And they 
all sought to lay their foul, crumbling hands upon his flesh, to touch him in faith as subjects 
prostrate before a god, or to rend him to pieces as an enraged mob that lusts for blood.  Their 
faces were masks that mirrored the rictus of death, or were wavering wisps of vapor that had no 

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definite shapes at all.  And their eyes were torches that burned with a malignant, unspeakable sort 
of light. 
In his wretched dreams, the dead called out to him, and followed his movements longingly 
with their inferno gazes.  They would ask him in whispers, ‘Warfarer mighty, where would you 
go.  What would you do.  What evil implement of slaughter will you now accept into your 
bloody right hand.’ 
While some in angrier tones would spit upon him from the shadowy nightscape, and hiss, 
‘We are waiting for you, despised one.  We, that are the work of your bloody right hand, 
patiently demand your presence.  Our wounds will become your wounds.  Our deaths will one 
day be the death of you.  Then, ours will be the unfelt hands to tug you from body, across the 
River Styx, into this fateful land of the dead.  Then, ours will be the bloody right hand.’ 
While still others queried meekly in lost abandon, ‘Who will remember us.  What evidence 
of our passage will remain.  We are never to know vengeance, but will we never be avenged.’ 
and theirs the loudest whispers of all. 
“I- I-” he gurgled, “I cannot say!  I cannot say!  LEAVE ME BE!” 
And they would lay their hands, their morbid, rough hands by the thousands upon him.  
They would drag him down.  Down.  Down into the deepest, foulest pits of hell.  They would 
drag him down into that hated, secret darkness and they would chide him spitefully, they would 
admonish him sternly as a detested child, ‘Be what you will in the grips of your gods!  Be murder! 
 Be mayhem!  Be a righteous hammer that would smash down a contemptuous demon’s black 
gates!  Be light that would vainly stray into dungeons deep, dark and hidden!  Shine briefly and 

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extinguish!  And when you are done, when your intentions are all spent and the whole world is 
laid open to its bones, tell us, Holy Ritesman, tell us all the madmen’s slain, will we ever, can we 
ever know REVENGE.!’ 
“REVENGE!” he shouted sickly, so his trembling echoes split the silence as thunder in the 
night. 
His master clucked her tongue and shook him gently.  Concernedly, she hurried her step.  
The evil of this place drains him, she considered soberly, no ordinary man might have lasted so 
long, and he has come far, but now... now he is fast fading... and with him fades all... I must 
hurry.... 
The wizard’s tail beat back and forth as she scurried along, which motion left a serpentine 
trail in the dust between the splotches of her loping footsteps.  While behind, much further behind, 
a shadow separated from the greater shade that dominated the corners and eaves of the passage.  
Separated and followed at a distance. 
Pandolyn’s mind, however heedless, was busy with the business of spell making and of the 
balance of the Synodal Wheel.  Much must be accomplished in the dim hours to come, she knew, 
much, and she was not certain if enough of the meager daylight remained to see it all through. 
As she limped along, she cursed herself and her mortal failings a thousand times, cursed 
that she had ever slept during the course of their long trek, cursed that she had wasted so many 
minutes talking in absence of walking.  Inch by inch her hated enemy would have his way with 
her, and so it was not the menace of his black hand that held her, so much as it was the drag of 
her own foolish delays. 

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So her own tongue was become a black lash to drive her unwilling legs unrelentingly on, 
on, on.  Faster and faster, despite her burdens. 
While Epsilon mumbled indecipherable tales of delirium and tossed in the grips of all the 
world’s dead.  Now the ghoulish spirits of his nightmares were passing him overhead, down, 
down on his back, passing him from grip to grip, feet first into the terrifying unknown, faster and 
faster, so it seemed he was afloat in a reeking river of vapors that was borne of their dying 
breaths, which breathing was a constant rattle of whispers and rasping of sighs in his ears, which 
breath returned life to ancient throats, which throats demanded, ‘Will we ever, can we ever be 
avenged.’ which accused, ‘You, that murdered me!’ which discouraged ‘Do not go east!  East is 
death!’ which swelled with self-pity ‘Oh, gods!  To die and die again!  Flesh renewed!  
Heartbeat returned!’ which reminded ‘The slain cannot forgive... cannot forgive their murderers, 
however well loved’ that played out foreign wars in the vapors and belched ‘Forward, men!  
Forward!  And now we are dogs at their throats!  And now bite down!’ where nothing and no one 
relevant was there to hear.  Save for the Ritesman, where he lingered on the shoreline’s edge of 
death’s haven.  Where he stood in the last faded grips of life’s light and stared into the darkness 
across the waters.  Which darkness teemed with the fitfully burning orbs of ten thousand times ten 
thousand lustful demons, all lathered at the jowls and obvious in their disgusting eagerness. 
‘Come across the way’ urged they that would devour him.  ‘Come across the way and rest 
your eyes of this weary world!  Rid yourself of that dogged heartbeat, and it not plague you 
longer!  Lay yourself down in your dreaded master’s cold arms and there die!  Be done with 
foolish conquests and senseless longings!  Be done with a fool’s vengeance!’ 

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And he cried out yet again, “REVENGE!” and would not be done with it all.  “I will not- I 
will not listen!  I will not hear you!” 
Yet he could not help but hear.  He could not help but witness the distorted echoes of 
their demonic cackles, of their maniacal laughter, of their hopeless, heart-broken weeping, of their 
mewling cries that were the remnants of frightened babes wailing in the night.  He could not help 
but reach out to the countless open palms that were thrust in his direction and that were 
accompanied by the inevitable pleas.  ‘Aid us!  Offer us succor!  We are lost in this world of 
darkness and evil!  Reach out to guide us safe across the river!  Lead us into the light of 
salvation!  AVENGE!  AVENGE US ALL!’ 
“MADNESS!” responded the demented warrior.  “MADNESS!  It is madness come 
singing in the night with two opposing tongues!  And I will not listen!  I hear none of it.” 
His master sought to soothe him, but was too weary to do much more than huff a quick 
‘Shhh’ as she hurried to her destination.  He struggled to be free of her grasp suddenly, and she in 
turn struggled to keep him. 
“NO!  NO!  I will not go!  HOLD YOUR GODS AWFUL HANDS AWAY FROM ME!” 
he cried at last, and tumbled free of her grip.  Before she could recover, he was up and away, 
despite his exhaustion.  “NO!  NO!  NO!” shrieked the tattered Hero of Alcorde, as he stumbled 
into the shadowed confines of the deeper passage, bounding from one broad descending wall to 
the other, “NO!  I WILL NOT LISTEN!  I WILL NOT GO!” 
Pandolyn called his name anxiously, but the Ritesman was gone.  His long, stretched 
shadow flickered on the floor a moment longer, then it, too, was disappeared.  Cursing more 

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fluently than before, the mage sucked a deep, frustrated breath, and ran to catch him, knowing he 
could not go far. 
Indeed, Epsilon had collapsed just beyond her sight.  She found him sprawled on the dust 
of the floor, crawling sluggishly hand over hand.  “Back is not the way,” he gurgled, “Back is not 
the way.”  Somehow, he had managed to draw his sword, and its blade clattered musically across 
the cobbles with each movement. 
“No,” she sighed gently, stooping to retrieve him, “Back is not the way.  For now.” 
“For now,” he whispered, licking cracked lips.  “I will not listen.  For now.” 
“For now,” she returned magically, “You will not hear.  There is no need to hear.  The 
dead speak of nothing beyond death.  Their desires matter not.  Their presence is a delusion, 
delusions are but dreams.  You will not dream.  You will sleep and not remember.” 
“I will sleep,” came the hushed reply, “And not forget.” 
She sighed wearily and shook her head.  She felt her grip slipping free of this world and of 
the wheel upon which it turned.  A darkness deeper than that of simple nightfall gathered at her 
feet and threatened to swallow. 
Her general cradled limply in her steady arms, his feet, arms and head dangling loosely, Rit 
Merdian mentally gathered the scattered shards of her residual will and forced all her remaining 
might into a single, bright point of light. 
This light she held in the focus of her thoughts.  “You will sleep,” she repeated 
breathlessly, stumbling, “And not remember.” 
“I will... sleep... and... not... forget.” 

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“You will sleep,” she repeated yet again, her tone fairly dripping with tones of esoteric 
power, “And not remember.” 
“I will sleep, and not remember.” 
“These voices that you hear are not relevant.  You will not heed.  You will not 
remember.” 
“I will not remember.  Yet I cannot forget.”  Epsilon moaned feebly and rolled his eyes 
mortally.  The Warfarer’s immaculate sword slipped free of his rabid clutch.  “I will AVENGE!  I 
WILL DO THIS FEAR!” 
“Aye,” she sighed, stooping to retrieve his cherished blade and tuck it beneath her already 
burdened arm.  “You are the better angel of vengeance.  And so remember if you will.  Listen if 
you must, but do not run from me again.  I have not the strength to chase you, and the dangers of 
this place are unknown, even to me.” 
She started forward again after a moment’s respite and a few deep, troubled breaths.  
Now the passage curved back on itself, and the decline increased.  The walls were no longer 
neatly trimmed or adorned, but were roughly hewn, hacked out of Bac Tur’s unforgiving 
heartrock.  She passed beneath the hall’s strangely burning lamps less and less often, until she was 
gone by the last one.  Her world was plunged into the absolute darkness of lost Argentia’s broken 
heart. 
Kindling her own magical light, Rit Merdian hurried on.  The flooring became more 
treacherous with each step, and was strewn with chips and slivers of stone that had sprung from 

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the half-formed ceiling, which shards were sharp enough to cut the wizard’s unprotected feet 
from time to time.  Bleeding, yet unaware of her injuries, Pandolyn hurried on. 
While behind, where the last illumination of the labyrinth gave way to deepest shadow, a 
darker form lurked amid the gloom.  Once Pandolyn’s light had all but faded from view, it 
scurried to follow on rasping claws that grated against the stone floor.  Still, the wizardess did not 
hear. 
For she was busy with her general’s deliriums.  He tossed and squirmed in her grip, but 
did not leap free again. 
He hissed, “The deeeeaaaad. I am UNDONE!” 
She shook him and called his name anxiously.  But he would not hear her.  His ears were 
all for the heckling ghosts of Bac Tur and of Draven’s Revenge. 
They that would lay their unseen hands unfelt upon him.  They that would whisper 
unheard in his deaf ears.  Every burning detail of their grips was emblazoned upon his flesh, 
through his tattered outer garb and corroded armor, through the thick, stained leather padding 
beneath.  And their words settled through the boundless fogs of his delirium to be delivered full 
into the crazily rushing flood of his fevered thoughts. 
‘We know you.  You are of us.  You are but the waking dead, while we sleep.  Soon you, 
too, shall sleep.  And in sleeping dwell with us, here.’ 
To which he shouted, “NO!  I will not!” 
The ghouls sniggered sarcastically, and their rasping chuckles came as a million autumn 
leaves driven across the ground on a hateful gale.  ‘He that shall not die!’ mocked they.  ‘The 

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slayer that will not be slain!  We are, all of us, the undying.  Yea, before we crossed over the 
black river wide, even we were immortal!  None of use deemed we should die, yet dead we are!  
How unseemly of life to abandon us so!  How unkind!  And we all the while ignorant of our 
fates!’ 
It seemed their ghostly hands, like their unspoken words, were burrowing into the deepest, 
most hidden sanctuaries of his flesh and mind at once, all to reveal truths he would have hidden.  
All to expose doubts he had long ago buried 
‘The trembling babe,” hissed the wraiths.  “See how he stands in the last shadows of the 
shoreline and questions; whither will I go once I test these waters.’ their many voices sharp with 
derision ‘How deep the first plunge.  How far the twisting course.  Wherever shall it bear me 
away, once I toss me in.’ as though he were a small girl protesting a summer swim. ‘FOOL!  
Arrogant ass!  In your heartbeat’s fulfillment, you question its lack.  You doubt, but one day 
soon it must fail you.  As our hearts have long ago failed us!  Listen!  Listen and we shall tell 
you all!  We shall answer your child’s silly questions!’ 
“I asked no questions!” shouted the deranged warrior. 
‘Questions are all the living ever know.  You question your low birth.  Your undeserved 
but inevitable fate.  You question why your gods have made you, and why they should drag you 
so through the filth.  We know.  We know all.  We keep the answers you have come seeking.’ 
“I have come seeking nothing!” 
‘You have come seeking much.  You that would, in your haughty ignorance, journey from 
far Empire in search of a conquest named Blackbrow Blightlover, Bac Tur’s bastard monarch.  

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We heap our disdain upon your foolish head!’ and the burning hands ripped and tore away whole 
chunks of his flesh.  Yet his flesh remained, and so was there to be torn away again and again.  
‘And now you linger in our midst, here in this deeper night of hell’s half light.  You dally on 
Styx’ far shore, where all is green and growing, while we call you from this Otherside.  We say, 
come away!  Come away from there!  Do not go east!  East is death!  Why lay you down there, 
when you may come away with us here.  Now.  At once.  Feel our hands.  Our rotten hands upon 
you.  Urging you, calling you away.  Away from there.  Come away.’ 
He struggled against them, and was suddenly aghast to discover how far along the sloping 
shore he had been drawn.  The black, oily waters of that dead flow loomed but mere sticks from 
his feet, and he found himself in his dreams walking, stumbling along.  While the spirits’ hands 
were ten thousand times ten thousand strong upon him, leading him, forcing him further. 
‘Come away with us here.  Now.  At once.  We would love you on this, the Otherside.  We 
would fulfill all your unsatisfied longings.  We will answer where you will question.  We know.  
We know all.  But come away.’ 
How dearly he would cherish such answers.  It had been long indeed since he had known 
rest, and the Styx’ dark waters promised nothing if they did not promise rest.  Eternal rest.  
Eternal sleep.  Eternal dreaming there, on the far shore.  And it but a short, breathless swim 
distant. 
‘Wet the soles of your travel worn boots,’ urged they, their blackly burning hands seized 
upon him.  Their shadowy grips cinched tighter, and his weary heart throbbed against this 
pressure.  Its beat was a bang of base drums in his ears, but it could not drown the whispering 

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devils.  ‘Nothing to fear, you see, nothing to fear from the river’s cold harbor.  Up to your 
ankles, and nothing further still.  Deeper.  Deeper you go. Farther from shore with each step.  
And now wade to your waist.  Wade to your broad breast so full of your last, fading breaths.  Its 
touch cold and wetting, the water does no harm.  It is good.  Its gurgling song bodes well for 
you, promises much in this land where the Moon burns brighter than the Sun, where we see all in 
darkness and nothing in the light.  But come away, come away from there.’ 
“I- I-” he gasped, drowning.  “I will.  Let us fade across to the far shore, and there rest 
beneath the shade.” 
Pandolyn gasped to hear this.  Her magic waned with her strength, and she feared she 
could not save him.  The evil weight of this blighted land drained her, even as it deprived her 
general of his last finger’s tenuous grip on life.  As never before, she was filled with a sense of 
urgency, and somehow found the determination to move her spent legs faster. 
When the passage at last opened up into an incredibly vacuous chamber, she did not 
pause, but hurried forth, beyond the shelter of the walls, into a void that was an expanse of 
darkness so great as to swallow Pandolyn’s awesome mage’s light as a toad might swallow a 
firefly.  Her footsteps and dragging tail echoed unspeakably in the vast unknown, yet she did not 
falter.  She did not pause in her prosecution of their journey, but hurried along faster, her footfalls 
certain and unhindered by Epsilon’s unseen dead.  She had traveled this path many times, and 
knew well the way. 
She followed where their passage was hacked out of the projections and pits of the 
cavern’s tumultuous natural floor.  When it branched three ways many long minutes later, she 

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chose the center direction.  Which lead her down into yet another tunnel that ran straight and true 
and descended steeply.  This way was not so long as had been their first descent, however, and all 
too soon they were delivered onto a narrow ledge that scarcely jutted out from the face of a sheer 
precipice.  And now even the certainty of the floor was removed, and Pandolyn was poised on the 
brink of an unmeasured abyss. 
Beneath her breath, she mumbled, “We are come to the final door.  I must open it quick, 
ere all is lost.”   And she sought a safe place to let Epsilon down. 
Laying him at the mouth of the passage, where his back could rest against a wall and his 
feet jut out into the hall, Pandolyn turned to the ledge and, incredibly, stepped off.  But she did 
not plunge into the unseen depths as she might have expected.  Instead, she encountered a second 
narrow ledge, and beneath that another.  Step by step, she disappeared inch by inch, so only her 
head remained visible when she was at last come to a halt.  Its scaled features under lit by the un-
flickering burn of her magic lamp, the wizardess seemed a ghoulish, disembodied head floating in 
the darkness, and might have fit squarely among the sniggering spirits of Epsilon’s unseen dead. 
Where he lay amid the consumption of oppressive shadow, the sacrificial warrior tossed 
and turned and moaned piteously.  His sword lay across his heaving breast as Pandolyn had left it. 
 This found its way into his hand, and he struggled with willow wand arms to sweep the ghosts 
away from him.  For they had, in his master’s absence and in the lack of her light, pressed in close 
and heavy.  Their combined weight threatened to crush him altogether. 
Crush him, or press him down, beneath Death River’s dark, roiling waters.  Where he was 
wading to his neck, and verging on buoyancy. 

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‘Swim!  Swim!’ called those unbound wraiths of the Otherside, ‘Push away from that 
faded land and join us here, in the dark!  We await!  We yearn for you!’ 
His sword swept back and forth once, twice, feebly, before it clanged to the floor and 
could not be raised again.  Epsilon Three of the Martial Rite felt himself lifted off his feet then, as 
he was swept away on mortality’s cold, rushing current. 
From her own descent into the dark, Pandolyn mustered the scraps of her wits, faith and 
courage, sucked a deep sigh, and called out, “AWAKE!  AWAKE!” raising her talon-tipped 
hands, which both flared suddenly with an ill sort of light.  “I am come at last to claim your 
Revenge, Draven Queen!  I am come, I say, with the key!  AWAKE, THAT I MAY UNLOCK 
THY GATES!” 
Whereupon a shimmer of light answered the mage in the distance.  It was a pearl white 
glow, soft and churning, and it grew in the darkness many sticks deep in the void, and much 
higher than her own scaled head.  That glow flared and swelled erratically, until it was bright 
enough to light the way.  Which way assumed the form of an arched support of stone that jutted 
out from the narrow stairway to ascend into the shadow, even as it flowed across to an unseen 
other side.  This bridge of granite seemed natural in its origins, though it had obviously been 
wrought by the hands of men to resemble the body of a monstrous serpent.  And it spanned an 
unfathomable canyon in the guts of the world. 
At the arch’s hideously graceful apex, that strange light burned and churned restlessly, and 
a blinding figure assumed human shape within its shelter.  It was a figure of a woman clothed in 

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flowing raiment sewn of white summer clouds and glowing angels’ hair.  Her mane and brooding 
eyes were the only splashes of darkness to mar that dancing light, and she was sternly beautiful. 
‘I am Draven,’ returned the specter softly, her voice a gentle echo to stir the grotto’s 
eternal silence. 
Epsilon’s head turned, even as it sank to its last inch into Styx’ hateful waters.  Her voice 
was the voice of heaven in the grips of hell.  Her voice was a sort of light in his ears, even as her 
spirit radiated its welcoming heat into the frigid grips of death’s sucking waters.  The mongering 
dead on the far shore moaned and wailed in frustration at his distraction. 
Pandolyn advanced along the span slowly, her pace sore and hobbling.  A trail of blood 
flowed from her abused feet and followed along in the dust behind her sweeping tail.  “Draven, 
we are come to claim your Revenge.  Yonder lies the key, dying.  He is the Holy One that would 
unlock your wrathful gates, but first you must aid him.” 
‘Why should the dead aid the living.  That the living should become the dead.’ 
“Perhaps,” returned Epsilon’s master anxiously.  “Yet the living may be both good and 
evil, and thus death be both evil and good.  This man is a good man.  His untimely death would 
sponsor much evil in this world.   And your Revenge, so long dormant, could not be loosed for 
another cycle of the sun.” 
‘Why should I care for cycles of a sun I never see.  My fickle worries for time’s cruel 
passage have long since faded.’  Draven’s light shimmered and danced, while the specter stood 
proudly at the vertex of the arch, dominating and beautiful in death as she doubtless once had 
been in life. 

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Undaunted by the Queen’s rebuttal, Pandolyn pressed further.  “You should care, because 
this cycle may be the last cycle.  This failed attempt may be the last ever, thus rendering all a 
failure.” 
Queen Draven scoffed briefly.  ‘All that would claim my Revenge have said such.’ 
“Be that as it may, truth begets the truth.  And now look!” cried the mage, sweeping the 
forgotten Rod of Serpents from its cover.  “What servant of the light has come before you with 
such a captured relic of evil as this.  It is Apica’s own Rod!  As foretold!” 
Draven was undeterred. 
“What false hand would deliver the Holy One in the flesh, as prophesied so long ago.” 
Draven remained silent for a time.  Before she intoned, ‘You have delivered nothing.  You 
have lain a corpse at my feet and demanded resurrection.  I should aid you, but I cannot.  I can 
but keep my Revenge for he that would righteously and properly claim it.’ 
“I would claim it!” 
‘Except you cannot.  You are not a high initiate of the Martial Rite.  You are not Holy.  
Only the Holy may cross over to the Otherside here, and return.’  Another ponderous length of 
silence ensued, before the specter added, ‘You may come, if you like, but come and stay forever.  
On this side, we are all ages dead.  As will you be, should you venture forth.’ 
Pandolyn despaired and let her gleaming hands fall.  Almost, she was spurred to lift the 
Ritesman over her shoulder and bare him across, even as she carried herself into suicide.  But this 
could not be, as she was Rit Merdian, immortal.  She could not die in such a manner, and so was 
barred from crossing into Draven’s dark sanctuary. 

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If only Ubar was here!  Damn that child, that he should be absent when most needed. 
Then she wept in frustration.  And cursed herself for cursing her beloved protégée. 
The futile paradox of her long journey’s climax slapped her full in the face.  Only she, 
Synodal Wizard, might have crossed from far Empire into this blighted land of hate.  Yet she 
could not claim that which she sought. 
Her broad shoulders drooped in abandon.  There was nothing she could do to force her 
general into the face of his greater destiny, either by magic or by mortal means.  To claim 
Draven’s Revenge, Epsilon must somehow find the courage and the will to traverse the span of 
his own accord.  But how, when he was reduced to a wastrel scarecrow, and lingering on the 
verge of mortality.  The Ritesman could not stand on his own.  It was hopelessly naive to believe 
he could be prodded to climb the arch. 
But in this she was deceived.  For she felt something brush past her elbow in the darkness 
at that moment, and was startled to see Epsilon slowly descending the last of the treacherous 
stairs to set foot upon the ancient stone bridge. 
His sword dangled from his slack hand, and his helm was belted beneath his chin.  A 
strange radiance glowed within his eyes, which might have been Draven’s fierce reflection, but 
which Pandolyn deemed to be something more.  This same light shone from the man’s fevered 
brow and from his every extremity, as well.  His feet scarcely touched the ground, as he ascended 
to claim Draven’s long kept Revenge. 
Though he did not ascend to claim his life.  He did not ascend to breathe or foster the 
beating of his heart.  And he was not, in his mind, wading free of the Stygian depths. 

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For, with every step that climbed the fabled stair, he plunged one step further into death, 
until he was freely floating on its loathsome current.  Until he was swept away, and borne into the 
unknowable void. 
Before his dying eyes, a darkness of unending night, which absence of light was also an 
absence of substance, of being, of flesh, which darkness was a cold touch of the grave and a rigid 
dead man’s grasp to keep him.  From the center of the impenetrable darkness, a point of starlight 
was painted on a velvet sky, a ray of the sun pointed him out in the shadow, cast his form in a 
stark silhouette vision of a man, all flailing limbs in stumble and carelessly tossed weapons.  He 
was a marionette, uncertain of its strings or its master gone mad with the sticks.  He was a 
ghoulish insanity, drowning in a swirl of death’s inky waters.  The Hero of Alcorde choked on his 
own mortality and gasped his last breath, there in the depths of Bac Tur’s foul, black heart, there 
on the utmost verge of Draven’s Revenge, there at the apical step and at Draven’s own radiant 
feet. 
She turned her sad eyes upon him and held him in her gaze.  His own grim, gray eyes 
fluttered to shut a final time, and he felt himself remotely fortunate to die with so beautiful a face 
gleaming within his last sight. 
Pandolyn retreated into the sanctity of the hall, and wept in its sheltering shadow.  She 
wept to think of all the evil she had wrought in the name of goodness.  She wept to think of her 
general, dying before her there on the steps, his sword slipping free of his last, fading grasp.  And 
she wept to think of herself, and of the long journey back to Empire, and of the interminable wait 
for another Hero of Alcorde that should turn his martial gaze south. 

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The Warfarer’s nicked sword slid along the steps until its point caught between two 
stones.  It clattered end over end from there, and tumbled away into the darkness beyond the arch. 
 Its blade whistled in the thick, noxious air as it fell, so it seemed to bemoan its own steely death. 
Epsilon’s heart turned once more sluggishly to think of its loss, then all was still.  The 
obsidian river washed over his head, and he was drowned.  His last breath faded in a long, 
gurgling sigh. 

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29 

A Mortal Mire 

“And so you are come a coward at last to your final footfall.  A half-hearted hero, you 
have willfully drawn your last breath.  Now, within arm’s reach of the coveted end.” 
Epsilon felt his form stiffen, but not with ire.  He felt his flesh shrivel in absence of his 
heart’s beat.  He felt the rictus of death force a single, untenable grip upon the whole of him. 
“You that would summon the dead from the hallowed comfort of their graves to fight 
where you would wither and fail.  You that would wear bold colors on your girlish breast, and 
that would boast as a drunkard of feats that were never more than figments.  You that would 
quit.” 
The Ritesman’s tongue swelled, though he would speak.  Stubbornly, it lay still between 
his teeth. 
Prince Rolande of the Kingdom Monteblanc turned a haughty eye on Epsilon’s struggles 
in the depths.  “You are a shade of flesh, a dapple of pink on the dark waters.  You are a ripple on 

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its surface, and soon will be naught more than a trifling swirl down river.  Tomorrow, you will be 
past memory, and but another waft of the errant breeze to populate Puto’s nefarious steppes.  Oh, 
Hero of Alcorde, Master Ritesman of Empire, Prefect of all these Wilderlands, what will become 
of your cause, when your dead hands are emptied and forever stilled.  What will become of us 
that wail abandon, and that had known understanding in your fierce hatred of the Vile Destroyer. 
 Would you have us turn away on this, the Otherside, as you enter into our ranks, would you have 
us return to the haunted wastes of despair where we have so long marched in search of revenge. 
“I that have twice perished at the unwholesome hands of Sin.  I that have commanded the 
deaths of my brothers and sisters in a vain struggle for unreachable freedom. 
“And what of this one, that was lost many ages past somewhere in the Desert Ocean.  Or 
him, that died on a forgotten battlefield far away and gone from his Empirical home.  And what of 
this child wraith here, that was murdered in her mother’s arms while sleeping to dream of plum 
cakes and sugar pudding.  And what of the ten thousand times ten thousand hoarded at my back, 
all that have come seeking vengeance in the face of slaughter.   All that have journeyed in seek of 
a slightest measure of just reward for the black-hearted devil that has slain their daughters, 
savaged their sons and unhinged all that was once straight and true, what of them.  All that have 
traveled from the sanctuary of each their individual fates to meet you here, in this hateful, hellish 
place in the name of redemption, what of them.  What of us that would stand here on this far 
shore, and call to you for your own life, that would call for you to SWIM, GODS DAMN YOU 
TO HELL! 

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“SWIM!” and now Rolande pressed into the waters from the far side, and waded to his 
knees.  “Raise up your protesting head and let your mouth feel the air, then suck from it!  Raise 
up your arms to reach for the last of the light.  Reach for her!  Reach for Draven, Epsilon!  Draw 
yourself free but once, and once shall be enough to save you!  To save us all!  I swear it!”  Up to 
his chest now, Rolande longed to pluck the Ritesman from the river and set him free on the side of 
life, but he was in death, himself, and so could not hope to save his savior. 
Tearing out his hair instead, his eyes crazed, he bellowed, “Save yourself, man!  Save us 
all!” 
But the Hero of Alcorde was beyond hearing.  He was disappeared beneath the shadow 
current and gone forever. 
Rolande wept, and the host at his back wailed heartbreak.  All the lands of the dead stirred 
in outrage, and the earth churned restlessly, so its rocky breast rumbled fear and loathing. 
Epsilon’s form lay prostrate and quite lifeless at Draven’s shimmering feet.  Indeed, so 
near was he to the final cobblestone of his long road, that the hem of her luminous dress billowed 
and flowed silently about his sleeping head. 
Pandolyn cried out in the night, and sobbed without restraint.  She laid her reptilian face in 
her reptilian hands and was not ashamed to mourn the loss of so fierce a love. 
Draven’s face was torn but unrelenting.  She would not reach down to save him, for she 
could not, no matter that she longed to do so with all the faded emotion of an ages dead heart.  
Her light, as it had so often in the past, began to fade, even as the host of Vandegarte’s avenging 
angels faded at her back. 

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Then the extraordinary happened.  The corpse’s fingers twitched.  His hand jerked. 
His right knee slid from one step up to the next, and wedged itself beneath his breast.  
With a last, mortal gasp of determination, he forced his drowning reach up through the depths, 
into the light, where he clutched for a measure of redemption amid the hopelessness of his 
despair. 
Draven accepted him then, even as Rolande had promised that she must.  She did not 
reach out to salvage him, but she held him tight once he had hold of her.  And she would not let 
him be. 
With a will of long frustration that has sensed success, she drew him forth from the River 
Styx, and pried his soul loose from Puto’s unhappy grasp.  Gasping and choking, the Hero of 
Alcorde was snatched free of his mortal mire, and held aloft in the light.  So he was become the 
key to unfasten the locks that held fast Draven’s long dormant Revenge. 
She drew him to her breast, and wrapped him securely within her garment of light.  As a 
nurse, she led the wounded warrior to the top of the arch and beyond, well past even Rit 
Merdian’s ability to see. 
And the earth rumbled with anger and fear.  And the skies darkened to forebode warfare 
most disastrous.  

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30 

The Marching Dead 

The arch rose high and true to cross an unfathomable void.  Beyond lay a vast cavern 
steeped in shade, but which shade seemed alive and writhing. 
Epsilon’s deaf ears were struck with the scuttle and scratch of it, as though countless 
insects infested the floor to set it to crawl, an infinite black body.  Even as Draven’s Revenge 
filled his withered flesh with life, he yet felt the death within him.  He felt wet from the Stygian 
waters that he had waded with but his mind.  And he could yet hear them, the dead, calling to him 
softly from the far shore, so he knew it was they that scuttled and scratched, ten thousand times 
ten thousand feet, restlessly stirring in the darkness, anxious to march where the living could not 
dare. 
Somehow he had managed to free himself of the current’s unrelenting draw, and now here 
was Draven, herself, leading him across to the other side again.  He shuddered and shrank in her 
arms, a babe terrified by dogs. 

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Yet she would not him let go, but held him sternly in the shelter of her elbows and palms.  
Her cool gaze and soft, luminous hands were promises of love and of security upon his flushed, 
abated flesh.  His every contact with her was an orgasm of pleasurable sensation where his flesh 
had so long known naught but savagery and abuse.  A pathetic, needful thing rescued from the 
flood, he clung to her, weeping softly. 
Down the other side they went, more certain with each step, and with each step the Hero’s 
strength returning.  They two in a circle of light where the heart of the earth was all blackness, her 
leading and him, a child at her trailing hand, following more slowly, though without reluctance. 
Down the graceful span of stairs, into the skittering shadows.  Into the unhappy midst of 
the dead that would be Draven’s Revenge, which dead now reached out to touch him further with 
bony hands made real.  They whispered and gasped in awe, their bones clattering and clacking, 
ancient, rusted armor rattling, molded leathern wear creaking. 
‘He is not a god, but a man.  A mortal man...’ 
‘He is the Holy One, come to redeem us all.  Come to set us loose against the devil...’ 
‘He is the breath we have so long held in wait...’ 
‘He is the last beat of our hearts that have so long ached...’ 
‘He is come to dispel the forever darkness...’ 
‘He is come, at long last, he is come...’ 
Epsilon stumbled to his knees before them, and was deeply ashamed.  Yet they did not 
retract in disgust, but rushed in to lift him up, to bear him from the arch and carry him up the 
opposite riser of stairs and into a magnificent grotto keep carved into the far cliff face.  

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Recovering from untold ages of darkness, un-burning lamps flared to life all along the ramparts 
and walls, so it was soon rendered a marvelous tower of light. 
The sheer structure of it was staggering, for it seemed the entire world sat atop its 
crowning parapets, which glowed with lamplight hundreds of sticks above his head.  The gorge at 
their backs provided a convenient sort of mote, while the flanks of the massive keep were shielded 
all around by the granite bones of the earth.  From Draven’s side of the bridge, the castle rose up 
in successive tiers of walled defenses, each wall protected by a series of towers, each tower 
arranged to support its mates.  At its heights, the final structures of it blended with the high 
ceiling of the grotto, so it seemed only bats and their ilk might harbor hopes of prosecuting an 
attack to the pinnacles. 
Draven’s light and the hands of the dead encouraged him through the outer wall, where 
further masses of the un-dead stood waiting in ranks.  As a dark host, they cheered him and 
sounded their steel weapons on the iron studs of their bucklers and shields. 
These grim specters parted the way before him in deference, and he saw that a large, 
heavily armored horse was held there at the bridle, patiently waiting for the touch of his foot to its 
stirrups.  The beast was as grim as the host that presented it, and it was jet black beneath the dull 
gleam of polished steel plate armor. 
As he neared, leaning heavily on Queen Draven’s harboring shoulder, Epsilon was startled 
to realize this was his own Helmcleaver, revived from the brink of death by some powerful magic. 
 Further, he noted that the armor was of the finest manufacture and the strongest alloy.  It would 
turn a lance easily, and it would wear well.  His finger traced the course of the Warfarer’s coat of 

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arms where it was stamped into the everwear plates.  To his surprise and, remotely, his dismay, he 
found his name there, also, stamped into the metal as though it had been graven there for ages of 
time. 
He turned his weary, careworn eyes to Draven’s beautiful face, his own face full of 
questions.  “How.” he croaked. 
She smiled, and indicated that he should mount.  The dead host helped him into his high 
seat. 
‘All is prepared.  All is waiting and ready.  You have but to command and Draven’s 
Revenge shall do.’ 
“Do.” mumbled he, all but toppling from the saddle in a deep slouch.  “Do what.” 
‘Whatever it is that you should command.’ 
“Am...” he swallowed with much difficulty.  “Am I dead.” 
‘Yes, Epsilon Three, I fear you are quite dead.  As are we all that labor for Nars as 
disciples of his Martial Rite.  Unwanted and unsaved were you salvaged from the certain fate of 
an orphan, at the cost of your soul.  Soulless, you are lost,’ she whispered, sweeping up 
Helmcleaver’s reins to lead him further into the necropolis and further among its ragged citizens, 
which reached up to touch him as he passed, to tear bits of his tattered clothing away for favors. 
Her last hushed words stirred something deep within his breast, and he was reminded of 
similar words that a dead man had imparted to him.  His tongue thick with deprivation, the 
Warfarer choked, “Godless am I found again.” 

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‘Godless,’ returned she that would plot to undo Vile Vandegarte Wall Builder, ‘Are you 
found again.’ 
Their unwholesome processional worked its way between the two outermost walls to a 
ramp that granted entrance into the next semicircle of defensive works.  From there, they turned 
in the opposite direction to work their way back to the next gateway, and from there, back again 
to the north to yet another gate.  And so on for an undetermined time, until they were delivered at 
the highest battlements, and the horde of groping dead faded, to be replaced by a more disciplined 
brand of corpse. 
These stood guard all along the top of the uppermost rampart, and at every corner of the 
tall structures that formed the dark keep’s most interior works.  These wore brightly polished 
armor and arms, and bore brilliant crimson-on-sable sashes across their breasts, which bore the 
Martial Rite’s coat of arms. 
Helmcleaver seemed to know the way from there, as the stallion carried him without 
guidance through the complex to a large set of iron doors, which swung open invitingly upon 
grating hinges at their approach.  There, the animal paused, and waited patiently for Draven and 
several of the guardsmen to help the Holy One down from his saddle.  It watched its master 
depart, stamping and snorting, as though anxious to make war. 
Beyond the iron doors, they entered into an unbelievable abundance of comfort.  Lamps 
burned brightly all around the circular room, so he could see its full contents from the shimmering 
basin of water at its center floor to the high domed ceiling that was carved in the manner of the 
clog.  Beds of blankets and thick furs lay waiting in one arc of the chamber, while a broad table 

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well laid with all manner of edibles stood at another.  Directly to his left and right, respectively, 
waited a silent gathering of oddly dressed servants and a tight rank of guardsman. 
The former rushed to bear him to the basin’s edge, stripping away his filthy armor and 
crusted under padding as they went.  While the latter hurriedly sealed the doorway and assumed 
stations of watch all around the rim of the broad cathedral. 
“If I be dead,” groaned the Warfarer, grateful for the touch of so many hands upon his 
battered body, “Then this be not Hades.” 
His ministers were clothed from head to foot in long, flowing gowns.  Only a veiled square 
was left open for the face, through which he could not see.  Yet neither did he care to see.  All he 
need know of his benefactors was that they seemed cannily aware of just which muscles to work 
and just how to work them. 
With loving hands, they eased him down into the hot, refreshing waters, and worked with 
long-handle brushes to scrub the grime of many long miles away from his flesh.  The waters boiled 
with filth at first, and cleared only after a shocking length of time and much labor with the soapy 
brushes.  While a pair of masked servants labored to expunge his flesh of the Cal Deca Ora’s 
clinging memory, another pair worked to shear his beard and mane.  While a further pair worked 
at each hand and, finally, at each foot to mend his broken nails. 
When he had been washed to a raw, reddened mass, they drew him forth naked from the 
bath, and examined every detail of his body, applying salves and lotions and potions and perfumes 
to his every cut, abrasion and orifice.  He was not embarrassed by the attention, rather he reveled 
in it as a mangy dog that would have its ticks picked away. 

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Only when he was cleaned and dressed in a loosely fitting gown of white gossamer, did 
they lead him to the bed and table.  From the table, they plucked a seemingly endless variety of 
fruits and breads and meats and cheeses to dangle then drop into his greedy mouth.  And when he 
was dry, they were there with goblets of juliose which flowed until he had all but drowned 
himself. 
Then he slept.  And when he woke, they repeated the ritual, bathing and dressing and 
feeding him, so he was forced into the realm of dreams again, only to awaken many hours later 
and repeat the drama. 
Before long, he stood naked before a polished mirror of bronze and admired his form, so 
quickly returned to full fleshiness from the wastrel scarecrow that had washed ashore on the 
footsteps of the Towers of Dreams.  He sucked in his gut and patted its hairy hardness, turning to 
profile his form and tense the corded muscles of his corded shoulders, arms, back and legs. 
For the first time since his passage from Oreset, the warrior felt to be in truly fine fighting 
spirits.  He felt he could ride Helmcleaver down to hell and back again in delivery of Puto’s own 
head. 
As if cued by these thoughts, a throat cleared at the iron doors, which had been opened a 
crack to admit four dark strangers into his presence.   Draven was there, also, and it was she that 
cleared her throat to draw Pandolyn’s general away from his vanity. 
‘It is time, Epsilon.  Angry wizards have called for your delivery on the field, and the field 
awaits.  While Draven’s Revenge may wait no longer.  Up you must to dress and gird your 
articles of war, all of them that you would carry into a most violent combat.’ 

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The Ritesman frowned unhappily.  “My weapons are all lost in the Wilderlands.  I have 
nothing save my dirk,” and he felt along his waist for a belt that he was not wearing, only then 
realizing his nakedness. 
As always, a pair of the shrouded ones were there to drape undergarments over his head 
and aid his insertion into a pair of linen breaches.  His own rags beyond salvage, new clothing had 
been fashioned for him, which fit as a long worn glove might fit a man’s calloused hand. 
Slipping into stockings and leather padding and a pair of boots, Epsilon listened to Draven 
say, ‘Your weapons are not lost, Holy One, for the clog have followed you along from far 
Verdune, gathering what you would discard in haste or pressing mortal need.  You will find all 
you require waiting for you at the hands of these willing people.’ 
He paused at pulling on his left boot, and turned a sharp gaze on the luminescent specter 
standing before him.  For a mad moment, he felt it should seem strange to him, this conversation 
with an apparition, but the moment passed quickly away. 
“Are these, then, of the clog, also.” queried he, his eyes now on the shrouded ones in his 
midst.  These, of all the creatures he had encountered in Bac Tur’s underworld, did not scaly 
rattle and clatter as old bones knocking at every movement. 
Draven smiled, nodding, and let her cool, dead hand reach down to touch his unlined 
brow.  ‘Yes, for they are ever true to Rit and aligned against Sin.  They have long harbored my 
revenge as their own, and have kept its secrets safe and well repaired for untold ages.’ 
Having dressed himself to the point of armor, the Ritesman lingered a moment with 
Draven’s soft contact upon him.  Raising his gaze to meet her own, he drank the heady stuff of 

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her ethereal attentions, and longed to remain forever a prisoner of this bountiful night bound 
grotto.  Then he sighed leadenly, and stood firmly. 
The Ritesman was returned within him.  Brusquely, he announced, “That is fine.  That is 
good.  Works in stone may please the eye.  Fine linen clothing may soothe the touch.  Yon feast 
may fill a belly.  Yet only steel may appease a need for war.  What of steel have they for me.” 
A pair of the guards struggled at the heavy metal doors to tug them fully open for his exit. 
 While the four dark strangers that had entered with the dead queen moved aside to follow at his 
heel. 
Outside, a row of shrouded ones stood before a calm host of dead troops, which troops 
were all unhappy corpses come to conduct a grim, violent business.  Each of the robed clog held 
an article of armor or a weapon, which they hurried to fit and fasten to him by belt, buckle and 
brace.  When they were finished, he was left standing before his army, dressed for combat as any 
proper field commander might be.  With a final, lingering grip, his helmet and shield were thrust 
into his hands as one, and he was returned to a fully armed and armored state. 
Now Helmcleaver was lead through the crowd, and he felt himself lifted into the saddle.  
So he sat on high, raised up before his would be conquering army to inspect them sternly and 
clearly for the first time. 
They were not, as he had first imagined, a rag-tag lot.  Rather, they appeared to be 
seasoned and well trained troops.  His first encounters with them had left a poor impression, for, 
where they had first been all rust and neglect, now they were all polish and repair, and where they 
had first been wasted flesh and protruding bones, now they were, like himself, filled to a robust 

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fullness of youth, all in their prime of battle readiness.  He jerked at his reins to pull Helmcleaver 
about in full parade before them, then he cantered up and down their lines, admiring them to the 
last man where they were crowded within the upper battlements. 
Returned to Draven’s side, he nodded with an approving eye.  “I find your biding revenge 
well fit, lady.  They should prove capable of storming straight through to Hades very heart, I 
think.” 
She smiled a vaporous smile, and her ghostly hand soothed Helmcleaver’s gnashing 
nervousness.  ‘Well and good, grim general, for it is to Hades very heart that you are bound.’ 
He nodded sagely, and turned his attention to the four dark strangers that had been 
patiently standing before the doors all the while.  “And who might these four dark masters be.” 
‘Be they the masters of your four armies, Ritesman.  Of north, south, east and west.’  She 
left his side to approach the taciturn men, ‘Rockhand, of the northern wastes.  Shelldale, of the 
wind swept southern beaches.  Jallendall of the Desert Ocean’s western shores.  And, finally, 
Barsheem of these eastern regions that once harbored my queendom and all of Argentia.’ 
Each nodded in turn, presenting a salute of fealty and homage.  Epsilon bowed slightly, 
stiffly to each, as he would to a man of equal rank. 
“You are all of the Rite.” queried their general officer. 
As one, they sounded, “Aye.” 
“And your men.” 
“All of Nars,” came the instant, unified response. 

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Epsilon grinned.  Pandolyn had not been overly generous in her description of his forces.  
Where she had claimed ten thousand, he had raised up ten times that number.  Where she had 
alluded to them as mere men, he was now come to understand that he would lead ten divisions of 
Ritesman into contest.  It would be the greatest assault in the history of warfare! 
“Gods!” he gloated swinging Helmcleaver about in parade once more.  “The Evil One is 
all but undone in this!” 
As one, the corps, commanders and foot soldiers alike, snapped to attention and rapped 
their fists upon the steel plates that shielded their ageless hearts.  “AYE!” shouted they, all of one 
voice. 
“You there, Jallendall, what have you of Empire here.” 
And the western captain returned, “None of Empire, sir.” 
Epsilon’s eyes were steely and satisfied.  “Well and good, for they are lovers of Sin there.  
And you, Rockhand of the north, how stand your men.” 
“Strong and true, liege, well ready to fight and to kill and to die.” 
“Shelldale of the south, what say you here.” 
“Sir!  I say let us lay palms savagely to hilt and march down to do the monster his 
murder!” 
Laughing darkly, the Warfarer let his anxious mount bray and parade.  After which 
display, he settled it down to the hard, stony earth again, and queried finally, “Now Barsheem, of 
the east, that would free his subject homeland in the course of this contest.  What shall I hear from 
you.” 

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“Naught but REVENGE!  REVENGE!  REVENGE!” 
And all the mighty throats of Draven’s long kept hope sang out, “REVENGE!”  The 
force of this oath, the sheer, brutal intent of it, struck Epsilon squarely abreast and set his heart to 
thumping as it had never thumped at Alcorde. 
He raised his own fist to the dark grotto skies and returned, “REVENGE!” 
Then he wheeled his charger about to further address the dark four.  “You have among 
your numbers skilled and stealthy scouts.  Aye.  Then let them away at once, with instruction that 
they meet us afield with all news of our enemy’s arrangements and preparations.  I will want to 
know what they ate for dinner by the color of their dung, do you hear.” 
“Aye, sir!  Hear we well!” 
Each captain called for his master sergeant, and each sergeant called for his corporals, and 
each corporal called for the quietest man of sharpest eye among his ranks.  These then left the 
upper ramparts in all haste, their feet silent and their determination fell and murderous. 
“And now tell me, captains, from north around to west in turn, how shall I best use you.  
We have not much time, it seems, before this struggle must engage, but tell me all you may and 
quickly.  Of the north.” 
Rockhand stepped forward fiercely.  “Liege!  We of the north are men of axe and hammer 
and heavy plate.  Little have we of cavalry, but much of strong arms and biting everwear steel 
have we carried with us into our graves!”  Having said his piece, the northern commander 
returned to his line. 

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And now Barsheem high-stepped into his general’s attention.  “Sir!  We of the east are 
well laid with excellent archers and pikesmen.  Half our number will ride mounted to war.  Sir!” 
When Barsheem had returned to their ranks, Shelldale came forth.  “Of the south have you 
many men well skilled with heavy weapons and rigging.  Half our number will ride mounted to 
war.  Sir!” 
And, finally, Jallendall.  “We of the west come dressed for combat in close quarters.  Have 
we long sword and mace in abundance, all backed by the best western everwear plate and mail.  
Full our force, twenty and five thousand men and women, shall ride mounted to WAR!” 
“Gods damn!” cursed the Ritesman happily, “I am become a godling of combat!  I am 
become a king of killers!” 
‘Aye,’ provided the softly glowing Queen of Lost Argentia, raising a hand both to still 
Helmcleaver’s gnashing and to guide the Warfarer along the wall in search of Ilmacht.  ‘It is true. 
 You are a great fear.  Listen, and hear the very earth rumble beneath you.  Pause a moment, and 
sense the Synodal wheel rolling to turn.  All at the touch of your angry hand upon angrier steel.’ 
Epsilon sucked a deep breath and grunted, fully pleased.  “Mmm.  It is a rare feel of force. 
 It is a heady sip of a deadly wine.”  His heart rolled with a pang of mortal bearing in that 
moment, and for a mad instant the Warfarer felt, as oft he had in the course of Alcordian combats, 
that he had come this way, ere now.  That he had somehow been this man atop this horse in 
parade before these troops uncounted times in the past.  That he was indeed mortally strapped to 
a wheel of ages that was bound by its very nature to turn and turn again, round and round, past 

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this same spot endlessly.  “Odd,” noted he softly to his beautiful underworld guide, “It seems I 
have traveled this way before.” 
‘And so you have, Epsilon Three of Empire.  You are well known here.’ 
To his own marvel, the Warfarer was not surprised to hear her confirmation of his 
suspicious.  Instead, as they calmly walked to the head of Draven’s horde, their four captains in 
tow, he asked, “What are the ways of... this.” 
Draven seemed to understand intuitively that he was referring to his claim upon her 
revenge.  ‘There are no ways of it, General.  You are the key that has unfastened the bolt.  Now 
the lock is turned and the barriers swept aside.  All that transpires from here must be borne of 
your own design.’ 
“Then I may simply take these men and go make war.” 
‘Aye, it is time.  You are healed to freshness.  These men are all returned to flesh from 
their grave.  All their articles of war are waiting prepared in the upper chambers, fresh as they 
were upon the dark eve that saw them interred in the depths.  And a spiteful Wizard of Synod has 
called for your presence on the field of battle.’ 
Epsilon instantly thought of Dellas.  Then of Pandolyn. 
“Are we to bring down the walls, then.” 
The way was not far, and they were all too soon arrived at the fore of his army, which 
smartly faced forward to march with a solid stomp of ten times ten thousand ready feet.  Draven 
stopped him before a heavy stone gate that was held by a troop of the red-on-black guard. 
Smiling up at him eerily, she said, ‘That is not for me to know.’ 

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“And what of you, Queen Draven.  What shall become of you.” 
‘I.’ returned she, her eyes sparkling with an ageless light.  ‘I am long dead and far beyond 
care for the musters and mongers of this mortal realm.’ 
“Yet I manage your fabled Revenge here, among the living.” 
‘Aye, it is true,’ came the soft, wistful reply.  ‘For I was once alive and borne of breath 
and heartbeat.  In that time, I felt a great need for vengeance, that the Wall Builder be violently 
undone.’  Even as she uttered these final words, her ghostly light began to fade. 
“And now.” 
‘Now I know he had undone himself long before ever he set his vile hands to my throat.’  
Her final smile was sad and somehow satisfied.  In her remaining moments, she beckoned for the 
breech of the final gate.  ‘Still, it may suffice to at long last have an end of this mad bargain I have 
made.  It may suffice to finally fade from this tomb of pain and dire fortune.  I go now to play as a 
happy child among the meadows of the gods.  May all your passages be as safe and welcome...’ 
and she was gone forever from the land. 
Epsilon rubbed his eyes and shook his head, feeling not a little bit strange, and turned 
about in his saddle suddenly, as though to verify the men at his back.  Indeed were they yet 
gathered there, ready to march into doom. 
As the heavy gate was tugged wide by the men of red-on-black, Epsilon shouted for all to 
hear.  “And now, ye men of the compass, are we bound into Hades’ heart to claim a disastrous 
doom!  Death to Sin!”  And he started Helmcleaver through the gate at a smart canter.  “Down 
with Ilmacht!” 

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Whereupon ten times ten thousand fists struck breasts with a foreboding BOOM!  And ten 
times ten thousand anxious feet lurched forward into marching for Nars. 
Now Shelldale cried, “If miles are minutes, then I be worlds unwound!" 
"BUT MINUTES BE RIVERS AND WE LONG DROWNED!"  CLAP! 
Next Rockhand called, “War seem silver and death seem gold!” 
“SO POOR ARE WE THAT SHOULD E’RE GROW OLD!”  CLAP! 
Then Jallendall with, “Last the grip to let slip the knife!” 
“BE THE MAN THAT SAVES HIS BLOODY LIFE!”  CLAP! 
And Barsheem of the east.  “Now damn the blood and slip on guts!” 
“TO EAT OF STEEL AND DRINK OF CUTS!”  CLAP! 
All of which was followed by a low cheer from the men and women of Draven’s Revenge, 
then a long silence that was broken only by the jingle of armor and steel weapons and the rasping 
of soldiers’ feet upon the stone. 
The way was broad and the exits many, and each company seemed to know by 
preordained plan which way to take and just where to go.  With a single, grim determination, 
these men of north and east and south and west climbed the ramps that would lead them up from 
their hellish graves into hellish life once more, their hands resting easily upon implements of war, 
and a long dread of ages borne blackly upon their ageless brows.  Long lain dormant and silent 
save for the grotto drip of rain water seeping from the ceiling cracks, the upper reaches of the 
necropolis were suddenly filled with the resurrected, which sought for mount and tackle and 
heavy weapons where these things had been abandoned so many years past. 

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Epsilon rode alongside his captains as they climbed to find their own horses of war.  When 
they were all five mounted and standing atop one of the uppermost ramps, which would 
eventually deliver them onto the blasted steppe that harbored Ilmacht, the Warfarer cast his gaze 
over the scuttling horde where it labored beneath the light of un-burning torches. 
“They are a grim host on a grim errand come.” 
Barsheem cleared his throat to offer, “We have lain in state from times of old, harbored 
safe within this hell’s stony heart long before it was called hell.  All of us having been well 
informed of our fates ere we entered into our pact with Fair Draven Queen, each of us has yet 
languished freely in death for ages un-foretold.  What but grim men could contemplate, then 
undertake such a feat.” 
The Warfarer turned his eye on this one.  He was a dark man, of dark hair and eye, and 
tall, though his frame was slight and wiry.   As a warrior, he would be quick and long-winded, and 
that wildness in his burning eyes was an indication of madness.  This one would rage in the 
thickest of it. 
“What of these men from north and south and west.  Why would they lay themselves so 
low for a land lost so far beyond their homeland walls.” 
Jallendall was there at once.  “For the west, we are all displaced from our lands by the 
marauding Wall Builder.  Having marched off to war from happy hearth and home only to return 
to ashes and grave markers, we are all of us rogues in search of a fight.  Having naught to lose but 
ourselves, and hearing of Draven’s plight in the east, Draven that had been a beacon of hope on 
the Desert Ocean’s far shore, we selected this death over that.” 

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“Aye,” spat Rockhand, “So it was with the north.  Where we wandered in shattered 
profusion about the ruins of our toppled country, a fierce wizard came among us to monger war.  
It was an ancient monger, of which we were sorely weary.  Much of the lust had been bled from 
our pale veins through long years of fighting, you see, and we were but boys and girls and a 
handful of old war-dogs that refused to die.  Those of us that would fight came here.  Those that 
would not have long since perished in slavery.” 
“And the south.” queried Epsilon, when it seemed Shelldale would not freely speak. 
“Of the south.” returned that captain, scratching at his chin and turning his helmed head to 
drink in the martial display that was manifest before him.  “We of the south were displaced from 
the sea by Draven’s flight across the waters.  Of ships and sail we had plenty, but even our great 
vessels could carry only so many.”  He was suddenly infinitely sad and remorseful, and turned his 
watery gaze over the huddled mass of his men.  “Of women and children were there thousands, 
and of the fathers that must go with them.  Then of us, the unmarried, the orphaned, those that 
had once known murdered families, were there many further thousands.  Too many for all to sail 
at once. 
“And so we would wait at the docks for the return of our fleet.  And then...” he trailed off, 
his voice trembling as though he might weep.  The other captains let their heads down and would 
not see.  But Shelldale was strong and true.  He finished without breaking, “Then was fair Queen 
Draven laid low atop her walls, her body defiled.  Such gods awful monsters were they then, 
those minions of Sin, and so must be they now.  It was enough to fill us with a rage that the living 

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should never know, and we were urged to take up our gear and forever forsake the sea to journey 
into this... place and to die.” 
The Warfarer was silent a moment, then he nodded simply and offered, “Aye, it is a deep, 
biding rage that will not fade or depart.  Much of it have I seen in the torturous course of my 
journey from far Empire.  The dead cannot sleep for it.  And the living may not live with it.  Entire 
hosts of corpses lay tossed across this great land, all perished with the same word lingering at 
their shriveled lips.”  He tugged at Helmcleaver’s reins and moved around to come before his 
captains, their army at his back.  “And, while vengeance may be a proper fuel for the drawing of 
arms, never should it be the sole guidance of combat.  Vengeance is a slippery serpent.  You 
would hold it in your hands that it might bite the enemy, and are surprised when it slips loose to 
bite the hand that holds it. 
“In this matter must we be calm and collected.  In this matter must we be Men of the Rite 
first, husbands and fathers of slain wives and children last.  Should we breech the walls, it will not 
be to loose a teeming horde of vengeful looters upon Ilmacht’s center.  Am I understood in this.  
Further, there will be no unwarranted rescues or reprisals.  Where our friends perish, as 
undoubtedly some or all must, we will not commit reserves in the name of rash, unrewarding 
displays of fealty or affection.  And where we witness great horrors and foul atrocities, there will 
we stand true and sober.  We will not be goaded into charging suicidally into the fray, merely to 
lay hands upon one vile wretch among the many thousands we are likely to encounter.” 
They all responded with an immediate “Aye”. 

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“When we are finished with this fitting, I would have you gather your lieutenants and 
sergeants and instruct them in this.  Then I would have you gather runners and adjutants and all 
your articles of field command, and follow me up onto the plain, then beyond to a high vantage of 
observation.  From there we will see what may be seen, and formulate a general plan of attack.”  
Again they nodded and responded ‘Aye’. Whereupon he saluted their dismal.  “Be gone with you 
now.  I will wait for you atop the ramp.” 
Epsilon watched the four corpses trot anxiously away, shaking his head slightly.  In a hush 
known only to himself and his stallion, the Warfarer added, “Well and good for our strange 
passage beyond Empire into these strange lands.  But for it, I must deem myself a lunatic 
dreaming in madness.  To remember Deldric at the Roaring Lion, and to think of the Great 
Barricade, I am in full wonder to be here, apparently in absolute command of this vast force that 
has not drawn breath since the Wall was new.  Yet how can this be.”  Marveling and yet shaking 
his head to clear it of dust, the Ritesman turned his mount to ascend the ramp, if only to spare his 
troops witness of his dementia.  “Ach, black wizards and magic.  Perhaps I am simply lying dead 
out there on the Wilderland green alongside the unfortunate Kappa Twelve.  All this, then, could 
be my punishments in purgatory.” 
At this, he laughed sharply.  “Aye, that is the way of it.  I am truly dead and gone to hell, 
even as Draven has whispered.  May Nars praise the marching dead.” 

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31  

Hades’ Table 

Jallendall was the first to rejoin his general at the top of the ramp.  As it seemed the Holy 
One was lost in a private reverie, the western captain bade his counsel of war to await his pleasure 
further along the grade, and approached his master alone. 
Epsilon noticed the man’s presence eventually, and that of his men gathered below.  
Jallendall apologized for his interruption, which apologies the Warfarer brushed away. 
At length, the western captain announced, “We of the west are well readied, sir.” 
When his general only nodded and made no sign of speaking, Jallendall pressed further 
with, “Sir.  May I ask news of the west.” 
Epsilon blinked owlishly, and let his stern gaze fall upon the hapless man.  “Of the west.  
The west is no more, save for Empire.” 
Jallendall sighed wearily, and turned to waggle his head unhappily back and forth for his 
men to see.  All of whom were at once downcast and disappointed.  Epsilon wondered at what 

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they had hoped to hear from their homelands after so many ages passed, and decided that this 
magic was perhaps blacker than he had at first thought it to be. 
As Jallendall seemed to require further, the Warfarer added, “You have slept for days 
untold, captain, while the world has been ever awake.  And it has been an evil world, filled with 
sin.  Sin that never rests.” 
“Aye,” breathed the west, “I have not counted the days, and I have no courage to ask for 
the number.  I know it must be long indeed since I have walked this world living, yet... I had 
hoped... that perhaps, somehow, in some fashion...” 
Epsilon nodded sagely when the other stopped speaking.  “This is expected.  But I tell you 
now the west is naught but the wilder lands that lay outside Vandegarte’s Great Barricade.  That 
damnable wall defines the world entire, it seems, as there are but two countries today, these being 
the nations of Empire and of anarchy.  Though the truth pains me as an arrow to the heart, I must 
pluck it out at once and tell you how your homeland is all tossed down.  If the walls of your cities 
yet stand, then they are overgrown by ivies and forest creepers.  All your fields have long lain 
fallow, unplowed and uncut.  The windows and doorways of your homes are kept by naught but 
shadows and shades, and the cobbles of your streets have long been uprooted by weeds.” 
Jallendall sighed leadenly, weary beyond Epsilon’s understanding.  “You are too eloquent 
in your descriptions of my disaster, sir.” 
“It is best to lance a festering boil quickly and all at once.  Would you linger in your 
misconceptions and regrets until the fever of it has raged out of all control.  Would you perish for 
your misplaced hopes.” 

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“You site Nar’s disciplines well, Holy Warfarer, but you need have no fears.  I have not 
stood for so long to merely crumple to my knees as a heart-broken girl.  Though it pains me, this 
truth you have delivered shall serve only to steel the cause within me, to harden my resolve and 
strengthen my murderous arms.” 
Epsilon grunted his satisfaction.  “Well and good, Jallendall, as the world knows not a 
finer land for murder than this foul Bac Tur.” 
Now the captains of south, north and east climbed the ramp, even as a squad of red on 
black Ritesman descended silently from the shadows at the uppermost heights of the grade, where 
they had long stood guard unseen. 
All corners of the compass, come as they were in full battle dress in the company of all 
their adjutants and counselors of war, stood before General Epsilon and saluted their fealty.  
Sitting there atop Helmcleaver in the dim light of mages’ un-burning torches, the Warfarer 
pondered the strangeness of this, his eventual fate once more. 
What indecency had orphaned him into this terrible world that has no love of orphans.  
What sinister hand of ether had stretched out to pluck him from the Styx, if only that his life might 
be cruelly forfeit in the name of Empire and Nar’s Martial Rite.  What bloodlust had filled him to 
inspire his victories at Alcorde.  And what madness had driven him south beyond the Wall. 
Now this.  This abomination that was Draven’s Revenge, that was his fell army of the 
marching dead. 
Yet he was not afraid.  He was not revolted or horrified. 

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Rather, sitting there atop Helmcleaver in the dim light of mages’ un-burning torches, 
Epsilon was thrilled to the core of his being by this vision of martial splendor, by these corpses 
that had long lain in wait at the foot of their enemy’s capitol walls, ready for his hand that would 
lead them into battle.  Ten times ten thousand angry men and women, all veterans of countless 
campaigns, all gathered before him now in this dark, hateful place, their vengeful eyes all turned 
upon in him in question.  What would he do.  How should this carnage begin. 
“By the gods!” declared he upon an explosive breath, “What but Nars’ own pride stands 
before me!  I might storm all of Empire in a week with this grim host at my back, and so I think 
we shall make quick and sloppy work of foul Ilmacht this day!” 
Without a cheer, the army slapped arms across breasts to acknowledge his words, then 
began grouping by rank at the exits of their brooding tomb.  Epsilon turned his charger about to 
climb the ramp to its head, his captains and counsels in tow. 
Standing before a sheer breadth of stone that obscured the passage, which Epsilon 
assumed to be the same sort of enchanted portal as he had encountered upon his arrival in Bac 
Tur, the general was surprised when the red-on-black guard prevented his passage.  Though he 
ordered them harshly away, they would not let go Helmcleaver’s bridle and they would not let 
him by. 
Before he could react more harshly still, a squad of these capable guard dashed headlong 
through the apparently solid stone to disappear into the unknown on the far side.  Presently, a 
larger troop marshaled before the doorway and followed the first guardsmen through.  Only then 
was Epsilon released to proceed. 

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Turning to Jallendall, whose speech was most familiar to his western ears, Epsilon asked, 
“Are these men of the red-on-black to be my bodyguard.” 
“Aye, it would seem so.” 
“What of them, then.” 
Jallendall raised his shoulders and turned his questioning eye on his fellow captains, who 
also shrugged shoulders and raised empty palms.  “We know only of these red-on-black that they 
seem to be favored by Queen Draven in the keeping of this place and of her many secrets.  We 
read their insignia, as have you, and suppose that they are high disciples of the Rite.  Beyond that, 
we guess.” 
“They do not speak.” 
“Not that I have heard.” 
But Epsilon was too busy with Helmcleaver’s reigns, as the animal balked at trotting 
through a solid wall of granite.  A none too gentle kick of his spurred heels sent the charger 
through, then out the other side. 
Prepared as he was by his journey across Bac Tur and his near fatal excursion to the far 
foot of this mountain that had spat him out again, Epsilon was nonetheless awed by the waste that 
was all of Ilmacht and its blasted, smoking outlying regions.  Across the ruinous plain that was 
Hades’ Table, stood a tower of towers, all ringed round by high, thick walls.  At the daunting 
city’s back stood a scarred and much abused mountain, which peak smoked and rumbled and 
coughed up a burning plume as though it were a monstrous chimney to serve an unseen forge 
burning at the earth’s heart.  The city, itself, was a many-tiered construction of walls and 

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barricades that occupied the western face of the volcano and sprawled across the high plain that 
was Hades Table, which was well worked by pits and canals that flowed with noxious liquids and 
steaming vapors.  Wraiths labored there, as they had on the opposite side of Draven’s mountain, 
working at unknown evils in the name of a madman. 
Though it was not well populated, Hades Table was alive with the enemy.  Unseen 
passage there would be difficult at best. 
Eyeing the brighter patch of sky amid the general gloom that could only be an obscured 
sun, Epsilon guessed it was nearing dusk.  Soon, Bulcan’s Forge would cast a long shadow over 
all of Hades Table, and hell’s heart would be cast into the sheltering darkness of nightfall. 
“We have been called into contest at precisely the proper moment,” said he to himself.  
Turning to his captains, he barked instructions that they locate a proper view of the arena on high, 
then send for him. 
A handful of scouts went in search of this place, as he carefully lead Helmcleaver out of 
the hidden crag and through the many sharply angled boulders that sheltered the peak’s flanks.  
Men of the red-on-black followed, as did his captains, all anxious for their enemy and wary of 
betraying their secret presence at the Table’s edge. 
Presently, Epsilon and his entourage were called to altitude, where they found a secure 
place on a well-concealed ridge, from which vantage they could view the plain below in the dismal 
sun’s last fading light.  There, they laid plans until the land was dark and the way was opened to 
cross over to Ilmacht’s daunting defenses. 

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When the first round of scouts returned to report on conditions atop the plain and within 
Ilmacht’s walls, it was decided that a large body of infantry should be sent across the plateau 
using a dry canal that crossed the distance with little interruption.  Once this company had formed 
ranks before Ilmacht’s walls, a portion of it would turn back to the west to scour the Table of 
enemy, even as the remainder of Draven’s revenge marched east to meet this murderous advance. 
Having cleared the plains of obstacles, they would establish a rear guard to hold the 
valley’s mouth and watch for reinforcement, while the greater part of their forces would be 
arrayed before Ilmacht’s lowest wall.  At this point in the discussion, his captains turned 
questioning eyes on their general. 
Rockhand was the first to broach the matter, and he did so without hesitation.  “Then we 
are at the walls and the morning has come, exposing our ranks for all to see.  What next.” 
Epsilon’s eyes were steely and hard.  “You will be commanded when the time comes.  For 
now, your individual objectives are to position your men about the lowest wall.  I want the men of 
the north at the center, before the gates, with the men of the south and all their climbing gear. 
“Barsheem, you will split your number and send half to the north and half to the south.  
You will hold our flanks.  Jallendall’s men, with their heavy horse, will stand in reserves in two 
groups, one each at the rear areas between the center ranks and each wing of our flanks.”  Now 
he turned to point across the high plain to an anvil-shaped hill that stood perhaps a league’s 
distance directly before the enemy’s main gates.  “We will set our command atop yon summit.  
From there, we will let down Ilmacht’s walls and oversee its razing.” 

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The four captains added their enthusiastic agreements, then each turned to their various 
courts of war to set detail to their general’s rough design.  Within minutes, all were gone save for 
the men-on-black that ever lingered at the Warfarer’s side. 
Epsilon sat atop his horse and breathed Bac Tur’s poisonous reek, slowly, deeply, no 
matter that it burned his lungs.  A calming, sing-song chant filled his mind and obscured his 
troubled thoughts, chasing away all his doubts and questions, save one.  Where was Pandolyn. 

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 32 

A Second May Seem a Day 

Epsilon eventually returned to his command atop the Table, where he could watch the first 
expedition preparing for their march across the high plateau to Ilmacht’s outskirts.  This first sally 
was composed of equal numbers from all points of the compass, and each man carried a bow 
weapon of some kind to better clear their way of unwelcome observation. 
According to their scouts, Ilmacht lay at the end of a three hour march from their point of 
muster.  And so, once the vanguard had departed, all that was left for the remainder of the force 
was a long, impatient wait. 
The Warfarer dismounted, and let Helmcleaver be lead to fodder and drink.  He sat upon 
the edge of a tall granite boulder, and turned his eyes upon Bac Tur’s bloody night sky. 
In the distance, Bulcan’s Forge scorched the heavens with its inferno glow, blotting out 
the stars.  From time to time, he watched great blossoms of flame belch forth into the sky, rising 
to impossible heights.  Seconds later, a rumbling concussion would sweep the valley, so base in its 

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raw power that Epsilon could feel it in his lungs, even from so great a distance.  To think of the 
men and beasts that must labor in those disastrous depths... he was awed. 
What sort of madness was festering beneath that mountain.  What evil, bestial workings 
must be turning there. 
Epsilon’s martial mind thought of steel, of rivers of white hot, molten everwear steel.  He 
considered a tonnage of armor and implement, and of the countless fiendish forms that might wear 
such a weight into battle.  He pondered the unspeakable ruination that was the sprawl of these 
Wilderlands, and wondered how much of what he had seen had been borne from the hateful 
bosom of this very place. 
“Gods,” breathed he softly to himself, “It is a hive of locusts that would harvest the world 
into famine.” 
Across the Table, Ilmacht’s walls and ramparts came to life with the flicker of ten 
thousand torches and unnatural fires, so the mountainside entire seemed to burn.  Despite the 
distance, Epsilon thought he detected the movement of disturbing forms before those pinpoint 
flames, great hulking monstrosities that moved with the ponderous gait of olifants.  And for the 
first time since laying his eyes upon the whole of Draven’s Revenge, Epsilon wondered if ten 
times ten thousand men would be enough to see the job finished. 
It was but one city, yet it was hard and well made, filled from bottom floor to top ceiling 
with terror and horror.  How could mere, mortal men prevail here. 
Then he smiled, and remembered that it would not be mortal men at the breech.  For he 
had come to combat with devils of his own. 

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A sound of footsteps on gravel turned his head quickly, his long dagger instantly to hand.  
A guardsman stood at his back, peering down at him unhappily.  It was the same man that had 
held him at the ramp earlier. 
“Your stupidity galls me,” said he sternly. 
Epsilon was taken aback.  For a moment, he felt a buck private, rather than this man’s 
alleged general and charge. 
“What of stupidity have you seen.” sputtered the Warfarer. 
“Of boys that would sit and dangle legs gaily over the precipice verge, a ready mark in 
silhouette against the sky for any knave with a bow.”  And he actually reached down to take 
Epsilon by the cross braces at his back and drag him away from the edge of the boulder.  “Foolish 
child!” 
The Ritesman struggled to stand, but could not find his feet for the forceful tug that would 
drag him down from his perch.  Once he was safely tucked away in concealment, red-on-black 
released his hold and helped his general to rise and dust his scuffed armor. 
“Frankly, stranger, I know not how to accept this abuse.” 
“Accept is as you may, but beware your own brash senselessness.” 
“Senselessness.” 
“Aye, for it sure our enemy would delight in your sacrifice.”  Now the man stood squarely 
before Epsilon, his sharp eyes peering through the slits in his helm, and his broad shoulders 
barring view of Bulcan’s blazing stack.  “I know ought of you.  I know you are of Empire.  Well 
and good, for I am of Empire, as are all these men of red-on-black.  I know you are of Alcorde.  

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Well and good, for I am of Alcorde, as are all these men of red-on-black.  I know you are a Holy 
Warfarer of the Martial Rite.  Well and good, for so are we all that wear the red-on-black.  We 
are all of us, then, of a single mind.  Save for you that would declare your price here worthless 
and parade yourself for any cheap purchase.” 
“According to your speech, I am but one of... how many.  Ten. Twenty.” 
“One hundred of us wear the blazons of Draven’s Guard.” 
“Of one hundred, then.  What worth, me.” 
The captain of Draven’s Guard did not flinch or show his exasperation at his master’s 
teasing.  “You are the key, sir.  Without your presence on this field of contest, this vast host, 
myself included, would return to the dusty bones that he we have for so long been.” 
These words sobered the Warfarer at once.  He lowered his head and begged pardon of 
his guard.  “I had not considered it in such terms.  Please forgive me.” 
“You have done nothing to deserve forgiveness, but simply do this; remember and do not 
forget again.” 
“I will not forget.  Now tell me, if you may, why your men of the red-on-black have not 
claimed Draven’s Revenge as I have done.” 
The reply was immediate and forceful, though void of self-reproach or regret.  “We all 
have tried and failed.  The cost of our failure has been the forfeit of our life, which we have gladly 
surrendered in service of our Queen’s undying cause.” 

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Now the Warfarer resumed his place at the head of the host, and gripped his guard by the 
shoulder to lead him to one side and away from his view of the Table and Bulcan’s Forge.  “You 
claim Draven as your Queen, you say.” 
“Aye, we have sworn our fealty to her name.” 
“This explains your insignia, then, which so closely resembles that of the Rite in color and 
style.” 
“Yet we have forsaken the Rite.  Soulless, we are lost...” 
“Godless, are you found again.  But what of Nars in your service.  Have you nothing to 
do with him, at all.” 
“Your gods are figments.  They hold no power in this day.” 
Epsilon, so long accustomed to his own blasphemies, was startled to hear it.  “What of 
Puto. Of Juno and Harra.” 
“All children’s fables.  All watch fire lies.  I have crossed over the dubious River Styx, do 
not forget, as have you and all that have come to claim Draven’s Revenge.  What did you find 
there.  Gods.” 
The Warfarer paused to think.  “I found naught but the miserable dead.” 
“What a joke, eh.” and this captain genuinely laughed.  It was a bizarre sound in the grips 
of hell.  “Who has fashioned it, I wonder, this marvelous tapestry of deceptions and dreams, this 
mythology of creation and existence that so many deem an absolute definition of all the universe. 
 What a laugh he might enjoy, to learn how far it has gone!” 

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Epsilon smiled, despite himself.  “So you have cast it off as you would cast off a soiled 
cloak.” 
“Aye, and as easily.  Once found, the truth may be quickly believed, while lies exposed are 
as quickly discarded.” 
The Warfarer was skeptical.  “What understand you of the world, then.  What has taken 
the gods’ place in your hearts.” 
“What do we, of the red-on-black hold sacred.”  The guardsman’s face was stiff behind 
his helmet’s mask.  “Nothing.  We hold nothing sacred.  What need have the dead for genuflection 
and worship.  What might corpses require of this world or of the lands beyond the Last River.  
What should be sacred to us.” 
“Revenge.” 
“Save for revenge,” agreed the guard.  “It is the cord that binds us into this unwholesome 
pact with our Queen.” 
“Yet you have made it of your own intentions.” 
“Aye.  We have come to the edge of the waters and let our toes willfully into the flow.  
We have, even as you have, all of us waded to our hips, then deeper to our waists.  We have all 
let tread slip the muddy bottom to float upon the current, which current has carried us away to 
death.  All done of our own minds, with but one regard.  That the Vile Destroyer be undone and 
his hated Wall come crumbling down at long last.”  The dour soldier raised his shoulders proudly, 
and turned his own gaze upon the far inferno that was Bulcan’s Forge.  “And do you know, Sir 
Warfarer, that I have found my soul again in the course of it all.”  The man seemed to discover 

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something interesting in the black skies to the south, as his head turned suddenly in that direction. 
 “I no longer fear the loneliness of my grave.  I no longer dread the silence of my eventual 
demise.” 
After a long moment of thought, Epsilon added, “This must be a great comfort to you, 
while in combat and at rest.” 
The man nodded brusquely, and backed away as though he might leave.  But the Warfarer 
held him with a raised palm.  “Stay a minute, and tell me what you are.” 
“I.”  The guard paused but did not halt his exit.  “I am Omega One, Holy Warfarer, Hero 
of Alcorde, Prefect of all these Wilderlands.  I made exodus beyond the Wall in year seventy and 
eight of Vandegarte’s Second Reign.” 
“Seventy and eight.”   Epsilon shook his head unhappily, and remembered the toll 
collectors that had assaulted him just beyond the Great Barricade.  “Such a crushing stretch of 
time.” 
“Time, sir, is relative.  A second may seem a day, and a day seem an instant.”  He braved 
another retreating step.  “It was only yesterday that I crossed over the abyss to die at Draven’s 
feet.”  Then he was lost in the shadow of the boulder.  His last words came on a foul wind of 
sulfurous reek.  “And, General.  Do not act the foolish boy again.  This land forgives and forgets 
nothing of Rit.” 
He nodded, though the guardsman could not see.  Shaking his head, he leaned against the 
stone to watch Ilmacht’s hypnotic displays and long for a chew of jill. 

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Whereupon his heart jumped and he recalled that he had been replenished throughout by 
the generous clog.  Searching his pouches, without fail he found a large block of the finest eastern 
jill.  Gratefully praising malformed angels, he took a big bite and settled against the stony land to 
more patiently pass the grate of time. 
Around the smacks and crunches of his working lips, he caught a whispered voice.  
Perking his ears and pausing his passion, he listened 
It came again, hissing, “You will choke yourself with such a great mouthful!”  And “What 
a cow to chew a cud!” 
Uncertainly, he turned squinted eyes on the darkness gathered all around.  “Who is there.” 
And the shade replied, “Who should care.” 
“What say you.” 
“What would I do.” and a snigger. 
“Damn it all,” spat the Warfarer with a stream of jill, drawing his sword.  “Have you 
forth!” 
“Or the devil wroth!”  more sniggering.  When he made a motion to call his guard for 
light, the sniggering stopped and the shadow hissed.  “Shhh!  You’ll call them down and spoil 
all!” 
“Spoil what.” and even as he spoke, Epsilon was startled to note recognition of that other 
voice.  It was not Pandolyn, as he had first suspected.  It was - “Ubar.” 

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The boy laughed, and his scaled face emerged slightly into the light, so only the brow and 
prow were exposed.  “Ha!  Look at him there, thinking to himself, ‘Oh, ‘tis more of dead men to 
plague me!’  Ha, ha!  What jest a resurrection may be!” 
“Resurrection.” 
“A resurrection that never was!  A dead man that never died!  You would laugh to have 
seen my master’s start upon first spying me on the far side of this mountain.  What fun!” 
“Fun.” it seemed indeed to be a genuine Ubar.  Yet Epsilon did not let his blade back to 
scabbard.  “Boy... I should take you across one knee and tan your arse with the flat of my sword! 
 Come out into the light.” 
“No, I cannot.  They would slay me on sight.” 
“I will slay you in the shade.” 
Reluctantly, the lizard child advanced further into the glow of Bulcan’s Forge.  It was, by 
all outward appearances, Ubar.   Epsilon approached the grinning fool warily, and let a cautious 
touch fall upon the boy’s flesh.  It was not vapor, but real, living flesh. 
“Are you truly un-dead.” 
“I that never died.”  He laughed to see the general’s face.  “Yes, truly.  Pandolyn has told 
me the tale of your escape through the Cleft and across Bac Tur.  And I want to thank you for 
your earnest intent to rescue me from the trolls.”  Here, the boy sprayed an impulsive snigger.  
“For it was a rescue unneeded.  In fact, it is ironic to consider that I might have rescued you from 
those devils in Draven’s Cleft, if only my master had been slower to enter the gorge.” 
“I saw you bound with chains, surrounded by torturous savages with these two eyes.” 

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“It is true, I was captured and bound.  And they were quite encouraged to torture me to 
death.”  The boy lizard sniffed and sat upon a stone, arranging his many bags and pouches craftily. 
 “For they are no different than men in their immediate fear of all that is strange and unusual.” 
“Then what happened to you.” 
“They had lit a hot fire beneath my feet to burn me alive, when this great hulk of a troll 
came tottering down the hill, knocking skulls and kicking shins.  He put out the fire and let the 
chains down, and treated my abrasions.  A most gentle creature he is, considering his awesome 
size. I felt as a chick with a broken wing in his care, his hands were so large and rough, while I 
seemed a slight nothing.  Do you know that these alleged savages possess an understanding of 
science that rivals Pandolyn’s own store of knowledge.  They have a use of herbs and minerals 
and curatives that would-” 
Epsilon drew a frustrated hand across his face, and struggled to renew his familiarity with 
this boy that would talk and talk and talk and never say a thing.  “Stick me with the point, son!” 
“Oh, yes, well, where was I.”  The boy scratched his waggling head.  “So the tale 
develops that these great beings had been camped at Draven’s Keep not for a love of the fell 
scenery, which they abhor as do we, but for need of their strong backs.  It is they, you see, that 
would carry Pandolyn’s niter across the Earthbones and Bac Tur.” 
“I see.  I had thought much of the clog’s work to be a bit grander than the people.” 
Ubar smiled around his maw of fangs.  “Ah, you are a light in the darkness.  It is true, the 
clog and these mountainous trolls are of the same nature and closely allied.  Long have they 

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labored with stone and earthly things, and much magic have they learned and shared between 
them.” 
“Yet they appeared to be primitives.” 
“Yes, outwardly it is true.  I suppose it is their lack of clothing and material possession.  
They own very little, you see, and have no need of clothing with hides so thick and resilient.” 
Epsilon shifted his stance impatiently.  “Fine and well with them, and now where is 
Pandolyn.  We are in need of her mysterious siege weapons.” 
“She might have been here now, save for her encounter with me.  I convinced her you 
would be happier to see me, freeing her to tend to the disposition of her designs for Ilmacht’s 
walls.” 
The Warfarer grunted neutrally.  Then he wondered if he should put his blade away and 
accept this illusion for reality.  As a test, he asked, “How would you slay a Warfarer on first sight, 
boy.” 
Ubar paused a puzzled moment.  Then his countenance brightened, and he answered, 
“With a powder puff, of course!” 
They laughed together, and Epsilon laid his friendly clasp across his lost companion’s 
back, even as his sword slid into its sheath.  “It is good to have you back again, boy!  I had 
thought you hacked to bloody pieces weeks past!” 
“It is good to rejoin your company, also.  My journey across Bac Tur was a lonely one in 
your absence, though not nearly so hazardous as your own way.” 

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The Warfarer paused a moment to seat himself alongside his young friend.  “Aye, that 
damned Cal Deca Ora was an insanity made real.  I have never been so glad to be quit of a road.  
Almost, I felt happy to see these Towers of Dreams.  Almost.” 
After a moment of reflection, the boy asked, “What next.” 
Epsilon shrugged shoulders.  “We wait for an end to waiting.” 
“Then.” 
“On to Ilmacht and our destiny.”  His bolus spent, the Ritesman spat his wad of chewed 
jillroot to the stony ground, and rinsed his mouth with a jolt of juliose from a full bladder, which 
he offered to Ubar, who gratefully accepted. “What says your master of the city’s walls.” 
“Says she, dawn.”  Ubar drank noisily, commenting on the quality of the clog’s wine.  
Next, he accepted a plug of jillroot and commenced to chewing.  Speaking around the ball in his 
reptilian cheeks, Ubar added, “I have seen her with the trolls, all carrying heavy sacks of niter 
further east, across Hades Table.  I know not how she may work it, but all will be ready by dawn. 
 Of that you may be certain.” 
“Boy, on a field of battle, nothing, save a bloody death, is certain.” 
So they talked easily for a time, and hell seemed so peaceful in those moments that they 
might have been sitting in camp within Empire’s Wall, wiling away the dull hours of evening 
before sleep should come.  But sleep would not come to them that night, and they were not 
camped safe behind the Great Barricade.  Inevitably, they were reminded of their world and 
returned to the thick of it. 

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At a sound of booted feet on gravel, Ubar squeaked and disappeared into the rocky 
heights with a mighty bound.  Dusting the seat of his cloak and rising, Epsilon greeted his 
commanders as they topped the shaded ridge. 
“General, our forward pickets have spied the approach of our skirmishers returning from 
the walls,” informed Rockhand.  “We should onto the Table and meet them.” 
“Aye, so let it be.  As you were instructed.” 
A handful of runners split from the party to charge off into the unknown darkness.  “We 
have formed a heavy phalanx to see your command safely through to the other side,” added 
Barsheem then.  “It awaits down on the table at the foot of this ridge.  Your mount stands ready 
below.” 
“Then let us come down from the mount, captains, and off to war.” 
Their boots heavy and stumbling on the rough, rocky ground, they climbed down to the 
blasted plateau and prepared to make their way across to the far side.  Epsilon, as did most of the 
soldiers that carried them, strung his great bow and made certain that his quiver was full of 
poisoned shafts.  Together, they checked strap and buckle, armor and shield, helm and sword, so 
the mountainside came alive with the echoes of squeaking leather, rattling trappings, and jingling 
steel. 
Once readied, their party of war mounted or set to marching, and they ventured out onto 
the flatlands.  Following depressions and crevasses in the scarred landscape, the were eventually 
delivered to the ranks of their protective phalanx, which immediately started east.  And with them, 
all of Draven’s Revenge was sent against Ilmacht’s daunting walls. 

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Epsilon’s great army spread out across the plain to sweep the landscape free of their 
skulking enemy.  With feathered shaft and glinting edge, they eliminated all of Sin that was 
unlucky enough to be caught between the converging lines of Rit.  As hares before the hounds, 
hapless milts and jetlas and rhiners and not a few shails were surprised in the darkness and sent 
scurrying for cover and safety, as Rit’s line marched relentlessly east.  But it was cover and safety 
that was both temporary and vain, for these men of Draven’s Revenge had long fought evil and so 
knew the ways of it.  They knew to turn stone and stab crevasse for insect forms that would dig 
into the dark.  And they knew to twice kill that which seemed already dead, and to mistrust bits 
and pieces of the horribly slain that inevitably collected on any field of mortal contest.  While 
many eyes witnessed their approach to Ilmacht’s walls, not a single tongue survived intact to tell 
the tale or call a warning. 
The dim and distant moon had come to rest atop the western mountains, when the two 
halves of the whole met again at the center of the Table.  All turned immediately east, then, and 
had assumed their indicated positions before a glow of sunrise had started beyond Bulcan’s Forge. 
By prior arrangement, Epsilon set his command post atop the low hill that stood before 
Ilmacht’s lowest gates, and gathered his captains together in a final discussion of the arrangement 
of their forces.  As one, sharing the same dread and trepidation, they watched the moon set and 
the sun verging to rise. 
When a distressed scout hurried into their midst to whisper fiercely, “We have spied trolls 
at the wall!” 

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Before his commanders could protest or demand a revision of their battle plan, Epsilon 
raised a silencing hand, and asked, “And what did you spy these trolls there doing.” 
“They bear great burdens, sir.  Up to the wall, then back again, empty handed.” 
“And what of the burdens.” 
The scout, a young man of fair complexion, blinked and opened his mouth without 
speaking.  Upon a choke, he ultimately answered, “Great sacks of dirt, they are, that are emptied 
into the many basins and fissures scattered throughout this damned country.” 
“And that is all.” 
“Y-yes, or so is all we have seen.” 
“Very well, soldier.  Return to your ranks and let it be known that these trolls have come 
to do our enemy damage, and are, therefore, allied with us in this matter.  Have no fear, but watch 
the walls carefully.  Keep yourself out of sight as best you may.” 
Puzzled, the infantryman saluted and hurried away.  Presently, runners from all armies 
were dispatched to spread word about trolls and sacks of ‘dirt’. 
As the first minutes of morning passed, Draven’s Revenge took shelter in the cracks and 
crevasses of the land, disappearing from sight even as the awakened eyes of Ilmacht’s walls were 
aided by the sun’s mournful light.  No matter their best efforts, however, it soon became obvious 
to all that they would inevitably be spied by enemy watches and their subterfuge betrayed.  
Anxiously, they gripped the hafts and hilts of their weapons and shuffled impatient feet or shifted 
posture in eager saddles, waiting for a shout of attack. 

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In the precise instant that the sun’s first true rays breeched the burning glow of the Forge, 
a great calamity befell Ilmacht’s outer defenses.  Before the eyes of Draven’s startled army, the 
earth opened up beneath the lowest walls and a great peal of flame belched forth into the sky.  An 
immediate, hot wind chased across the desecrated plain, and the rumbles of its birth scattered 
back and forth from mountainside to mountainside for many long minutes. 
Again and again the same disaster claimed larger and larger portions of the barricades.  
Tons of stone and brick and mortar came tumbling down, opening the way deeper into Ilmacht’s 
black heart. 
Then, just when all considered this display finished at last, yet another violent series of 
eruptions claimed the next line of defenses, so a passage was cleared through the center of the 
lowest two ramparts.  Even before the dust of this second storm settled from the sky, yet a third 
calamity claimed the next highest wall, and after that another claimed the fourth. 
Sin’s forces staggered beneath the blows, and struggled to come against an enemy that 
was naught but a few tons of niter mixed with countless gallons of noxious offal that ever spewed 
from the Forge’s foul flanks.  Straight up the center of the city climbed Pandolyn’s mysterious 
destruction, rendering Ilmacht’s defenses fully open through and through, from bottom to top. 
Watching for their commander’s indications from their command at the hill’s summit, the 
lieutenants of north, south, east and west rushed forth eagerly into battle at the proper sign, their 
throats a single roar of enthusiastic mayhem.  From their frustrated stillness, the troops held in 
reserve at the rear of Epsilon’s lines added their own vocal support to the first charge, so the 

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brave warriors that would swarm the breech seemed to be borne along on the massive, 
irrepressible breath of it. 
Perhaps ten thousand men and women formed the first wave of assault, which easily 
managed capture of the lowest mounds of rubble, clearing the sparse guards from the ramparts 
with hails of arrows and bolts.  Cautiously, in light of this initial success, Epsilon sent a second 
wave up to take the next line of defenses, and then a third to hold the next. 
Whereupon Ilmacht’s defenses came fully alive, and the fourth wall was held against Rit’s 
first attempt to take it.  Great cauldrons of iron rolled out to the higher terraces, and fires were 
lighted to boil the pitch and oil that would soon fill them.  All along the deeper barriers, though 
shattered, a greater and greater multitude of the enemy in all its malignant forms poured out of the 
Forge’s guts to take position atop the remaining ramparts.  Heavy weapons were quickly hauled 
into place and situated to unload into the ranks of Epsilon’s forces from above. 
His martial eyed weighed this all from the vantage of his low hill, and he deemed it 
troublesome.  “We have not climbed as high as I would have preferred, ere Sin came to be fully 
aroused.” 
All his captains agreed.  Barsheem added, “Watch now, General, I suspect you shall see 
the fourth and fifth walls quickly fall.” 
“Aye,” matched Rockhand, “And were we to marshal our reserves to the top of our 
seeming success, Sin’s ranks would come crashing down from hidden holes to pinch us off and 
chop our vanguard to bits.” 

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Then Shelldale with, “We should engineer towers and scaffolds to one side of the breech 
and find a supporting way to the next levels.  The south is ready at ropes and ladders!” 
Epsilon nodded at this sound counsel.  “So let it be.  Send in the south, with full five 
thousand of our western reserves.  Instruct them to clear those dubious holes and shelters there at 
the southern edge of the city.  We will strike them hard in the guts where the walls have come 
down, then come alongside their heads with our right once they duck.” 
Runners dashed off at once to make it so.  The morn was yet young when the fourth and 
fifth barricades, as predicted by the east, were suddenly flushed of the enemy and exposed to 
occupation. 
On a hunch, Epsilon called for the center of his lines to hold at the third level for a time, 
while the south stretched cord and sawed plank to climb the southern edges of the city.  As 
suspected, a teasing horde of his enemy came down from the sixth level to goad him into its 
approach. 
Rit quickly dispatched this parry, and waited for the embroiled rear of their lines to finish 
individual combats and come to order.  Once these central troops had regrouped and formed 
again for attack, and the climbing assault had taken shape to the south, Epsilon called for 
engineers to clear a path through the rubble for his light horse. 
Then he sent all forward to crash into Ilmacht’s center with a ring of steel and screams of 
dying that sounded to the hilltop, even from the steaming distance.  Sin’s forces feigned to fold 
before the onslaught, and Rit was drawn deeper into the city.  Skirmishes spread out along the 
fourth and fifth walls where these barriers remained intact to north and south. 

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Again, as predicted by Barsheem, an incredible weight of the ugliest shails and rhiners 
streamed forth from hiding points along the fourth wall, forming an undeniable pincers to pinch 
the top of its enemy off from its lower reserves.  In the same moment, a shadow concealed the 
obscured sun, which shade assumed the form of countless illdross that spilled from high perches at 
the Forge’s burning summit. 
These winged monstrosities fell upon Rit’s center, even as the enemy’s parry at the fourth 
wall swept around to deny its retreat.  The men and women of Draven’s Revenge had no fear of 
dragons, however, and quickly let loose a murderous rain of poisoned barbs that threatened to 
clear the skies. 
Yet this would not seem sufficient to save the day, as those forward ranks fell together 
into two groups, higher and lower, until the ranks quickly assumed the shape of an hourglass.  All 
too soon, his army would be pinched in two. 
Whereupon the scaffolds and ladders of his southern troops ascended past the fifth level to 
the sixth, and now a stream of dismounted western men climbed to take the heights.  Which 
forces Epsilon quickly supported with a committal of twenty thousand from south and north.  The 
might of this latest attack acted as a riptide flood of mortality that cleared the southern reaches of 
the city and hurried to reinforce Rit’s increasingly isolated vanguard. 
As the sun crossed its meridian, the Warfarer watched his enemy’s failed pincer movement 
become a slaughter of awesome proportions, as the upper mass of his forces fell upon the uglucks 
and shails and rhiners from the higher walls, using the enemy’s own cauldrons of bubbling pitch to 

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first scald then set them alight.  Whole companies burned beneath stinking towers of black smoke 
and soot. 
Which violent event was matched from yet higher walls, as Sin took its turn to tip vats of 
boiling oil onto the teeming combat below.  Friend and foe alike were engulfed in the inferno, and 
Epsilon’s captains soured at the sight of such waste. 
While their flanking maneuver managed to take and hold the southern limits of the city, its 
northern perimeter was yet held by Sin.  The ranks of defenders there swelled noticeably with 
each passing minute. 
Epsilon pointed out the situation to his captains.  “They are massing for a counter attack, 
but it seems a desperate measure.  The upper defenses have thinned a bit, I think.” 
“You think them so short of muster that they must use these forces in the assault or 
perish.” 
His eyes calm yet sad, the Warfarer answered, “Aye.  This is the way of it.  One final throe 
must see it all undone.  And now our way through the rubble has been cleared.”  He paused to 
ponder a moment longer.  “Send up the western horse.  We will position ourselves to take the 
final wall by nightfall.  And draw our reserves up to the first level, that they may be closer to hand 
when needed.” 
Rockhand approached, his eyes on the heavens.  “Have you noticed, sir, how all the 
dragons have fled.” 
Epsilon squinted up at the Forge’s angry summit.  Indeed, few illdross could be seen, and 
those that remained seemed ill-inclined to attack Ilmacht’s invaders again.  “What of it.” 

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“Nothing, except I have seen this before. They have not run away.  They are simply gone 
to roost, waiting.” 
“Waiting.  For what.” 
“For their master to come.  Even now a tell-tale flies to his side to betray our intentions 
here.  Soon, he will angrily arrive, and no god may save us.” 
“That,” grunted Epsilon, “Remains to be seen.” 
And he might have believed his own boast, save for sight of an angry shadow that 
descended from the very heavens they had watched.  Down it fell in a feathery tumble, a raven 
that has been tossed from the air.  Epsilon sucked a deep wind and felt the return of an old fear. 
Dellas.  What would that unhappy mage do here, he wondered. 
To be certain, it would not be borne of kindness or gentle love.  Even now, despite the din 
and the distance, Epsilon fancied he heard a stream of curses rolling on the wind. 
Rockhand gasped at the sight of it, and raised an accusing finger.  “Ye gods!” cried he, 
distraught, “Look what devil my foolish tongue hath called forth from the sky!” 
Fighting Helmcleaver’s strangely troubled reins, Epsilon soothed, “Calm, my captain.  It is 
not your devil, but mine.  It has followed me from far Oreset, even across the Desert Ocean.” 
“Whatever would it do here.” quipped the northern commander. 
“My exact question but moments earlier.”  Epsilon watched the wraith descend, his face 
grim and undetermined, “Who can say what strangeness black wizards may do.” 

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They all watched in silence, alternating their gaze from the battlefield to the tumbling 
specter, until the two became one with a great belch of dust and debris.  Barsheem shouted, “He 
has crashed down to death!” 
“No,” came Epsilon’s immediate return.  “I think not.  His death could not come so 
easily.” 
Shelldale inserted himself into the debate, “And what should we do about this latest 
threat.” 
“Forget for now and press the attack!”  Epsilon whipped Helmcleaver about to still its 
nervous shuffle, jabbing it with his spurs to show his displeasure at the display.  “We must take 
the heights now, while the enemy stumbles in disarray and confusion.  The surprise of our assault 
fades, so we must strike hard and immediately!” 
All agreed, and runners were dispatched to see it through.  As the afternoon blossomed to 
full fruit, Rit’s southern men scaled the center breech of the topmost barricade, and let loose a 
horde of angry westerners on Sin’s failing defenders. 
As the first shadow of evening crept up behind the Forge, Ilmacht verged on collapse.  Rit 
had claimed the four lowest arenas, though these structures had not yet been completely cleared 
of enemy, and had occupied all but the uppermost level in sufficient force to eventually take them 
all.  Sin’s remaining troops gathered behind the shattered remnants of their highest wall and 
fought to seal the breech, discharging all of Rit that had so swiftly poured through to threaten the 
city’s pinnacles. 

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Their victory seemed all but assured beneath the last fading glow of the sun, but Epsilon 
had not forgotten Dellas’ part in it.  What had become of that hateful magician. 
Then darkness came full upon the land, and he was blinded to the contest, save for those 
portions of it that erupted into fiery balls where hot pitch was ignited.  Impatient to know the 
outcome of it, and harboring a growing sense of dread in his gut, Epsilon called for his command 
to follow him across to the city’s interior. 
Protesting, his captains and guard would deny him the passage.  In the face of which 
denial, he stood in his saddle and bellowed, “By the gods, something has gone wrong and I must 
needs take personal grip of my blade!” 
Yet they counseled him not to go and would not clear a path.  After much brow beating 
and chest thumping, they forced him to agree to the dispatch of runners.  “Wait, General,” 
counseled a disturbed Barsheem, “For return word from the attack.” 
Rockhand added, “Many times have I seen sorely needed leaders fall in the prosecution of 
such unwarranted forward excursions.” 
“My father,” inserted Jallendall, “Was slain by his own guard in such a fashion, quite by 
mistake.” 
Epsilon grumbled and remained.  He listened in the darkness for cries of the dead and 
dying.  He strained to hear the battle calls of the living that would sally forth into death’s maw.  
And heard he all of this, yet something seemed strange in it. 
Still, they waited for return of their latest runners.  They waited for accustomed reports 
from the front.  None came. 

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So they sent another round of sprinters forward into the night, with instructions to report 
back immediately what they should learn of the contest.  On through the growing darkness raged 
the battle out of sight.  Their ears told them all they would know of it, as their eyes only worked 
when rivers of burning pitch and oil went up along the wall.  Each of these blows rendered a 
flashed image of the carnage on their night-blind orbs, so they could see the action of it on the 
backs of their eyes for many long minutes after the original sight of it had faded. 
There, behind their shut lids, could they see a tangle of flesh, both human and non-human, 
mired in a monstrous struggle for existence.  All was chaos, but it was the chaos of battle, which 
the Ritesmen well knew and loved. 
“Something stinks of rot, here,” breathed he to himself. 
Barsheem nodded, “I have caught the scent of it, myself.” 
Growling, Epsilon called for news.  “Where are those gods damned runners.  Why have 
my field lieutenants ceased their reports.  Why have our reserves not sent word of their positions 
and states of readiness.” 
His counsel of war shrugged and called for more runners.  But the Warfarer angrily kicked 
Helmcleaver into a forceful advance, screaming, “Damn the couriers!  Follow or stay, ladies, I 
must away to my ranks!” 
Cursing, they called for their mounts and followed his mad charge down the hillside, into 
the steaming glen, then up again through the rubble on the far side.  Through the shattered gates 
and rent walls, which so readily reminded Epsilon of his unhappy passage along the Cal Deca Ora, 
Epsilon waded the debris and carnage that lay strewn at Ilmacht’s feet. 

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His guard, having caught him in the valley, dispatched such remnants of Sin that remained 
at these lower levels, clearing his way onto the field of battle.  His captains gathered at his back, 
ready for assassins. 
Much of death and destruction passed they, but nothing living could be seen.  Their 
reserves, which they expected to fill this lower court, were nowhere to be found. 
Presently, they came across a familiar dead man among the general slaughter, this being 
one of their latest couriers.  Kneeling near the corpse, one of Barsheem’s ranking officers 
declared, “What has become of this man.  How has a whole army faded into the night.” 
“It is the same fell magic of old,” whispered Jallendall softly. 
“Well and good,” growled their general gutturally.  “For we have also come with powerful 
magic at our side.” 
“We should recall the attack until the dawn,” counseled Shelldale uncertainly. 
“What attack.” demanded Rockhand.  “I see no attack, for I see no army!” 
“Yet they are at it up there,” said Barsheem, his eyes rolling to the misty, shadowed 
heights. “Hear them slaying and dying.” 
All paused a breath to listen.  “I hear something, to be sure, but I cannot say what it is.” 
“It is the tumbling shade,” commented Shelldale to their unified agreement.  “It has 
wrought an unknown change in our fortunes.” 
“Aye,” agreed Epsilon, drawing his blade and Helmcleaver about to climb the mount in the 
same instant.  “This is ever the way of combat.  Expect of it only the unexpected.”  Before he 

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could goad his stallion into taking the heights, the red-on-black went before him, swarming up the 
hillside to disappear into the dark and the mists. 
His officers followed in a scramble, all ready to face this latest misfortune with a mask of 
strangely familiar dread and certainty fixed to their faces, as though they had often worn this same 
mask on many similar nights past.  Shelldale drew up alongside Helmcleaver, and declared, “It is 
an enchanted trap, sir!  They will have us all for dinner up there!” 
The Warfarer thought to toss back a brash reply, and reconsidered.  Rather, he slowed his 
mount to a slow walk.  Its hooves were unsteady on the debris tossed out by the second level 
wall, which barricade was laid open to the foundations before them, forming a sort of ramp 
straight into the heart of Ilmacht.  Presently, at the sound of a repeated, gut-wrenching scream, 
Epsilon stopped Helmcleaver altogether, and lifted his padded helm slightly with a thumb to better 
hear, turning his head to peer up the steep slope of the ruined city’s center. 
And he heard the ring of steel on steel.  He heard the slap of parting flesh.  He heard the 
breaking of bones and screams of dying men and women.  He heard pleas for assistance and for 
mercy, even pleas for death.  Above it all, he heard a bestial laughing, laughing, laughing, a fiend’s 
cackle amid the apparent carnage. 
Yet all above was concealed in darkness and fog.  Indeed, save for the occasional belch of 
brimstone and flame from Bulcan’s Forge, Epsilon could see nothing beyond the shattered crest of 
the next wall. 
“I hear much, and see naught,” said he, clearly, “And so I know nothing at all.” 
Barsheem spoke from behind.  “Send up scouts.” 

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“Send up runners.” 
“We should post skirmishers along this line, and advance no further.” 
Epsilon considered all.  Then he turned in his saddle to address the matter at once.  “Here 
is the way of it, gentlemen.  I have lost my force, which is even now possibly dying by the rank 
just up ahead there.  I can sit in the rear areas to twiddle pig tails and hope for the best, or I can 
climb to see for myself.  And so I climb.” 
“But what of our reserves.” called Barsheem, even as he followed.  “Tens upon tens of 
thousands of men, deployed but hours past and now gone!” 
“They were sent to fight and have good men to command them.  Until I see for myself, I 
must assume that they have done their best.”  Still, he did not start uphill right away. 
Instead, he lead Helmcleaver around the collapse of the next wall, listening and watching 
warily for what he could not name.  If only his own wizard were present to counsel him now, 
thought he.  Pandolyn would understand this conundrum.  She would have a resolution for this 
dilemma. 

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He turned suddenly in his saddle to call for Barsheem, then, and ask him if Sin had never 
used such a tactic as this before now.  Indeed, he had opened his mouth to speak, when he 
realized with a dreadful start that Barsheem was nowhere to be seen.  Gone was his entire counsel 
of war, north, south, east and west, so he was left alone on the field. 

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33 

And Now TURN! 

Mounted alone in the killing space leveled between the barricades, Epsilon turned his head 
to take in the heights.  Though it was night and all was couched in the uncertain light of burning 
structures, the Ritesman could clearly discern a vast body of white mists descending from above, 
filling the already omnipresent ground fog to fullness as it came, dropping from the higher levels 
to the lowest as a slinking serpent wending its way down, down, down to find its prey.  It came 
ghostly in the night, a grayer patch of shadow amid the greater blackness of the eve. 
Helmcleaver snorted nervously, and seemed to want to back up a step.  Epsilon loosened 
the grip of his knees, and the stallion responded with retrograde motion.  Gingerly, it overstepped 
obstructing bodies, which were tossed all about the battlements with the haphazard circumstance 
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Despite his dire situation, Epsilon was pleased to note the majority presence of Sin in the 
mixture, though there were many men and women tossed in for seasoning.  Disjointed limbs and 
heads added clutter to the twisted torsos that sprawled amid the confusion. 
His mount high stepped a particularly ghastly pile of such refuse, and he was shocked to 
note that the man kept dead at the center of the mass wore the familiar red on black of an 
Empirical Warfarer.  There, he knew, lay one of his own guard, but freshly murdered.  Testament 
to his ferocious failure, a sizable force of Sin’s minions gathered all about his dismembered 
remains, chopped to bits by his vicious blade, which Epsilon spied nearby, broken at the hilt.  The 
failure of his blade was this man’s undoing, guessed the Ritesman.  A man is only as capable as his 
tools. 
And now all thought of fates beyond his own was dispelled, as the white menace came 
down from the next highest ramparts in a fatal rush.  A thick liquid, it flowed through the parapets 
and broken spaces in the higher wall to fill the killing ground slowly, inexorably.  Inch upon inch, 
stick upon stick, it came forth relentlessly. 
It was merely vapor, he knew, yet something about it was obviously unnatural.  He could 
not forget Dellas Dembar’s Son, as such he was known.  What misery that black wizard had 
wrought up there, he could not guess, except to suppose that this latest threat was of born of Sin 
Apica’s magic.  Many things were terribly wrong with this situation, but foremost, as far as the 
Warfarer was concerned, was the rattle and ring of that descending mass.  Mere vapors had no 
need of metallic makings, or of leathern trappings.  Yet these vapors spoke of many stomping 

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feet, and of countless gnashing fangs.  These vapors came full on at a charge, hissing evilly with 
the exasperated breathing of ten thousand demons. 
Helmcleaver backed further.  And Epsilon, agreeing, slapped his reins hard right and 
about, then downhill at speed.  Fleetly, despite the greater darkness of night, the stallion was away 
from there.  At a gallop, they descended to the next lower wall and flew through its breach. 
The terrain was rough here, as it was well scattered with massive granite blocks tossed out 
of the wall’s undoing.  When his charger stumbled and all but pitched him from the saddle, 
Epsilon pulled back on his straps and slowed the terrified animal.  Soothing it with long, sure 
strokes of its corded neck, he breathed softly, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder, “We 
should find no shame in fleeing with our lives, friend, but let us show some martial pride in it, at 
the least.  We should not break our own necks, when there are plenty of hands gathered about to 
do the job in our stead.” 
Snorting and stomping, Helmcleaver was anxious to continue on their way, but Epsilon 
was having second thoughts of the matter.  That fog was yet coming on, if anything, it was 
coming on thicker and faster than before.  Unnatural though its pace was, it was the pace of a fast 
walk. 
He trotted out to the mid point of the latest killing field, and faced about to meet the 
threat.  Down and down it came, inexorably, relentlessly, a brooding, patient reach for him. 
Now, above the strange rattle and clatter of the descending mists, Epsilon detected a 
brayed cackle far up the slopes, in the center of the breeze.  Steadily, it grew in intensity and 
pitch, until he felt the throat that wielded the voice was standing on the top of the wall just above 

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his head.  Unseen for the white death that had descended onto the ground at Epsilon’s feet, the 
master of that mad laughter moved about laterally at the heights, so the Ritesman imagined the 
fool capering crazily about, hopping from foot to foot.  Laughing.  Laughing.  Laughing. 
Steeling himself for attack from all quarters, pulling his shield high and thumbing the strap 
of his helmet, the Empirical Warfarer raised his immaculate sword and stood ready for the assault. 
 As a foul breath blown down from the summit of the black mountain, that wind struck him in the 
face with a palatable impact.  His tongue burned of metals and acids.  His eyes itched poisonously. 
 An invincible breaker, the hellish comber washed over and around him, and was gone beyond him 
at a harried rush. 
All about, the mysterious rattle and ring of a scuttling horde sounded, but Epsilon’s sharp 
and wary eyes caught nothing more of it than the impenetrable fabric of the wizard’s white 
shroud.  The laughing was not stilled, but rose to crescendo there ahead.  Epsilon had a sense of 
many feet circling him, as he felt the rumble of it from the ground through his very bones, as he 
was a veteran of much drilling, and so well knew the sounds of countless thousands of armed 
troops on the march.  It came to his ears from every quarter now, so he spun to catch it with his 
ears, a murmur of soft, unceasing cursing in a thousand tongues, the creak of leather padding and 
the tinkle of mailed armor shifting with the effort of movement.  As the foreboding fog, these 
noises washed over and around him, and were fled beyond him at an unreasonable rate. 
At last, that mad laughter came down from the wall.  Unseen, Epsilon tracked the sounds 
of it with his ears, and goaded Helmcleaver into a full charge directed to trample it down, as it 
came forward at a rush. 

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Now he discerned words in the lunatic babble.  ‘...abhorrent man!  Gruesome insect!  
Terrible blight!  Foul, foul Ritesman!  And now have at you!  At your throat, these, my hands!  
The hands of a DEVIL!...’ 
By the sheerest measure of instinct, Epsilon kneed Helmcleaver a bit to the left at just the 
proper moment, and then let his glittering blade fall.  Something black and awfully swift flashed 
just beneath his stallion’s gnashing hooves, and so it fell further beneath his blade, which caught it 
with a glancing blow that rang of spent steel and smacked of parted flesh.  Someone screamed at 
his back, and Epsilon brought Helmcleaver about to face into the threat and go again. 
From a dead stop and a pivot, the fierce warhorse dove into the pursuit with all the 
bloodlust of an angered beast that longed to slip on guts.  Epsilon laid low, recovering his blade 
and raising it again for another chop. 
The laughter was stopped now, however, as was the cursing.   In the blindness of the mist, 
he slowed his mount to better hear the footsteps that would flee him.  Chasing these with his 
hearing, he followed along as best he was able.  He was certain it was the form of Sin Apica, and 
he was loathe to leave the unhappy creature at his back, when another stroke of his everwear steel 
could settle all. 
And further, he was enraged at the meddler come into his midst to spoil his conquest, 
when it was all but assured without him.  That he would undo what so needed doing was an insult 
to all Epsilon held dear. 
When he considered Apica’s treatment of the children of Oreset, and of the further world 
beyond that were these twisted, hate-filled Wilderlands, Epsilon was enraged past reason, and 

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could only see to envision that scoundrel’s bony throat in his crushing grip.  Gone was all thought 
of wizardry and black magic, expelled was all consideration of poisonous clouds that would 
descend to devour him with his own fears, extinguished was any last faint glimmer of logic that 
might have kept him still. 
Back and forth as a cutting horse on show, he kneed Helmcleaver at a full gallop, striving 
to run the often giggling lunatic down.  It was a rough, jerking ride, as he fought to cut off each 
of Apica’s attempts to dodge away into escape.  To the right he cut, then back again to the left, 
squealing at each corner, giggling at each straight away sprint, insanely breathless from the effort 
of it. 
How far they hurried so, he could not guess, it might have been a second, it might have 
been a day.  Eventually, they were delivered at the far end of the killing field, where it abutted the 
sheer wall of the mountain from which it was carved. 
So caged by the mountain to his fore, and an intact wall to either side, Apica was at least 
stopped short of flight.  Yet he did not cower and grovel or beg for mercy.  Rather, Apica, the 
man, stopped suddenly not more than fifty sticks from Helmcleaver’s heaving breast.  He stopped, 
and straightened deliberately, and slowly turned to face his despised enemy, smiling evilly to stifle 
his lunacy. 
At once, as if blown away by a massive, unfelt breath, the fog was pushed back into the 
distance, exposing the starlit sky clearly overhead.  When it was rolled back to a considerable 
distance, the poisonous smoke came to a halt and boiled at the periphery of an invisible barricade. 

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Before Epsilon’s dumbfounded gaze, its consistency was cast into the form of a familiar place that 
held a special place of dread within the Ritesman’s thoughts.  Alcorde.  Tesla’s arenas of death. 
Dismayed, Epsilon groaned and slowed his charger to a stop.  Oh gods, he wailed 
horribly, silently, how often am I to return to the confines of these gods forsaken walls. 
Apica chuckled blackly.  “Silly boy child that would play a man,” he hissed through 
smugly clenched teeth and a cruel smirk.  “Foolish upstart.  Fly that would dangle the spider’s 
web.  Dead man.  Die.” 
“I think not,” choke Epsilon immediately, forcefully.  His training was at least brave where 
he, himself, was not. 
Dellas cackled maniacally, and was instantly become the black winged demon.  Screeching 
terrifically, he leapt into the air and wheeled over Epsilon’s mounted head with a single, powerful 
swoop of his broad spoils.  The Warfarer ducked this ineffectual assault easily, and gagged on the 
breeze that followed, as it was an appalling reek of days dead carrion. 
Settling to the same spot at the center of the ethereal arena, the mage reverted to his 
former shape, and laughed.  “You think.  I belch.  These two things may seem the same, but the 
latter is infinitely more relevant, I assure you.” 
“So says you!”  He could think of nothing else to say. 
“‘So says you’,” mocked the devil, pacing in a tight circle now, as though impatient with 
the proceedings and anxious to be finished with an unnecessary bit of superfluous business.  
“Brilliant!  Witty!  To the point!  Oh, it is a proud Empire to raise up such a proud warrior 

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peasant!  I think I will go there, when I am finished with you, and toss that damnable place down. 
 I have spared it too long.” 
Epsilon laughed, and tried to seem genuine in it, though it rang with uncertainty.  “You 
have spared nothing, counting house clerk!  It is you that has been spared.  Where is your master 
tonight.  Gone away to make war on nations entire, while you are here to tend pitiful errands in 
frustration.  I defecate on you, foul beast!” 
Enraged, Dellas swelled and was become the demon again, though he did not take to air.  
Rather, he continued pacing on his devil’s hindquarters, swishing his bristling tail anxiously back 
and forth and fluttering his sable wings. 
“YOU WOULD DARE SPEAK TO ME SO.” 
The Ritesman made a dismissive motion of Helmcleaver, and feigned disdain.  “What of 
you.  Clerk.” 
“I AM NO GODS FORSAKEN CLERK!” 
“Aye,” Epsilon returned forcefully to be heard over the flutter of the other’s ruffled 
feathers, “You are right.  Errand boy, then.” 
Dellas screamed and hopped from foot to foot, moving closer to the source of his 
irritation with each movement.  Helmcleaver naturally reacted to keep the daunting specter before 
them, and its corded flesh spoke of its readiness to do the bastard much damage. 
“HATED SPAWN OF DOGS!  WRETCH!  PUTRID FILTH!” 
“Underling.  Small thing of little consequence.  Trifling detail.” 

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The beast screamed again, fluttering and hopping and hissing and raging with clenched 
fists, closer and closer with each step.  And Helmcleaver ready.  And Epsilon’s sword point 
forward, gleaming in the dim starlight. 
“WASTE OF A THOUSAND STINKING SPHINCTERS!  UNHAPPY BASTARD!  
ABANDONED ILK!” 
Despite himself, Epsilon smiled.  He clearly saw how gravely his simple words had 
effected the wizard, and, as always, he was impressed with his foe’s various insults. 
“Spec.  Small thing uncounted.  Tick buried to your neck.  Well, I shall pluck you free of 
this world’s flesh and pop you bloody!” 
And now the wizard came on in a rush, using his wings to lift his cloven hooves off the 
ground that he might assault his hated enemy with all four freed limbs.  Epsilon was well prepared 
for the attack, and let Helmcleaver back a few quick steps, making room for his swing where the 
quarters seemed short.  Parrying each of the mage’s kicks and jabs and gnashing fangs with 
buckler and blade, Epsilon beat off the attack without a scratch, landing many blows himself, 
which seemed to have little effect on the wizard. 
When it was finished, Dellas retreated to the center of the ring, and Epsilon noted happily 
the presence of thick, dripping blood on the tip of his sword.  Brooding and perhaps licking his 
wounds, the black beast settled to the ground and glowered at Epsilon in silence for a moment. 
“Clever Ritesman.  Ever the disciple.  Goading rashness in your opponent, while you 
remain cool with your steel.  Oh, it is a dastardly training, I think, that you have from your 
detested Empirical masters.  What sort of man is it that would endear a love of death dealing in 

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another.  But all for naught and no matter.  You are brief page to read, and then rip free.  Toss 
you to the wind, shall I, and let you be gone forever from history.  As though you never were.” 
More certain of himself now, as it was evident his persecutor would toy with him, ere he 
was crushed for once and all, Epsilon returned, “Again, I think not.” 
“Yet it shall be.  Wait and watch and see.” 
“I am here, tiny one.  I am whole.  While you bleed.” 
Dellas hissed and flapped his ungodly wings.  “For every drop of me, a gallon of YOU!” 
“Oh.” Epsilon let Helmcleaver come around the arena in a full, slow circle.  His eyes 
turned the crowd, and he was shocked to see a vast horde of ghostly apparitions gathered in the 
vaporous tiers, watching their play with obvious relish.  It was, indeed, Alcorde come again.  
“Tell me something, oh insignificant errand boy, why have you not finished it, ere now.  Why did 
you not slay me among the wastes of the Desert Ocean, where death was by far more certain than 
life.  Why let me cross the high Earth Bones freely.  Why bear with me across the blasted plains 
of lost Argentia.  Why stand by in the shadows while Ilmacht is tossed down around me, and I all 
the while safe.  When a quick arrow or quicker blade might have descended at any time in the 
night to take my life away.  Why all these things, bee’s brain.”  His stallion snorted and raised its 
head to agree, and Epsilon cast a long, disgusted look down his nose at evil Apica.  “Why.  For 
thou art a slinking coward!” 
Apica recoiled into a crouch, raising his wings to fly into Epsilon’s face.  Yet the monster 
seemed to think better of it, perhaps remembering his wound, and instead settled into a crouch to 
pout. 

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“You are but a brief instant in this world of endless ages, Ritesman.  While slow to your 
mortal perceptions, my revenge comes swift in the face of all time.” 
“Swift,” scoffed Epsilon, his tone rife with genuine disregard.  “Swift that would watch 
me day of old age!  No, it is certain you are a despicable coward.  You that hold high authority, 
yet heel to the keeping of Vandegarte Wall Builder.  No, do not deny it, liar.  For he has stormed 
the world, while you were busy counting pennies.” 
“PENNIES.” raged Dellas, his hands pulling feathers from the sides of his beaked head.  
“PENNIES.!  A vast nation of wealth, and but PENNIES.!  Insult compounds insult!  Have you 
no fear of your own painful demise at my powerful hand.” 
“Some say it is powerful.  For myself, I have not seen it.  You fly as a bird, and what of it. 
 I have no fear of birds.  You scratch as a lizard, and what of it.  I have no fear of lizards.  You 
squeak like the small, vile man that you are, but what of it.  Clearly, I have no fear of men.  Now 
then, tell me true, corrupt witness, is there no power greater than your own in all the land.”  
Coming to a sudden tack in the game, Epsilon thought to take advantage of his apparent hold 
over the wizard, and sought to use his words as weapons.  Every little bite would he deliver in 
this, his most lethal combat of a lifetime of combats.  “Oh, I have heard of your wizard’s wheel, 
and of your place within it.  I am told you sit the highest seat of that counsel, but I judge it a small 
place to hold, then, as seen in you, pathetic as you are.” 
“I am Apica.  No one stands over ME!” 
“Yet, I am alive, when you have assured me my death.  Could it be, black heart, that you 
have not slain me because you cannot.  Could it be, wayward brat, that you have not the authority 

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to make a cut into this flesh mine.”  Apica screamed in frustration, and batted his wings, stalking 
and pouting in a ruffle.  Helmcleaver stamped and stirred anxiously.  “Why then send lesser things 
in your stead to do this work, if I am not kept by a higher magic.” 
Dellas spat, and mocked.  “Higher magic.  You are kept by a Merdian wizard.  A bug to 
squash underfoot.  A practitioner of mere decades, while I am centuries long in the lore.” 
“Centuries long in hiding, you mean to say.  While it is true that you once ruled here, and 
it is obvious your twisted stamp is ever present here, you have been overshadowed by your 
captain for ages untold.  You have kept to the shadows, coward that you are, steeped in terror.”  
Epsilon watched his words score at their mark like the barbs of poisoned arrows.  For effect to 
punctuate the words that followed, he indicated the ghostly circus with a sweep of his sword’s 
point.  “It is true you are fantastical master of vapors and ghosts.  It is true you have the courage 
to summon lesser devils by cover of darkness to work your evil.  It is true you have the heart of a 
chicken that would cackle from the shadows, and ever run away at my approach.  Still, I remain 
unimpressed.” 
“You are a fool.” 
“Perhaps.  Yet I am here, ready before you.  Come on, then, and impale yourself on the 
point of my sword.  Be finished with it painlessly.” 
Dellas raised his wings high, and clenched his devil’s fists before himself angrily, so they 
fairly shook in frustration.  “OOOOH, FIEND!  BE SILENT!  THIS IS NOT THE WAY OF IT! 
 YOU SHOULD GROVEL BEFORE ME AND BEG FOR YOUR MISERABLE LIFE NOW!” 

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“Rather, let you down before me on your knees to plead me for yours!  Here, come to 
hand quickly, and I will offer you your head in a single stroke!” 
The demon choked on his own hatred, sputtering.  “BE SILENT!  BE SILENT!  BE 
SILENT!  Gods, but you are maddening bastard!” 
“Why speak of it, then, errand boy.  Come on at once, and let us see who is kept by the 
greater magic!” his fearless words had done their work.  For the first time, Epsilon noted 
hesitance in the other’s rage, perhaps fear, too.  The wizard was wondering, and his wonder 
should breed doubt, and doubt fear, and fear terror, and terror undo him altogether in this contest. 
 Epsilon pressed further, advancing Helmcleaver defiantly, his weapon and shield at the ready.  
“Words,” he scoffed.  “A hiding place for deserters.  Run, chicken, run.  I approach!” 
Dellas raged and fluttered and backed away.  “NO!  NO!  NO!  This is not correct!  Be 
silent now, and let me have my way of it!” 
“Your way of it,” denounced Epsilon sarcastically, “What way of it.  Would you talk me 
across the River Styx, tiny one.” 
“I- I- I-” he choked, backing further away.  “I would have your guts out to eat, and claim 
this fallen citadel for my own conquest!  That is what I would have!” 
“Oh.  And how would you have it, when my guts are safe within me, and this citadel is yet 
defended.” 
The wizard cackled madly and danced from foot to foot, retreating distractedly.  “You 
that would know all!  Omnipotent imbecile!  This Ilmacht is yours!  Tossed down but hours past!” 
Epsilon came up short.  Something in the wizard’s lying words spoke of the truth. 

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“He did not know!” gasped the buzzard, stopped now.  “Did not know that his wizardess 
and all her un-dead ilk are up there even now, opening the deepest dungeons of yon high 
mountain, drunken in their glory.  What of you in it, Epsilon Three, conquering general.  Whore 
that has earned a foul pay, they have little use for you now!” 
“Aye,” he agreed blackly, “I have come a whore to be paid.  Ever the professional in my 
trade, I am content to finish it for the payment, only.  It is enough for me.” 
“But not enough for me!”   Apparently abruptly inspired, the wizard roared happily and 
leapt into the air.  Wheeling about beneath the stars, he cackled and flew and stirred Helmcleaver 
into a dizzying swirl.  “Do you not see it, alleged brilliance that you are.  Do you not see how you 
have come across the world to work my will here.” 
“I do not recall your face as being one of Draven’s revenge.  I did not see you on the 
summit, guiding the assault.  I have had nothing of you but hateful words that mean nothing.”  
Advancing again, Epsilon was not glad to see how Dellas held his ground now.  It was both bad 
and good, bad because it spoke of the wizard’s growing confidence, and good because it brought 
the detested thing closer and closer to hand. 
“Yet this has long been my opponent’s dark hole in the earth.  Whether you undo him here 
or another matters not, as it is his undoing that I covet.  Having finished the nastier work, I will 
dispatch you at once, then dispose of your lowly wizardess, before I pillage the wealth kept within 
for my own.  The depths of that horde shall pale Oreset’s slight treasury as the sun pales a 
firefly!” 

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“Have it then,” growled Epsilon, nearing with each word.  “You may find each step taken 
easier in words than in deeds.  Come, have my guts, tiny crawling thing.” 
“Hated murderer!” 
“Footnote.” 
“Despised slayer of boys!” 
Epsilon’s next retort came with steel.  A wide, sweeping blow that was driven with the 
force of Helmcleaver’s sudden charge, the point of it narrowly missed the devil, which leapt into 
the air and immediately surged forward to bat Epsilon’s head with wing and claw and hoof. 
Ducking and dancing atop Helmcleaver’s certain saddle, the Ritesman worked his tireless 
arm back and forth above his head, taking off bits and pieces of the demon with every other pass. 
 Why has the monster not used his magic., wondered Epsilon silently, fearfully, while his arm 
worked feverishly.  It was a curious question that had no answer, and as such was a thing to fear 
as unknown and unknowable. 
As though his thoughts had been read as easily as written words, the mage hissed 
suddenly, “To strip you to the bone with these horrible talons!  To splatter myself wet with your 
blood!  To bathe in it!  To relish your brains at a scoop of my forefinger!  To savor your gonads 
with a gnash!  To emasculate you on a pinch!  To torture you, screaming, for days upon days 
upon days that should seem a lifetime of eternities to you!  Unclean ape!  Barbarian oaf!  Suffer 
and PERISH!” 
Dellas dodged down from the air with surprising alacrity, as Epsilon’s latest blow swept 
wide and short.  With a gut-wrenching pang of dread, the Warfarer’s expert eye betrayed his 

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mistake.  The momentum of his futile strike would keep his arm occupied just long enough for the 
mage to dash in to make a cut.  His shield was on the wrong side, and too far away to save him, 
so the Ritesman, veteran of countless injuries, steeled himself for the pain. 
Though he might have done so, the wizard did not go for the mortal wound at his throat, 
but was content to merely strike him savagely from his saddle.  Despite the fact that he was 
undamaged by it, this was a mortal blow, for he was down now, his weapons and defenses 
scattered across the stony mountainside. 
Sprawling and tumbling beneath the swooping ascent of his disheartening opponent, 
Epsilon struggled to gain his feet and make a stand.  Behind him, Helmcleaver screamed as he had 
never before heard a horse scream.  At a terror-stricken gallop, the charger was away, fleeing 
from Dellas’ dashing, darting, descending attacks. 
Before he could rise to his feet or catch his breath to shout for order, Epsilon was 
horrified to see the stallion cut in a dozen places ranging from his ears to the stump of his 
whipping tail.  “Gods!” cried the Ritesman, gasping for air and struggling to right himself to run, 
“Gods, NO!”  Up now, he ran after his treasured mount, “To hand!  To hand!  Heigh, 
Helmcleaver, to hand, I say!” 
The horse heard none of it, for Dellas’ black wings were all about the animal’s head, 
buffeting him with foul blinders that sent the stallion first one way, then another in a confusion.  
All the while, the wizard’s savage claws were busy snipping and cutting and ravaging and rending, 
while his vicious, cloven hooves were incessantly kicking and thrashing and dashing.  Helmcleaver 
screamed painfully.  Epsilon screamed longingly.  Apica cackled and cursed madly. 

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Then the charger was down on its elbows and knees.  Now its once proud head plowed 
the earth so stones and dust were tossed high to either side.  Apica raged vengefully, and wheeled 
into the night sky. 
At the summit of his turn, he screeched with the voice of an illdross, and the dragons 
answered from unseen distances and heights.  Following the echoes of his demented rage down to 
earth again, Dellas smashed into Helmcleaver’s helplessly thrashing body, and spilled its guts.  A 
spray of crimson gore washed the crow in heartbeat surges.  Epsilon’s stallion rolled over and 
instinctively struggled to find its feet and run, slipping on its own guts. 
“Oh, Nars!  Nars!  Do death quickly there!” 
Dellas rolled in the horse’s entrails and lifeblood clot, railing and cursing and singing all at 
once.  Aghast, Epsilon hurried faster, sword and buckler in hand, to first cut Helmcleaver’s throat, 
then disembowel that cursed necromancer, in turn. 
“Ha ha ha,” brayed the fiend, “Blood is sweet!  Blood is good!  Blessed by the gods be 
our food!” 
At a full sprint, Epsilon chased his terrified stallion, screaming for bloody revenge.  Apica 
also pursued the hapless animal, adding to its injuries until the stallion collapsed in a quivering 
heap.  On a final rushing pass, Dellas snatched out Helmcleaver’s upturned right eye, gulping it 
down on the wing. 
Fully enraged beyond all reason now, Epsilon hurried in to throw a cut before the vile 
creature could rise beyond reach.  His blow fell well short of its mark, however, and Apica hurried 
into this, Epsilon’s final fatal mistake of the night. 

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Crashing into his back with all speed and force, Dellas sent Epsilon flying in a somersault. 
 Such was the brutal energy of it, that the Ritesman lost his sword and shield, despite his earnest 
grip upon them both. 
As Helmcleaver before him, Epsilon was sent sprawling to plow the stony soil with his 
face.  Choking on the humiliation and dust of it, Epsilon was suddenly quite certain that Apica 
was a master of these tactics.  It seemed he ended up face first in the dirt all too quickly. 
“Now can you see, Holy Warfarer.  Can you see what you have done.” screeched the 
wicked one from the starlit heavens.  “Fateful, is it not.  Such a cruel turn of events!  Quick as a 
falcon strike, and now do you DEATH!” 
Betrayed by the rush of his wings and the timing of his last word, Epsilon rolled 
instinctively to one side, but one heartbeat before Dellas’ terrible claws raked the earth.  
Regardless of his agility, a sound of rent fabric assaulted his ears.  To his horror, he also heard the 
unmistakable sound of rent leather and parted chain mail armor.  A searing pain buckled him over 
his guts, as he rolled free of the attack. 
Wheeling again to make another assault from altitude, Apica gloated in satisfaction, 
having at long last drawn the Warfarer’s blood.  It was no small thing, this, as it breeched 
Pandolyn’s keeping spell, which was bound to the center forces of the Synodian Wheel.  All the 
land quaked and rumbled at the first touch of it.  A deafening peal of thunder followed a blinding 
slash of lightning that exposed all the broad sky at a single stroke. 
“Magic more powerful than Sin Apica.” he screamed shrilly.  “I think not!  Authority 
higher.  NEVER!” 

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Again, Epsilon rolled away, once more narrowly avoiding Dellas’ blow, though not 
without injury.  The lands rumbled.  Above their heads, the mountain groaned, and caught fire, so 
its high, smoking stack lit the very ceiling of the earth. 
Dismayed, twice injured, Epsilon struggled to stand, to crawl, to slither, anything to be 
free of Apica’s tortuous attentions.  Time and again, he avoided those strikes, but he could not 
avoid the wizard’s hateful mouth.  Rolling his burdened gaze, Epsilon sought for Pandolyn’s 
salvation. 
Once more, it seemed the wizard read his thoughts as easily as text.  “Do not look for 
your lizard-ly lover, putrid rot!  I am as her father that would first drown her pet, then spank her 
for her waywardness!” Down he came, forcing Epsilon from his knees into a somersault roll, 
blood flying from his wounds, sweat ringing from his tortured brow.  Up again went the wizard, 
spinning on the tip of his wingspan to come down another time.  “Before this night is wasted, I 
will have her prostrate before me!  I will deliver her potency into a low, wriggling thing that I 
might find in the dirt, and so transfer Rit Merdian’s seat unto an insect, right as it should be!”  
Down again, this time catching one of Epsilon’s kicking legs, jerking him off his stumble and 
tossing him into the air. 
Crashing down with bone jarring impact, Epsilon’s breath escaped in a gush, but he did 
not surrender to the stars that swam in his vision.  He felt, as much as heard, a bone in his ankle 
snap.  The pain was excruciating, and forced a scream from him, despite his resolve. 

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Hobbled now, he could not hope to run.  Yet fist over fist, he clutched at the earth to drag 
himself across the rocky lawn to the safe harbor of the mountainside, kicking out with his one 
remaining leg. 
An easy target now, Apica came more leisurely to snap up bits and pieces of torn Epsilon 
Three.  Cackling with each new injury, the black crow was enjoying itself immensely. 
Flapping his broad foils at a hover, the devil hung over Epsilon’s head, spitting and 
urinating down upon his detested victim.  “Did you genuinely imagine that you would steal from 
me without repayment at high interest.  Tell me now and again, haughty Ritesman, foul offal, was 
the cost of it worth the price.  Are you satisfied with the bargain.” 
Realizing at long last that he was finished and could not hope to escape, Epsilon rolled 
over to his back, gingerly laying his bleeding, broken limbs out straight.  Panting raggedly, he 
fumbled along his belt for his dagger that should be there, but was not.  Then higher for another 
weapon he kept strapped over his heart.  This, also, was lost. 
Now to his right boot, which he found empty.  And last, finally, to his left.   There, at 
least, he found a blade to fill his grip.  Palming it and moving as though writhing in pain, which 
was all to real, Epsilon feigned a greater injury, luring his persecutor closer.  A single cut might 
make all the difference here, he hoped.  A single cut was at least better than none at all. 
“What sort of lies did Rit Merdian spill into your ears to drive you into such horrific 
suicide.  I shall torture her into confessing it all to me!” he gloated happily.  “It has been many 
long, dark years since I have laughed so!  Gods, but it is good to see you there, Ritesman, 

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swimming in your own blood and my stinking urine!  Look at your proud brow, steeped in piss.  
And now defecate on you!” 
And the miserable devil darted about to do so, dropping his deposits all about Epsilon’s 
head, who avoided each with a painful struggle.  “Damn thee, hold still!” cackled the beast, 
dashing this way and that with each defecation.  “It is not the easiest thing to task one’s enemies 
with one’s own ARSE!  Ha ha ha, what fun!” 
Grimacing, pinching his nostrils closed at the top of his throat, Epsilon scurried backward 
and from side to side at a scramble to avoid this newest, most foul assault.  Dellas raged merrily 
to see his disgusted face. 
“I bet you never thought of that at your previous Alcorde, hero!  Still it is an obvious ploy 
from vantage, do you not agree.  What better to drop onto a pile of shit, save higher shit.”  A 
final black mass dropped from the sky to splatter a rock not far from Epsilon’s thrashing feet.  
“Damnation!” screeched the mage suddenly, his anger returned and mirth dispelled.  “And now I 
am empty!  You should have stood still for it!  I might have been easier on you for the relief of 
laughter!” 
With a final folding of his broad wings, the black crow settled to earth at Epsilon’s head to 
stand over him masterfully.  “A long and wearisome chase it has been, detestable Warfarer, but 
now I am bored, and so close you to the last page.  Dwell on these, my last words, as you journey 
across yon pitch river, friend. 
“Hear how I shall finish you with a stomp, then climb to the heights to witness the crumble 
of your long dead army.  Then hear how I shall snatch up your wizardess and would be master 

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with these, my own hands, and carry her off to Ilmacht’s grotesque dungeons, there to torture her 
unto a screaming reptilian death!  Hear next how I shall open the vaults of this keep and carry its 
wealth away to a safe place, where I am free to raise up my dominion by force once more.  Hear 
how you have this eve handed me my junior, Sin Supri, whose home for me you have spoiled.  
Hear how you have, with your fumbling fool’s hands, forged a greater wildness within these 
Wilderlands, for it is you that has set me free to openly despise this earth once more. 
“Finally, hear how my coming reign shall be one of abject terror to let more blood than all 
Vandegarte’s atrocities combined!  Imagine, as you die,” he belched, stepping forward into a 
crouch to stove in Epsilon’s helm with a blow from his cloven hoof, “How your single death is but 
a precursor of slaughters to come.   And realize how your hand, as surely as mine, shall be the 
slayer of countless babes in the night!” 
Epsilon thought of Lollendale of Pathingway, and was truly concerned.  Would they 
remember his name with such derision, he wondered. 
Apica’s final, fatal motions distracted him eventually, as he watched his own death rise as 
a kick that must all at once fall, slaying him.  His grip was slick on the sweated haft of his last 
weapon.  Anxiously, he rolled the short knife in his palm, though he held little hope of employing 
it. 
As he steeled himself for death, wondering at the count of ghoulish hands that must stand 
waiting for him there beyond the River Styx, something wondrous happened.  From the corner of 
his eye, a large shadow dashed out of the darkness at a clatter of stumbling hooves.  Helmcleaver! 

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At a final surge of effort, the disemboweled, half blinded stallion shouldered the demon to 
one side, then lashed out in passing with its hindquarters.  Screaming its last breath in spiteful 
defiance, Helmcleaver toppled to the ground again, and was ultimately stilled. 
Seizing upon his charger’s sacrifice, Epsilon jerked to his knees, then up to his bad foot, 
pulling his good leg beneath him for a last, desperate lunge.  With a harsh grunt and a blinding 
flare of unbearable pain, the Ritesman launched himself atop Dellas’ tumbling form, pinning the 
winged monstrosity at long last to the ground with his greater weight. 
Landing with all his might, Epsilon felt the sick crunch of broken bones beneath him, and 
realized with grave satisfaction that Helmcleaver had left a savage mark in the mage’s abhorrent 
flesh.  Now his short knife came up high, and then down again with lethal force.  Up again, and 
down, punching ear-piercing screams from the black demon with each blow.  Dellas screamed and 
struggled and pitched and rolled and tossed, all to no avail. 
Though he struggled to get a grip on Epsilon’s insatiable fist, which ran with his own 
blood, Sin Apica could not save himself from fate.  A dozen times Epsilon stabbed into his 
enemy’s heaving breast.  Then a dozen times more.  His arm become a pump to drain the foul 
creature’s life way, gusher upon gusher, the Ritesman worked until his muscles burned from the 
effort, until the knife was a heavy weight in his hand, until its shaft snapped on a rib, rendering it 
useless as a weapon. 
Encouraged by the necromancer’s weakened condition, Epsilon pulled himself over the 
wizard’s thrashing body until he could get his hands about the chimera’s feathered throat.  

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Clamping down there, he choked out the mage’s final, desperate words, “From the depths... of 
death’s dark waters... I spit at thee... from Hades’ cold bosom... I strike at thee...” 
Whereupon the wizard died, though Epsilon choked him further dead for many long 
minutes to follow.  When he could at long last manage to loosen his fingers from their murderous 
grips, Epsilon raised his head to see the vaporous Alcorde dispelled.  The heavens twinkled high 
and clear.   The battlements above his head burned brightly.  In the light at the top of the highest 
wall, the colors of his beloved Martial Rite flew in conquer, stirred by a stinking breeze.  At its 
summit, towering overhead, the mountain roared, an inferno. 
Powerful strokes of lightning streaked the cloudless sky.  Thunder rumbled from 
mountainside to mountainside in an incessant peal of echoes.  Beneath his heaving back, the earth 
also heaved, stirring un-gently deep within its rocky bowels, far below. 
A sound of approaching feet disturbed his much earned respite.  Fearfully, he raised his 
head, straining to catch sight of this latest threat that must surely undo him at last. 
“HERE!  HERE!” cried a youthful voice.  “I have found him!  He lies here, and is sorely 
wounded!  Oh, Pandolyn!  Pandolyn!  Come at once and HURRY!” 
Ubar dropped to his knees at Epsilon’s side.  “Oh, sir!  Speak that I may know you are 
breathing!” 
“Ubar.” he gasped, smiling.  “What has kept you away.” 
“Oh, thank the gods, master!  But your leg!”  If possible, the scaly lizard boy waxed pale.  
“The bone is through the side of your boot!  I am sick to see so much blood!  What has become 
of you.  What sort of fell monster could damage you so, Holy Warfarer.” 

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Epsilon coughed, wincing to feel his aching ribs.  “None other than yon flying curse!” he 
spat, kicking at Dellas’ demonic form with his good foot, despite the pain.  “Though he has 
finished Helmcleaver ruthlessly, it was a fight well worth the sacrifice.”  Exhausted, aching 
miserably, both in body and soul, he lay his head back into his friend’s lap, and let his eyes close 
with a weighty sigh.  “Gods, but it is good to pry that parasite from beneath my skin!” 
“But master!” choked Ubar.  “Master!  It is Sin Apica lying slain there at your feet!  By 
your own hand!” 
“Aye,” groaned the Ritesman, his eyes unopened.  “I never thought a mere clerk could 
fight so savagely.  His tactics were brutally efficient.  I should not have survived it, save for my 
good” (his voice broke ashamedly) “stallion.  I am unfastened by the loss.  Forgive my girlish 
weeping.”  And he wept softly. 
Pandolyn’s shadow fell across him then.  He did not have to see her to know she was 
there, for he could smell her soft sent on the errant, stinking breeze. 
“What a mess you have made of yourself, my general!” she wailed, dropping at once to 
begin his treatment.  “And all after Ilmacht’s walls have been tossed down!  What has become of 
you.  We thought you in our midst, but you were gone at a glance!” 
Ubar hurried to add, “We have searched everywhere for you, all the way across the valley 
to Draven’s Revenge!  Only now, upon returning, have we found you!” 
“It was Dellas, you see,” returned Epsilon softly.  “He fell upon me in the darkness, behind 
a veil of mists.  He was intent on devouring me, I think.  His insatiable, unreasonable rage has 
salvaged me.  And perished Helmcleaver forever.” 

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Pandolyn was distracted by a glance at her general’s fallen horse of war.  “It is a terrible 
price that makes such an awesome purchase.  You are badly wounded.  If not for your victory, 
you should surely loose that leg.”  She mopped his lacerated face with a wad of moist, sweetly 
scented lichens, which she drew forth from her kit.  “As it lies finished, however,” she teased 
softly, happily, “You have little to fear from merely broken bones.” 
“What is that you say.” he wondered dreadfully, opening his eyes at once.  “If the leg 
must go, then away with it, but do not lie to me about my prognosis, lady.” 
She clucked her tongue.  “Sweet, fond liar that will not believe anyone else!” chided the 
wizardess affectionately.  “But look to your leg that must come off!” 
Worried, he raised himself onto his elbow and looked.  The bone was returned to the flesh. 
 Even as he watched, his many bloody wounds ceased their ichor flow, and slowly disappeared 
from his body.  A great warmth flooded his senses.  A new vision reared in his sight.  New 
thoughts filled his head.  His fingers touched through the world, into the mysterious lands beyond. 

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When he stood, he stood as Apica, whole and healed and healthy and bursting with a 
strange energy.  His bones were become the bones of the earth.  For the first time since meeting 
Pandolyn in those distant forests of outer Empire, Epsilon glanced down to his feet to see the 
Synodal Wheel, which thrust spokes out to all points of the compass from his stance and which 
verged fatefully beneath his feet. 
“Gods,” he grumbled, rolling his unsteady palm across his sweating scowl.  “I feel strange. 
 And strangely feel.  What is this wizardry working within me.”  His stomach rolled nauseously. 
Pandolyn laughed, and stood beside him with Ubar.  His guard came up now, apparently 
unsurprised to see these fierce lizards in their midst.  Their faces at first worried, relaxed upon 
seeing him whole and well. 
“You are the wizardry working within you, oh, Epsilon Three, First Apica of the Martial 
Rite!” she hummed merrily over her sinuous tongue and danced a shockingly dainty jig.  “What a 
world this be, that should turn beneath such feet!  What a night has fallen that should be the last 
night of Sin!  For the wheel has come round to turn!  And now, Master Apica, what shall it be.” 
Dizzy from the changes wrought throughout the entirety of his being, Epsilon staggered, 
and reached out to be supported by his comrades.  “What do you say.  What shall be.” 
“My question to you, Sir Warfarer!” she teased. “What shall it be.  Will you sit your high 
seat for Sin, or will you roll the wheel round once, and turn it to Rit.” 
Epsilon was ever more conscious of the earthly mechanism beneath his feet.  Its presence 
was a puissant control at his command.  A button, he should lay his finger upon it and fix his 

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Stephen Huff 
 
change on the land.  A lever, he should let his grip down upon it, to depress it and thereby raise 
up the world.  A wheel, he should roll it massively around to the next catch, disturbing this 
disturbed world that it should be straightened where it was twisted by evil. 
“Aye,” he gargled at length, “I see it now, its axle at the center of the world, and the 
world at the center of the wheel!” 
“And so.” 
“And so!” he roared.  “Lay my hands upon it... and now TURN!” 
Beneath his splayed feet, the planet rolled.  Above his head, the heavens boiled.  A 
shockwave of strange light surged out from him, and washed all the wide world round, warning 
Sin of the kingdom to come, dispelling shadows where darkness had long lain, and opening up the 
skies to the sun, which broached the far easterly horizon, and shined down upon them as a warm, 
promising smile... 

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