B L A C K S E N T

 

 

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE UMBRA

by

Michael A. LaFlamme

and

Michael D. Poe

PROLOGUE

 

Where is the dream before it is seen in the escape of night?

Most say it does not exist. On waking, the light dries it up or

the wind blows it away. It has no weight, no substance; it’s a waste

of time to think of such things.

 

 

            So most would say.

 

 

But for some, the dream does not die in the day. Night is neither

a beginning nor an end: it’s a vivid extension of worlds hoped for.

 The dream is very real for these special few. The dream might not

exist were it not for their vision. Worlds may live in them, and they

may live in the world of dreams. They are alive for each other.

 

 

These worlds are really are not so far away. They do exist and

can be reached as easily as a dream.

            One such world calls now. It calls to all who would listen.

Adventure is there, and a song of night, and peace. For there, the

dreamer becomes the dream.

 

 

Listen the night is here...

PRELUDE

            From the blurry edge of her drug-induced slumber, Cona Joharra saw a dream unfold before her. It had to be a dream, for nothing she knew from reality could possibly match what she was seeing.

            She was lying on a cold slab of some type of table. The table was in the midst of a huge cavern, and in the cavern two fights were raging.

            One of the fights was between a black-garbed swordsman and a pig-faced demon. It seemed odd to Cona, because the swordsman was obviously on the defensive, even though his skill showed that he could go to the offensive and end the match quickly.

            The other fight was even more unusual. It was between a flying, blond mystic and a gigantic snake-like creature. She was sure that the blond man must be a mystic, because, besides the flying, he was also releasing bolts of energy from his hands. The snake thing met the bolts with glowing shields and returned the attacks in like manner. It occurred to Cona that the snake-thing was probably something more advanced that a simple creature. It was more likely a manifestation of one of the shadow gods - perhaps even Spentri himself, the snake-god. Cona lay back on the stone table. Yes, this was most definitely a dream.

            In her detached interest, Cona caught bits of conservation from the various combatants.

            From the black-garbed swordsman: “No, I killed my Father in the arena! I was that demon’s only child! Tala would have told me!”

            From the pig-faced demon: “He sire alone to I. Mother we share only.”

            From the flying, blond mystic: “And the horse you rode in on, too!”

            From the probable snake-god: “Laugh while you can, Figment! Skaltin...!”

            At first, Cona thought the snake was just cursing. Then she noticed another person in the cavern. He reacted as if called, so Cona assumed that Skaltin was his name. He was bald and dressed in white, flowing robes. Must be a priest of some kind. He seemed to be listening to something, and Cona thought that she could pick up the echoes of speech.

            The priest turned to her and mumbled, “Yes. The sacrifice. Complete his power. Sacrifice.” Then he pulled a double bladed knife and began to walk towards her.

            Cona lay back for a moment and tried to gather her thoughts. It was difficult in the murkiness of her dream. But hen she remembered: she had always had crystal clear dreams; they were never muddled or confusing. So if this wasn’t a dream, then her slowness could only be attributed to a drug of some kind. She accepted that easily enough, and then went back to the beginning of where she woke up.

            Yes, she was awake. A swordsman was fighting a demon. A mystic was fighting a snake-god. A priest was coming towards her with a knife. And she was a...

            “...A sacrifice!” Cona yelped as she sat up. She was definitely fully awake.

            “Hush, girl,” the priest assured her. “It will only take a moment. We need your blood.”

            Cona stood up on the stone table (sacrificial alter, she corrected) and backed away from the priest. She said, “Uh, couldn’t we talk about this?”

            The priest hissed.

            “Guess not, huh?”

            The swordsman and the mystic both looked a little too busy to help her out. As the priest advanced on her, she backed up further --- and bumped her hand on something. She glanced back and saw a glowing ball of white glass floating there. It wasn’t too big, and since it was floating, it couldn’t be too heavy. It seemed to be the only thing handy, so she grabbed it and swung it down at the priest’s baldhead. He dropped his knife in surprise and only had time to scream “NO!” before the globe smashed against him.

            Cona covered her eyes from the expected shower of flying glass. Instead, there was an enormous implosion. She looked and the priest was gone. In his place a whirling vortex of energy began to grow. She felt it begin to pull her into its consuming maw.

            She clutched to hold on to the table, and then screamed as she was lifted off. But it was not by the forces of the vortex; the flying mystic had swooped down to catch her. She noticed the swordsman was also holding on to him.

            “Talk about out of the frying pan!” the mystic said to her.

            He struggled against the vortex and got them safely to the other side of the cavern. Cona saw the demon being pulled into its center, and then the snake-god also disappeared into the whirling mass. At that, the vortex broke up and faded away.

            The mystic set the three of them down on the cavern floor. He took off his cape and offered it to her. She shivered and realized she was wearing little more than a bandeau and a loinslip. She quickly took the cape and wrapped it around herself. She didn’t feel any danger from her rescuers, but then, she didn’t want to appear too grateful, either.

            There was a moment of silence, and then the blond mystic said, “Hi, there. I’m Figment, and this is N’Con. You’re very welcome.”

            Cona stammered, “Oh! I -- I’m sorry. Yes, thank you. I’m Cona. Cona Joharra. Thank you.”

            There was another silence. Then Figment asked, “So, how about dinner sometime?”

 

CHAPTER ONE

Help In The Night

            The campfire helped to take the chill out of the night air, but it did little to remove N’Con’s sour mood. The remembered words of the demon refused to fade. Whether they had contained truths or lies mattered little, it had gotten N’Con to thinking about his parentage again - the unanswered questions were too heavy to ignore.

            “Since when did you start believing in what a demon says, N’Con?” Figment asked.

            N’Con looked up from the fire to his friend and comrade. Figment was wearing a characteristic smirk, as well as his cape again. He looked over to the girl. Somewhere, Figment had been able to find her more appropriate attire for traveling. She sat on the other side of the fire, her head propped on her knees and her long, blond hair hanging down loose. She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. N’Con wished that Figment would attend to her again; he really didn’t feel up to being on the receiving end of his friend’s chipper persistence.

            “Well?” Figment asked again.

            So much for a peaceful night. N’Con replied, “I didn’t say I believed him, but it does raise my curiosity some as to why he said we were related.”

            Figment groaned. “I thought you resolved your birthright long before we met.”

            “So did I. I found my mother and I thought I had killed my demon father in the arena of McAmal. But according to the creature I fought tonight, that was his father and we only share a mother: Tala.”

            “That demon was your half-brother?” Cona asked skeptically. She apparently had come back from her musings.

            “He was a plisson,” N’Con explained. “Part demon and part human. They have the looks of a demon, but the emotions of a human - unlike the saman.”

            “Saman?”

            “That’s what I thought I was. The saman have the features of a human and the emotions, or rather lack of emotions, of a demon. They bred us on McAmal. We were trained to be their agents, spies, dissidents, and assassins. I was one of the best.”

            “Right,” Figment butted in, “was. As in, ‘In the past.’ You broke away from McAmal and proved you could leave it all behind.” He leaned closer and whispered, “And since when have you been so free with your upbringing?”

            N’Con whispered back, “I just want to make sure she’s not lost as the plot thickens.”

            Figment slapped his thigh. “Ha! A joke! You see? Demons don’t have a sense of humor.”

            “My point exactly. And they’re not supposed to have emotions, either. If I was a saman I wouldn’t be as confused as I am right now. That creature could have been telling the truth. I may be all human.”

“May be?” Cona muttered, unheard or ignored.

            “If it is true,” N’Con continued, “then Tala has some explaining to do. Like: Who is my father?”

            “Maybe she doesn’t know,” Figment suggested lamely.

            “How can she not know?”

            “I won’t fall for that straight line, I respect your mother too much,” Figment snapped back. “But she was a prisoner in the breeding pens, for Nirdon’s sake! She could have a mental block.”

            “Too many hanging questions, Figment, and only one clue as to where to find the answers.”

            “Tala? But she’s all the way over in Yutavia, isn’t she?”

            N’Con nodded. “Yes, she is there. But no, I won’t bother her now. You may be right about her not knowing.”

            Figment shrugged. “Then where?”

            “That creature said I could find what I needed in Vulcania - if I can find Vulcania.”

            “Vulcania is just a legend.”

            “So is a 500 year old mage named Figment.”

            “Cheap shot, N’Con.”

            “I have to go.”

            Figment sighed. “Oh, no. Not another quest to find yourself. It’s old hat. Besides, we have to get the lady here home.”

            Cona perked up. “Home?”

            “Taefed in Nugluvia, right?” Figment asked. She nodded affirmation.

            N’Con said, “Fine. I’ll go as far as Regnad K’Cin with you. From there I’ll head off north.”

            Figment frowned. “Do you really think you can find Vulcania in the West Reach Mountains?”

            It’s a good place to start. I know that’s where that one Pyrage came from.”

            “Pyrage?” Cona inquired.

            “They’re a renegade sect of the FirePriests of McAmal. Their new home is supposed to be Vulcania. I don’t know the place, but I do know the Pyrages exist. I had an assignment once to kill one in Levin.”

“Kill one?”

            Figment said, “N’Con was an Assassin at one time. Haven’t you been following along?”

            “Not as close as I should be, I guess. You are the good guys, right?”

            Figment chuckled. “Absolutely. You see, N’Con? Even she knows. So why get involved with McAmalian affairs again? It stinks of a plot. I don’t like it.”

            “And...?”

            “And...I don’t think you should go.”

            “So?”

            Gods! You can’t beat logic like that!” Figment threw up his arms. “I give up! But can’t you at least wait?”

            N’Con shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I feel like it’s got to be done quickly. Look, after you get Cona home, come back to Regnad K’Cin. I should be able to meet you there in three or four weeks.”

            “Hmm,”  Figment considered.  “That gives me a few weeks alone with this beautiful young lady - to bring her home, of course.”

            “Of course,” N’Con repeated.  He watched as Figment tried not to smile too lecherously at Cona.  She returned the smile tentatively.  As Figment went over to her and began to launch into a story of one of his exploits, N’Con found he had to suppress a chuckle.  Figment always had a way of restoring his good mood.  Perhaps he could even forget for awhile about what might lay ahead in Vulcania.

            N’Con noticed that Cona was listening enraptured to Figment’s story.  N’Con did chuckle then.  You didn’t need to be a mage to have that kind of magic.

 

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            They reached the city of Regnad K’Cin two days later just before dusk fell. Figment and Cona had grown quite close, even if - Figment had confided to N’Con in private - she wasn’t his one true love.

            N’Con rolled that tale over in his mind. Figment had told him years before, when they were both well into their cups, about his trouble with women. Actually, just one woman in particular. If he understood it correctly, Figment had repeatedly found the same girl over and over again, in different incarnations, throughout his long lifetime. They would fall in love and she would die within a year of their meeting, always a violent death. It must have happened to him twelve times so far. And, according to Figment, he knew it was the same girl every time.

            Well, if he was sure that Cona wasn’t that girl, then maybe his luck would improve. At least it would take the brunt off of N’Con’s leaving for a while. N’Con hoped it did.

            In the meantime, they had to find a place to stay before trouble found them on the open streets of this Negluvian port city. Figment led them to an inn constructed of the local sandstone. They got two rooms to lodge for the night.

            Old Samuel, a border wars veteran, ran the place so it was free from the Nomad scum that crossed Talon Lake to revel in Regnad K’Cin. The crowd was narrowed down to just he Negluvian scum, plus a few Levinese who were slumming it.

            Figment and Cona went upstairs early to check out the rooms, which was fine by N’Con. Now he could plan his expedition into the mountains without flippant remarks from his friend. But first he had to find a good, or at least semi-good mug of ale.

            N’Con choose a good seat towards the back of the common room. By habit, he put a wall behind him and made sure there was an open window near by. Besides providing him some relief from the different types of tobacco smoke that fouled the air, it also afforded him an escape route. N’Con like to be prepared for anything.

            And so, it was somewhat of an unpleasant surprise to suddenly notice a sable cloaked man standing in front of his table. N’Con would not give the stranger the pleasure of knowing that he had surprised him. He eyed the man as he took the seat across from him. He was a big man, broad of chest. A white strip ran down the center of his beard and the hood pulled up around his face hid his eyes.

            “Good evening,” his bass voice rumbled, “my name is Zandor.”

            “Good evening,” N’Con returned, not offering his own name.

            “Rumor has it,” continued Zandor, “that you are planning an expedition into the mountains.”

            “First I’ve heard of it,” N’Con snapped. He disliked having other people in his business - especially business he had not discussed openly. Maybe Figment..

            “I came here to offer some assistance. You see, I have been mapping that region.” At that, Zandor produced a map and started to roll it out onto the table.

            N’Con stopped him. “Did I say I needed or wanted your help?”

            Zandor shrugged and rolled up the map. “No matter. Fair you well, friend - whatever course you may take.” He bowed his head and then moved away.

            N’Con waited until he was almost at the door before he got up. A name on the map had caught his eye. Perhaps he was being too cautious, but N’Con wanted to know a little bit more about this stranger before he bought into his help. He slipped out after Zandor.

            Looking right and then left, N’Con spied his quarry down the street - further than he had a right to be, given the time he had had to travel. He followed silently after and saw Zandor ducking down a nearby alley. If it was a trap, it certainly was a poorly disguised one.

            When he got to the alley, it looked deserted. Not even the cliché cat among the garbage crates. Upon further inspection, N’Con discovered what appeared to be two drunks sleeping it off behind the crates. Then he noticed the unused blades lying on the ground beside them. They were indeed sleeping, but the evidence seemed to indicate that they were waiting to waylay somebody. They were either very bad thieves, or the man he was following was very quiet. N’Con did not want to think of any possibilities beyond those.

            He went further into the alley, only to discover that it was a dead end. No doors or windows opened to it. The wall connecting the two buildings on either side of the alley presumably backed a private courtyard on the other side. It was looking more and more like a set up, but N’Con jumped and pulled himself to the top of the wall anyway. He checked before crossing over. There was nothing on the other side but another alley. Except...the map.

            Lying in the alley was the stranger’s map. N’Con quickly leapt down and went into a roll, coming up with sabre in hand. It must have been left as bait, but no ambush came. Feeling a little silly, he retrieved the map. After looking around a little more, he unrolled the map to look for the name that had caught his eye.

            Vulcania. There it was, the exact location of a legendary city, presumed by most to be unreal. Someone was making it extremely easy for him to find it. N’Con hated to be led like a sheep, but he took the map.

            “What ‘cha got?”

            N’Con sabre was out once again. Figment stood grinning at him.

            “Blast it! Don’t do that!” N’Con found his breath again.

            “Sorry. I thought you were going to stay inside and drink.”

            “You know me - I just can’t resist a mystery.”

            “What’s up?” Figment inquired.

            “Oh, not much. This guy just happened to have a map that just happened to show the way to Vulcania. Purely coincidental.”

            Figment raised an already up turned eyebrow. “Did you happen to be following this guy?”

            “Yes. Why?”

            “You wouldn’t by any chance know his name?”

            “Well, yes. It was Zandor.”

            “Zandor! Then I did see him come through here.”

            So you thought you’d check it out and scare me out of my boots at the same time. Do you know him?”

            “I’ve run into him once or twice. He’s a wizard.

            N’Con rubbed his temples. “I should have known.”

            Figment continued. “If he was guild-trained I’d say was at least 15th level. Maybe 20th. But I don’t think he was trained in a guild academy.”

            “Why would he offer me an easy way to Vulcania? Or even know I was going there, for that matter?” N’Con tucked the map into a pocket in his cape.

            “Well, you know us magic types, mysterious and all.”

            Swell.”

            “If it’s any consolation, Zandor has never been in the dark arts that I know of. No conjuring of demons or sacrificing maidens or such.”

            “Whatever. But it does seem like I’m being pushed to go to Vulcania.”

            “I thought I was pushing the other way?” Figment offered.

            N’Con gave him a look.

            “Listen,” Figment added, “I told you before that it felt fishy. Let it go.”

            Did you let the questions about your father go unanswered?”

            “I wish I had.”

            “But you didn’t, and I can’t either.”

            “We could go together.”

N’Con shook his head. “You have to get Cona back to her family.”

            “We’re family, too.”

            N’Con looked to the ground, then looked slowly back up at Figment before continuing. “I know,” he said in a near whisper, “but this is a matter of blood.”

            He knew it hurt Figment not to be included, but N’Con had had a lifetime of keeping his own emotions covered. He did not want to let on about how much fear and anxiety he actually had in this whole matter. And if he was being set up, he did not want Figment to be dragged down with him. He hoped Figment would understand.

            Figment sighed, and then said, “That’s okay. You’re a big boy now, and you can make your own decisions. Go ahead, ride off alone, break up the team and leave me to fend for myself. I’ll be all right!”

            “Figment!”

            He grew serious again. “N’Con, I realize it’s something you have to do on your own. I just have a hard time of letting go. We’ve been together for some time now. Heck! Even when I first met you, it felt like we’d been friends for years.”

            N’Con chuckled. “We met during an adventure and it hasn’t stopped yet. Do you think we’ll ever get a rest?”

            “Only when they run out of bad guys. Of course with our record, that could be pretty soon.”

            They shared a laugh then. It was a good moment to be remembered for some time. They were friends in a common purpose: they simply wanted to work on the side of right. N’Con, to make amends for the killing he had done for McAmal; and Figment, well, to make up for past wrongs also, but maybe just because he liked the swashbuckling life. They could both rationalize that they were destined to fight on the side of right, but maybe it was something as simple as just liking it. Whatever the reason, that remembered friendship would become very vital in the weeks to come.

            “So how about that drink?” Figment offered.

            “Sounds good, but,” N’Con motioned up to the sleeping room window, “What about her?”

            “Oh, I think she’ll be napping for a little while.”

            N’Con laughed, “You old dog, you.”

            “This old dog can still teach a few tricks.”

            They headed down the alley to find a bar.

            “Opps. One more thing,” Figment stopped. “Let me see that map!”

            “Why for?” N’Con asked.

            “I want to memorize it before we get too drunk. If you’re not back here in a month’s time, I’m coming to Vulcania to look for you.”

            N’Con smiled sincerely. “Thanks, Figment.”

            “Hey! Someone’s got to look out for you.”

            They left the alley then, and went to find the bar. Any thoughts of trouble were left behind.

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            Zandor melted out of the shadows of the alley and watched the two warriors leave. He smiled. N’Con had been put on the right path; Figment he would worry about later. There were others that needed to be helped first --- helped so that they would eventually come together and complete the vision. Then they could help him.

            The wizard wrapped himself in the cloak of darkness and was no longer there.

 

CHAPTER TWO

On The Town

            It was a busy night in Core. The ships had come in from the Gulf at about the same time as the riverboats had arrived down the Siltline. The docks were busy with shipments and people loading and unloading, trying to be ready for when the tide went out.

            Among the bustle of activity walked a lone woman. She was well past the youthful years, but her energy did not betray her age. She was dressed in a simple, violet frock; the hood of her gray cape was tossed back revealing shoulder length brown hair, untouched by the silver of her many decades. Her only luggage was a medium sized carrybag. An old, gray cat scampered along with her.

            The elderly woman made her way through the traffic on the docks. Never stopping to ask directions, she watched purposefully until she came to the lodging and tavern section of the waterfront city. She found a semi-clean inn and bought two rooms for one night only. After storing her carrybag and making sure her cat had found a comfortable place to nap, she left the inn and went into the first tavern she came across.

            The tavern had no pretension to the type of clientele it served, and its name reflected that attitude: The Sloven Ogre. Just what she was looking for. As she entered the tavern, she could see many types of brutes, ruffians, barbarians, thieves, murderers, villains, knaves, vixen, and whoremasters.

            And those were just the ones that worked there.

            The clientele were of an indefinable lower class. They oozed out and into such places like the sludge with the tides. It would be difficult to say what the function of their society was, but they were permanent fixtures in any larger city. They were dealt with much like a canker: leave them alone and hope they would not spread.

            But among the dregs of humanity, a slightly brighter light shone through the crowd. It was an auburn haired woman, dressed in a mailweave jacket and blue pantaloons. She was at a table arm wrestling a hulking mercenary. It looked as though the mercenary would win, but then the woman did something under the table to make him grimace. She took his arm over and down and leapt up in victory, cheering herself.

“Any more challengers?” she offered. No one came forward. “Ha! I thought not. Buy me that grog, you egg-headed dog,” she directed at the mercenary. She got her drink and settled back on her chair.

            The lone elderly woman worked her way through the crowd and made her way to this feisty girl. She stopped in front of her table and asked, “Do you mind if I sit down?”

            The girl eyed her, but then nodded.

            “Thank you. My name is Tala. And you are...?”

            “Thirsty,” the girl replied. “Are you buying?”

            “Perhaps. But I’m more interested in renting your sword. And for that I would like you to be sober.”

            She smirked at Tala. “You’re awfully demanding. Who says I’m even for hire?”

            Tala shrugged. “I’m just guessing. I’m an old woman alone in a strange town, and I am nowhere near the end of my journey. I need a bodyguard and you look to be a good candidate. I will pay well.”

            The girl leaned quickly forward. “Will you hush!? That’s not a good thing to be let known around here.”

            “Looking out for me already?” Tala smiled.

            “Let’s just say I don’t want you to get robbed before I make up my mind.”

            “Take all the time you need - as long as it’s not longer than a minute.”

            “Ha! I like that. I won’t work for anybody who doesn’t have a little guts.”

            “So you’ll take the job?” Tala asked.

            The girl replied, “Under one condition. There’s a ---- different job that I may have to leave at any time for. There’s no rush on it, but if I say I have to go - then I go.”

            “That sounds fine. I have a room adjacent to mine that you may use. Consider it a bonus. Now, you were going to tell me your name?”

            “Oh, yes. Sure. The name’s Sal Mayd. You can just call me Sal if you like.”

            “Fine. We should be leaving on a ship tomorrow morning. Have you had supper yet?”

            “I’ve been drinking it,” Sal Mayd replied.

            Tala sighed. “Have a mug of hot cino and meet me at the Fleecing Inn in half an hour. I will take you to dinner.”

            “Another bonus?”

            “I just hate to eat alone.”

            Tala got up and left then. She made her way through the motley crowd and to the door. Just before she went out, she heard Sal Mayd challenge to some thugs, “Any more takers? Last chance tonight. Ha! I thought not! Bunch of wimps! I’m twice the woman of any man here!”

            Tala chuckled and hoped that she had made the right choice.

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            Before she went up to her room, Tala stopped at the desk and asked about eateries in the area. Once in her room, she carefully hung her cape on a wall hook. She patted her cat’s head and then turned her attention to her carrybag. The cat stretched from the spot it had found on her bed.

            Tala said, “I’ve met the most interesting young woman tonight.”

            The cat continued stretching.

            “It seems she’s a bounty hunter. I am pretty certain that she’s after an Assassin.”

            “So are we.”

            “Not for the same purpose. If I read her right, she has more than just a professional interest in this bounty. She thinks that N’Con killed someone close to her.”

            “Who?”

            “I couldn’t quite get that. I’ll have to see if I can read her further over dinner.”

            “You’re going out again tonight?”

            “I have to find out more about her. Besides, I haven’t had dinner yet.”

            The old, grey cat sighed. “Well, as long as you remember to bring something back for me.”

            Tala scratched him behind the ear. “Of course I will, dear one. We’ll be going to a seafood place.”

            The cat rested its head on its paws. “I’m beginning to grow tired of fish. Just make sure it’s cooked well, whatever you bring back tonight.”

            “Certainly, Oug. Now make room on the bed. I want to take another look-see at N’Con’s location.”

            Oug jumped from the bed and found his way under her feet. Ignoring his attention to her ankles, Tala opened a box she had pulled from her carrybag. She sat on the bed, put a rolled up map in front of her and set the box down. Made of ebony and inlaid with ivory, it was carved with various protective runes. Its red silk lining cushioned a set of pasteboard portraits. Selecting two of them, she put them face up on the bed and unrolled the map. She removed her pendant from her neck and held it out over the map. Gazing into the portraits, she let the pendant swing free.

            “You could do that without the cards, you know,” commented Oug from the pillow.

            “Hush. They help my concentration. This is strange. It’s as if they split up.”

            “Take away the picture of Figment.”

            Flipping the card over with the image of N’Con’s closest friend, Tala directed her attention solely to her son’s card. The pendant swung differently, then stopped.

            “By the flame!” exclaimed the cat.

            “He’s headed for Vulcania. Could he have found out something? Oh, Oug! We’ve set out too late!”

            “No. He has to travel back to Regnad K’Cin, even if he reaches Vulcania first. It’s the closest waterway. I believe our best chance to intercept him will be in Frazettapur.”

            Goddess! I hope your right.”

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            A little while later, someone rapped on Tala’s door.

            “That’s probably my new bodyguard,” she told Oug.

            “I’m going to do some exploring while you eat. Please be careful.”

            “You too, dear one.”

            Tala opened the door. Sal Mayd stood there looking fairly strapped for battle. She had a recurved bow and a quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder, and an over-sized tulwar hanging from her hip.

            “Do you have any luggage?” Tala asked.

            “This is it.”

            “We’ll put them away in your room.”

            Sal Mayd shook her head. “The bow, yes. But we are going out after dark. The blade comes with me.”

            “Fine.”

            Before Tala closed the door, Oug scampered out between their feet.

            “Is that your cat? I’ll get him.”

            “No, that’s okay,” Tala said. “He’ll be back if he wants to eat.”

            “Probably out tomming,” suggested the swordswoman.

            “Hmph! Better not,” muttered Tala as she headed for the stairs.

            There were sometimes that Tala could read people better than other times, and occasionally it was the person themselves who were open. At that moment, Tala could here Sal Mayd’s thought very well.

            * all men...same...like tomcats *

            Tala couldn’t help herself, and commented aloud, “Never lump everyone in one boat.”

            Sal Mayd stopped and said, “Ah...sure.” Then she continued to follow.

            Core was divided into many sections, and each one had a unique flavor according to its purpose or majority culture. The two women left the river docks quarter of the city and passed through the Yutavian quarter. It had a more northern style to it, as northern crusaders had conquered Yutavia many centuries before. The Yutavians that crossed the Siltline and settled in Core brought their comparatively new culture with them. It still had a lot of the southern influences, but enough of a northern taste to suit Tala. Their destination was beyond this section, though.

            “I’ve heard of a marvelous seafood place down by the bay,” Tala explained. “I’m in the mood for lobster.”

            “I’ve never tried lobster,” Sal Mayd said hesitantly.

            “Then it’s about time that you do.”

            They came to the Gulf side of the city. It was practically useless for porting ships, but it afforded a splendid view of vast waters. The wealthier people - shipping magnates and such - had settled into the Gulf quarter and made it quite a luxuriant home for themselves.

            Sal Mayd asked, “This looks a little expensive around here. Are you sure you can afford it?”

“No problem,” Tala assured. “After all, I can afford you, yes?”

            “Good point.”

            Tala brought them to a place that directly faced the bay. A sign with a scarlet crustacean hung over its door. When they entered, an oily looking Frelcock native came up to them. “Do you have escorts?”

            Sal Mayd stepped forward with her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “Why? Do we need an escort?”

            “Well, um...” the host looked at her polished mail jacket and tulwar, “not at all. This way.”

            Sal Mayd seemed rather pleased with herself as they were seated. A nervous waiter came up.

            “Bring two lobster dinners, please,” ordered Tala. “And a bottle of good white wine. Does an Inst vintage sound good to you?” she asked Sal Mayd.

            “A ‘92 would be...” then she stopped herself.

            Tala directed to the waiter, “Bring us a ‘92 Jatell’s.”

            After the waiter left, there were a few minutes of silence between the two women. Tala got many conflicting thoughts from Sal Mayd, so she decided to break off her attempts and try a more direct method.

            “So, how long have you worked in this business you’re now in?” she inquired of the swordswoman.

            “Quite a while. Where are we headed to?” Sal Mayd tried to redirect.

            Tala did not mind the change of subjects. She still could get what she wanted in this new way. “I am traveling to Frazettapur, maybe further. I’m looking for my son. His name is N’Con.”

            Even if Tala had not been able to read thoughts, there would have been no mistaking Sal Mayd’s poorly disguised reaction. As it was, bits and pieces of her thoughts did come through.

            * n’con...n’con...killer...kill you... *

            “N’Con,” Tala answered.

            * yes...kill...father you rest... *

            Sal Mayd nodded. “N’Con, yes. Do you know where N’Con is now?”

            “I believe he’s somewhere beyond Negluvia, but I’m also sure that I’ll be able to find him in Frazettapur by the time we get there. If not, we’ll continue up the Scew River to Regnad K’Cin.”

            * come home again...please mother...wait for me *

            “That sounds fine,” Sal Mayd said. “I will probably be able to go with you for most of the trip.”

            “What about the other job you said you might have to leave for?”

            * kill n’con...wizard *

            “Well, that’s not important. And if things work out I may not have to worry about it at all.”

            “That’s good. I enjoy the company as well as the protection. After we both reach our goal, maybe you can go home again.”

            * baronshire rogage...will she accept *

            “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s...I don’t know.”

            Tala decided to stop pushing there. She had enough information that Oug could help her sort out. Sal Mayd would become too tense if she continued along the same lines. Tala changed the subject.

            “That was quite a demonstration you put on earlier tonight. How in the world did you beat that big man?”

            Sal Mayd brightened. “Ha! That was easy. Every man has a soft spot - two, to be more precise.”

            The two women enjoyed their dinners and laughed over more of Sal Mayd’s exploits. Tala knew that what she was planning was risky, but she was becoming more confident that she had made the right choice.

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            After they started back to the Fleecing Inn. But halfway through the Yutavian quarter, they ran into a little trouble...if four armed men with evil intent could be called little, that is.

            They stepped out of the shadows, thoughts of easy pickings probably on their minds. Two stepped in front while two stepped behind to cut off retreat. Two women against twice as many men. Easy pickings, indeed.

            Sal Mayd howled, jumping and drawing her blade in the same motion. One man went down to the unexpected attack. She turned and instantly engaged the man behind her.

            One brave soul went up to Tala and raised his cudgel. She stared directly into his eyes and he froze. The other man from behind saw what he thought was sorcery and went to knife her in the back. He was met by a flying bundle of grey fur, claws, and teeth that went straight for her face. He fell backwards, screaming.

            Sal Mayd had her second man disarmed and dislegged and turned to dispatch the man wearing the cat. As the cat jumped off, the swordswoman stopped and watched as the man ran off into the darkness of an alley. The alley became a little lighter, though, as he entered it.

            His head was on fire.

            Tala continued staring into the last man’s eyes. Sweat came to his forehead and his hands started to tremble. The cudgel dropped from his loose fingers and rattled to the cobble road. He broke and turned to run...right into a dark cloaked man.

            The panicked thug tried to pull his knife, but a hand shot out from under the dark cape and grasped him by the forehead.

            “Goodnight,” the bass voice intoned. The mysterious helper stepped back into the shadows as the late thug fell. Then he was gone.

            But not unseen.

            “Did you see that?” Sal Mayd asked.

            “What?” Tala said confused. “Do you know about that wizard?”

             “Huh? I’m talking about the guy when his head caught on fire. What wizard?”

            Tala shook her head. “Oh, never mind. I’m just an old woman seeing things.” But she hadn’t. She was quite sure that she had seen the wizard that Oug had tried to enlist help from a year before.

            “You’re not the only one. I could have sworn...” At that moment Oug rubbed up against Sal Mayd’s leg and she shrieked.

            “There you are,” Tala said as she picked up the old grey cat. “Naughty boy. You shouldn’t go scaring my friend like that.”

            “No, that’s okay. He just surprised me,” Sal Mayd said. “Actually, he helped us out.” She started to reach out to scratch his ears, and then pulled her hand back. “Maybe I could learn to like him.”

            “He’s a likeable cat. Let’s get back to the inn.”

            “No arguments there,” Sal Mayd mumbled.

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            “That was an awful risky trick with that thug. Couldn’t you have just scratched him?”

            Alone once again with Oug in her room, Tala discussed the evening’s events.

            “He angered me,” Oug defended. “Cowards like that always do. If he heals, perhaps he’ll think twice before attacking helpless women.”

            Tala laughed. “I hardly think that Sal Mayd falls into that category. And I do think I held my own.”

            “That you did. Now tell me what you have found out about that girl.”

            “It’s a little confusing, but I think I’ve pieced most of it together. She’s been out on her own for almost ten years. There was some kind of scandal and her family, the nobility of the Baronshire Rogage, disowned her. Her father was the Lord there. She thinks N’Con killed him. She’s been making a life for herself as a bounty hunter, and it was actually someone else who hired her to hunt him down. It was shortly after she got word about her father’s death, that she got the information that N’Con was the killer. A black-caped wizard directed her. Sound familiar?”

            “Zandor again? This is getting crazier by the minute. Why would he help you in that alley, and yet put the girl on N’Con’s trail?” Oug puzzled.

            “Probably the same reason he wouldn’t help you. He is crazy.”

            “No. From the little I know about him, he has always been a very upstanding wizard. His only rebellion has been in refusing to join the Guild. Zandor must have a good reason for his action.”

            Tala frowned. “Do you think he could have been right? About N’Con killing the Lord of Rogage?”

            “In that he is wrong. From what I know, N’Con worked the southern part of the continent, only going as far north as Murda and Cragwood. And that’s while he was working for McAmal, which he hasn’t been for years. Sal Mayd’s father was killed more recently.”

            “Well, when the time seems right, I’ll try to convince her that she’s wrong about N’Con.”

            The cat twitched his tail. “In the meantime, you are leading her directly to him. You are playing with your son’s life.”

            “No, of that I am sure I chose right. And it is a good way to keep an eye on her. I don’t get directed often, but they haven’t failed me yet.”

            I would feel a little more confident if you did not rely so much on those dreams. Give me a good mind link any day.”

            Tala ruffled his fur. “You worry too much, dear one. I am feeling more certain that we will find him and that all will be fine. I know it will.”

            “I hope you bare right. The foundation of much rests upon it.”

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            The wizard stood looking out over the waters to the southeast. Soon, he thought, very soon. The woman had not really needed his help, but he did like to protect his investments. The vision was beginning to come together.

            Zandor sighed in satisfaction. A moment later, he was gone once more.

CHAPTER THREE

Hel Hath No Fury

            Her nose told her instantly that here was not a nice place. The guards that had thrown Hel into the cell backed out as the greasy warder looked down at her and chortled. She slowly got up and brushed the dirt off herself. Eying the tall man face-to-face, she shrugged and started to turn away. She immediately turned back and felt a satisfying crunch as her fist met his nose. The warder squealed, grabbed his face, and stumbled out of the jail cell. One guard made as if to come back in, hesitated, then backed out again. The jail door slammed, the dark was absolute, and she was alone.

            Hel sat down and leaned back against the cold, stonewall. Stretching out her legs, she closed her eyes and considered her situation. If she had believed in luck, she might curse the bad run of it she had been having. As it was, she calmly accepted where she was at and how she had gotten there. She didn’t like it, but she did accept it. All she could do was relax and wait for the change.

            She sat up straight and became very alert. She was not alone. Someone was in the cell with her. Her eyes were starting to get used to the dark, but she could not see anyone. The odor of the cell was so overpowering, that she couldn’t detect a human scent, and her ears had not picked up any out of place sounds. Whoever was in there with her was trying very hard not to be noticed. It was the very strength of his absence that gave him away.

            Hel was more curious than cautious, so she asked, “It’s all right. I certainly can’t hurt you. And I could do with some company.” A rustle. She patted the dirt and straw floor. “Come on. Come here.”

            “I’m not a dog,” a young male voice replied from the dark.

            “I never said you were.” Hel could finally see the outline of a small form huddled in a corner. “Come on over and be friendly.”

            “Why? What’s in it for you?”

            “Nothing more than I said - just a little company. Now come on before I get mad and refuse to talk to you when you get lonely.”

            “Sorry,” the young man said. He warily crept over towards her. She could see him better then and was surprised: he was not a young man; he was little more than a boy. He sat by the wall, but a couple of arm lengths away from her.

            “My name is Hel,” she introduced. “What are you called?”

            “Lots of stuff. But my name is Dallon. So what are you in for?”

            “I’m not really sure. A man in purple asked me where I was going and tried to grab me. Well, my destination and body are no one’s business but mine. So I punched him.”

            “You hit one of the Governor’s Guardsmen?! Those creeps are the most powerful of the four city guards! Oh, lady, they’re going to throw you into the hole for a long time.” Dallon shook his head and sat back.

            “I see - I think,” Hel mused. Then she said, I am not really familiar with the way they run things around here, so much of it is strange. I’m very curious as to why they have four city guards. It seems to be a bit of an overkill.”

            Dallon chuckled. “You’re a real fish to this city, aren’t you?”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “You’re new to these parts...?”

            “Oh, yes. My home is pretty far away, I believe.”

            “You’re not sure?” Dallon inquired.

            Hel pointed assuredly. “I do know it’s that way. I’ve just lost track of some miles. What do you know about this city?”

            “Enough.”

            “Well, then, why don’t you tell me about it?”

            “You haven’t even heard about Keepsafe?”

            “I’m afraid not,” Hel answered.

            Dallon said, “I guess I can fill you in. You see, Keepsafe has four city guards because the three countries that border here share it. But they’ve never agreed on how to run it, so each country has it’s own garrison patrolling around. Then the city Governor also has his guard to try to keep the others from bumping heads.”

            “You do know this city well.”

            “I know cities. It pays to case a place before...” Dallon stopped abruptly.

            “What is it?” Hel prodded.

            “Why am I telling you my business? I don’t even know your scheme.”

            “My ‘scheme’?”

            It was Dallon’s turn to prod. “Yeah, what are you all about? It’s a little hard to believe that you came to Keepsafe not knowing what’s happening.”

            If it had been a gruff man mouthing off at her, Hel probably would have knocked him out. But there was something about this boy that she just couldn’t get angry at. “All right, I’ll tell you my story. I assume that’s what you want to hear.”

            “It’ll work.”

            “Well, there’s not too much to it. I used to live on the island of Tremain - we like to keep to ourselves there, so I’m sure you haven’t heard of it. A vile cousin of mine managed to get me captured by some raiders. They were going to sell me to something called a menagerie. I didn’t like the sound of it, so I sank their ship before they landed. I managed to get to shore, and I’ve been wandering around ever since.”

            Dallon whistled. “Wow. That’s something. So you must be out hunting down that cousin of yours.”

            “No. Why would I be?”

            “Don’t you want revenge?”

            “I suppose. But it’ll only happen when the opportunity presents itself. Everything always does come around. Until then, I might as well have a look around and see what I can. I’m a very curious type.”

            Dallon sighed. “Yeah, me too. But neither of us are going anywhere unless we get out of here.”

            “That’s true.” Hel could sense that the boy was becoming used to her presence. “So, do you want to tell me about you?”

            “Sure, why not? There’s even less to it than yours. I’ve been living off the streets for as long as I can remember. And I sometimes take what I need to take care of myself. But wouldn’t you know it? I get tossed in here for something I didn’t steal. Ain’t that a first?”

            “I really couldn’t say,” Hel replied unrhetorically. “What did they say you stole?”

            He hesitated. Well, they say I took a belt of knives. But I didn’t. They were given to me...sort of. Ha! But did I get the last laugh.”

            “What do you mean?”

            Dallon smirked. “They think they got everything when they took the belt away from me. But I was able to slip the buckle off and hide it on me. I’m good at that.”

            Hel nodded. “I’ll bet you are. But what good is a buckle going to do you?”

            He shrugged. “I can’t think of everything. It looked like it alone could be worth something, and the moment was ripe to take it. I might be able to sell it when I get out of here.”

            “When you get out?” Hel chuckled. “Don’t you mean if?”

            “Naw. I’ve been in worse messes before. Something will come up.”

            Hel thought for a moment, and then said, “Maybe we could help each other get out of here. Are you game?”

            “Whoa. Wait a second. I though you were a big one for letting things happen when they will.”

            “I am. But occasionally you have to help things happen by themselves. Could I see that buckle?”

            Dallon shrugged. “I guess so.” He reached into the top of his boot and pulled out a small square of metal. “Why?”

            “I thought it could be used as a weapon. There’s not much to it, though.” She examined the buckle. It was slightly curved with two hooks on the back to connect with a belt. The front surface was carved with some sort of rune.

            “What does this say?” Hel asked, pointing to the rune.

            “What does what say?”

            “There’s a word or something here. Can you read it?”

            Dallon took the buckle, squinted, and held it close to his face. “You can see that? I can feel something carved there, but I can’t really make it out. Not that it’d do me any good anyhow. I can’t read.” Dallon ran his finger over the buckle again. “I’m not even sure it’s a word. It’s very intricate.”

            Hel said, “I don’t think it will help much as a weapon much, either. Now, you did say it was given to you?”

            “Yeah, sort of. I was following this big guy, ‘cause he was just swinging his coin purse around like he was inviting trouble. He sat down on a carriage bench and set the belt of knives beside him. When the carriage came to pick him up, he left the belt behind. Well, I figured it would be a good idea those knives didn’t fall into the wrong hands, so I took them. A couple of minutes later, I run right into the Cran City Guard. Of course, they didn’t believe my story - they said it looked to rich for me to own anyways, so here I am.”

            “You didn’t fight them?” Hel asked.

            Dallon laughed. “Me against six? Hey, I’m good with the knife, but not that good.”

            Hel considered that if he did have his knives, and she was not trapped as she was - or at least if she had her ironwood staff - they just might be able to escape. Big ifs.

            She said, “Well, whatever feeble reasons those guards had, we’re here now. All we can do is play it by ear.”

            “That’s how I’ve played my whole life. No one else can do it for you.”

            “True. But tell me: do you know where they put your knife belt?”

            Dallon thought for a moment. “Yeah. I think so. Before they brought me down here, they gave it to an old warder in the main guardhouse. I think he put it in a cabinet.”

            Hel smiled. “Then it’s right with my favorite weapon.”

            “What’s that?”

            “An ironwood staff. If we could only get to that cabinet, we would have a very good chance of getting out.”

            Dallon said, “Sure! All we have to do is break down this door, get past a few guards, go through a couple of more doors, and then saunter right into the guard house and excuse ourselves while we get our weapons! No problem!”

            Hel stated, “It won’t be quite that easy.”

            Slapping his hand to his forehead, the young thief groaned, “I don’t believe you, lady. Those are impossible odds. It can’t be done.” He waved the buckle. “I might as well wish for the knife belt right in my hand. I...frigget tork!”

            Hel watched with interest as Dallon dropped the buckle and jumped back. She reached and picked it up. There was now a black leather belt with seven knives attached to it. “I believe you wanted these?”

            He stared at the belt and then at Hel. “How did you do that?! Are you some kind of witch or something?”

            “First off, I don’t know what a witch is, and secondly, I didn’t do it. You must have.” Hel felt a sickness begin to rise.

            “I didn’t do it! I just...wait a second.”

            “What?” She tried to ignore the small pain.

            Dallon snapped his fingers. “I’ll bet that big guy was a wizard and these are his magic knives. But why would he leave them?”

            “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Hel replied. “I don’t even know what you are talking about. What is a wizard?” Her stomach twisted.

            “You don’t know...? Boy. You really must have just come off the boat.”

            “I believe I did tell you that already.”

            “You’re something else, lady,” Dallon chuckled. “But the important thing is - we have a weapon now.”

            Hel was beginning to feel very sick. It didn’t occur to her until that moment what was happening to her. “Listen,” she tried to tell Dallon over the pain, “there’s something else about me that I didn’t talk about. I was sure you wouldn’t believe it, and it’s really my own business anyhow! I’m not of your race!”

            Dallon looked puzzled. “Well, I figured that. Your accent is strange, and from what I can see you’re a lot darker...”

            “No! That’s not what I mean! I’m an Equessa! I...ahh! Her midsection exploded in pain.

            “What’s wrong?! Hey, lady!”

            “Get back! It’s the change!”

            Dallon didn’t need to be told again. He retreated to a corner as Hel moaned and thrashed about. Her body twisted at strange angles; her legs stretched out beyond their normal length. The transformation was wild and painful, but somewhere beneath the suffering there was also comfort: Hel knew that the change was coming around full circle.

            After many minutes, she called to Dallon, “You can come back now. I’m all right.”

            He crept towards her voice. “Where are you?”

            “Right in front of you.” But her voice had come from above. Dallon jumped back. The huge outline of a horse was there; but instead of the usual head, the neck seemed to extend up into a human torso. Dallon sat down hard.

            Hel said, “I guess I should have told you my full story. And when I said different race, I should have said species. This is my natural form. Ever since I was taken from Tremain, I have gone through a couple of changes. First I would turn into, what you would call, a horse. Then I became just a human. Now I am back as I should be.”

            Dallon stammered, “Half horse, half human.”

            “No!” Hel bristled. “I am Equessa. Don’t make that mistake again.”

            “Sure. Sorry. I...hoo boy. This is nuts. Magic knives, a lady who’s not a lady. What next?”

            She bent from the waist-withers and reached down to the hapless boy. “I think it would be a good idea if we did not stick around to find out.”

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            The lone guard strolled lazily down the jail corridor. He stopped by a door and listened to the returned silence. He chuckled at the remembered cries of the woman. He never would have thought the little shrimp had it in him. He leaned close to the door and considered having some fun himself. His last thought was of how strange it was to be smelling horse down in the cells.

            Hel kicked out and the door smashed out onto the guard. She had to duck to go through the doorway; Dallon followed after. As they went down the corridor, Hel expected to meet more guards at any moment. She was not disappointed. Four of them came at a run through the end gate, but they slowed to a stop when they saw her rearing form. Dallon took advantage of their hesitation to put his knives to use. One toss took a guard in the neck; a second dispatched his partner. The following two jumped over the bodies and renewed their charge.

            “Nice move, boy,” Hel chided. “Now they’ll fight harder.”

            “That’s the thanks I get for helping?!”

            “There’s no need to kill if you can knock them out.” She suddenly leapt forward at a surprising speed. One guard backed up, but the other tried to defend himself with his spear. Hel hoofed him in the shoulder and grabbed his weapon in the same move. As the guard looked up at her dumbfounded, she swung the spear around and cracked him along side the head.

            The last guard turned to run away. Hel hefted the spear and tossed it at him, but not to impale. It twirled through the air like a child’s toy and tripped the fleeing man. By the time he was able to catch his wind and get up, Hel was there. She snatched off his helm and clubbed him with it.

            Dallon caught up with her by the end of the corridor. “Wait up, Hel. You might need me --- fat chance, huh?”

            “I haven’t forgotten you. And I think if you were a little more discreet with those knives of yours, you would be better off.”

            “Whatever. At least we’re at something I can do good.” Dallon examined the gate. “Piece of cake.” He used a knife to jimmy the lock open.

            Hel huffed, “Why didn’t you do that on the cell door?”

            “It opened the wrong way. Now walk quietly so we don’t warn anyone else.”

            “It’s a little difficult to tip-toe with hooves.”

            “Oops. Sorry.”

            The gate opened to an ascending stairwell. The ceiling was lower than in the corridor, so Hel had to duck lower. Another closed door greeted them at the top.

            Dallon whispered, “There’s no telling what could be on the other side, so be ready for anything.”

            “I was foaled ready,” Hel returned.

            “Right. Okay, let’s go.”

            Dallon burst through the door with knives at the ready. About a dozen guards were there in the guardhouse. Dallon stood there looking as Hel clopped past him to see why he had stopped. She was more suspicious than amazed.

            All of the guards were asleep.

            Dallon whispered, “This is too good to be true.”

            “You’re right,” Hel mused. Then she yelled, “Hey! What’s up?!”

            The boy looked as he was going to die of fright, but none of the guards stirred.

            “Are they dead?” Dallon asked.

            “No. They are still breathing. See if my staff is in the cabinet you saw.”

            Dallon went over to a series of doors by one wall. He opened one, reached in, and took out a long, reddish pole. He carried it with both hands.

            “Wow. Now I know why you call it ironwood. You could really crack so skulls with this...I know! Only when necessary.”

            “You learn quick. Let’s go.”

            They left the city jail and met no further resistance. With the early pre-dawn dark, and with Dallon’s knowledge of back alleys, they were able to get out of the city without much notice. In a corpse of trees just outside of town, Hel stopped so that the boy could catch his breath and rest.

            She grabbed a handful of grass and nibbled on it as she considered their situation. They were free, but for how long? Would the city guard give chase? The little that Hel knew about humans told her that they had a thing about revenge. It was an ugly, driving force and she didn’t understand it well, but she did know what it could make them do.

            She looked at Dallon. Blond of hair and blue eyed, he was almost a perfect picture of youthful innocence. The black strap of knives that he wore across his chest was a heavy contrast to his looks and threadbare clothes. For all his bravado, he would not last long against the city guard alone. Hel chuckled at herself; was she starting to have maternal instincts for a young human? Her mother had warned her that such things could happen to mares who didn’t foal before their thirtieth season.

            Hel laughed again. Besides the obvious differences, she certainly did not look like she could be Dallon’s mother. Whereas he was fair, she was black of hair and mane and her skin and hide were a dark brown. When she was in human form she fit in well with the southern region because of her coloration. Only her facial features were different. They did not carry the broader characteristics typical of the south. Her face was smooth and elegant, and was offset by her strikingly grey eyes.

            She noticed that Dallon was studying her. True, Hel had encountered many strange things since coming to the mainland. But she must seem just as strange to the humans. Perhaps his bravado was to cover his fear.

            “So what do you want to do now?” she asked him.

            “Maybe rest awhile longer, then we can decide.”

            “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to get clear of this area? Those guards might come looking for us and those knives can’t hold out forever.”

            Dallon smirked. “I’m not too sure about that last part. I discovered another trick this belt has.”

            “What’s that?”

            He pulled several knives out of their sheaths and tossed them at a tree. They all stuck in a close grouping. “Now watch,” he said pointing to the belt. As he touched each empty sheath, a knife suddenly popped back into it. Hel looked to the tree and the knives were gone.

            “Nifty, huh?” he asked. “I found out about it by accident. I had left a couple of knives stuck in those guards back there. But when I touched the sheaths to take them off, the knives came back. I’m set.”

            Hel shook her head. “That’s nice. But don’t you think you should get out of here while you’re ahead?...and while you have a head?”

            “Well, maybe. Okay, shall we go?”

            “What do you mean ‘we’?” Hel did want to bring him, but she didn’t want him being too sure of himself.

            Dallon looked crestfallen. He stammered, “But I...I mean I thought...this is...”

            “Spit it out, boy.”

            “I thought I could go with you.”

            Hel was silent a moment, then asked, “Do you really want to come with me?”

            “Yeah. We could look out for each other! We’d make a great team.”

            “I’m not sure about that. But if you wanted to come, all you had to do was ask.”

            The young thief looked down at the ground. “I’m not too good at asking for things.”

            “Try.”

            He sighed, stood up straight, and then asked, “Can I go along with you?”

            Hel smiled warmly. “Sure. The company might be nice.”

            “Now you’re talking!”

            “I wasn’t before?”

            “Sure. Let’s go find a city that’s not so boring.” Dallon started to walk north.

            “Hey. Where are you going?” Hel stopped him.

            “I figure Frazettapur would be a good place to go. Lot’s of people from all over go there. Even you might fit in.”

            “Thanks. But I meant how do you think we are getting there?”

            “I can walk! I always walk!”

            Hel chuckled and reached down to him. “Come on. You’d be tired within a day and you would only slow me down. Hop up.”

            Dallon sheepishly took the hand up and sat on Hel’s back. She thought his male pride might be taking a wounding, but that was better than being caught by the city guard.

            She turned back to him. “Just remember: I don’t make a habit of this. Now tell me about these things you call wizard and magic.”

            They traveled then, to whatever might be coming next. Hel didn’t know if, or how long, in her natural form, but at least it gave her more options on how to face what came. She liked to have the freedom to choose. And choice was the only thing she whole-heartedly believed in.

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            No need to believe, but only to do. And no one has much of a choice when it comes to such matters.

“I am compelled to compel,” Zandor explained to the air.

CHAPTER FOUR

Court Intrigue

            Squinting into the sunset, Haelan could see a great bird crossing the sky again. She had noticed it an hour before as she set up camp. She hoped it was just one of the predatory birds of the area; she tried to keep herself from thinking it was a carrion eater, but her recent nightmare told her it was all too possible.

            Her solitary camp was in the same spot she had lost her people. They were gone, either to a new part of the country or trampled to death. The Maori had separated her from her people and wiped out any trace of their existence.

            Haelan shivered at the memory of the Maori. She had miscalculated the day of their mass migratory stampede. The Maori horse tribes traveled from southern Frelcock, through central Negluvia, and into the Barbarian Territories of the north each spring; their return would be in the fall. Thousands upon thousands of hooves had shaken the plains all around her. Her only protection had been a small spur of rock as they thundered past, hours without end.

            A sob escaped her as she put another faggot into the fire. She pushed a stray strand of scarlet back from her eyes and took a bite of the tuber that comprised her meager diet. She lost interest in the meal and decided it was time to sleep.

            So, with a heavy heart, the young lass curled up in her blankets and was soon sound asleep.

            The clopping of hooves brought her to instant wakefulness. But it wasn’t the hurried beat of a stampede - only a solitary horse. Still, a rider could mean trouble for a lone girl out on the plains. She strained her eyes in the dark. A steed with no rider is what she made out as the moon momentarily shone out from behind a cloud.

            It looked to be a fat horse heading for her camp. The body was uncommonly wide; perhaps something was tied to it’s side or hung from it’s back. Haelan sat up slowly as the beast regarded her.

            The moon winked out again from its billowy haven and lit the scene.

            “Oh!” Haelan exclaimed.

            The horse reared slightly and it’s wings extended out. Then it folded them back to its sides and regarded her once more. His white hide and feathers shone brightly.

            “Are you the human named Haelan?” it asked.

            “You talk!”

            “As do you. I was told I could find a human named Haelan on this plain. Are you she?”

            “Well, yes.”

            “That is well. Are you a healer?”

            Haelan nodded. “Yes. All of my people...yes.”

            “Excellent. Then Veillatif retrieved reliable information. Come! Gather your pack. I will ride you.”

            “Wait! What is going on? Who told you I was here? Why do you need a healer? What are you?”

            The winged horse sighed patiently, then said, “My name is Mormoire. My king is deathly ill. Will you come with me? Please?”

            “Why, yes.” And without a second thought about what she might be getting into, Haelan scrambled out of her bedroll. She relaced the front of her bodice, wondering how modest she should be with an intelligence not of her race. She hurried to collect what meager things she owned: two small pots, blankets, pack, knife - not much, but it comprised her world. Strapping them over her shoulder, she turned to the winged steed.

            “Climb onto my back,” he said, unfolding his wings slightly. She pulled herself up and held on fast to his mane as he started to trot.

            “Hold on tightly,” Mormoire warned. He broke into a gallop and spread his wings. Haelan closed her eyes.

            “Diancecht,” she murmured.  She thought she would be scared of horses for the rest of her life, and now she was riding one - a winged, talking horse at that. Slowly she opened her eyes. A dark expanse opened to her view below. It was still too dark to distinguish any landmarks, even with the moon fully uncovered.

            “Fear not,” came the reassuring voice of Mormoire, “you are not the first human I have ever borne.”

            “Great.” Haelan could make out the distant, jagged horizon of the West Reach Mountains and realized that that was their destination. Her hair and skirt were whipped back by the great speed of their passage. She wondered if this was the great bird she had spied combing the western sky earlier that evening. Another mystery. But there was one thing she could clear up.

            “Who is Veillatif?” she asked. “You said he told you where to find me.”

            “Yes, Veillatif is the King’s champion. He traveled to far off Castle Shine, which lies on an island in the Watlan Ocean, to seek council with the wizard there. King Tencendor has fallen ill of a malady we are unfamiliar with. So he asked the wizard’s advice. The wizard could not help, but he told of where a healer that could help lived; he gave your name. Veillatif collapsed in the Throne Room with his news and so I, instead of the great Veillatif, went to find you.”

            “I’ve never met any wizards.”

            “They are a strange lot. Who knows how he obtained his information? I only pray that you are able to help our liege.”

            “I’ll try.”

            She felt his muscles strain for more speed. Carefully, she reached out with her senses. Realizing that he had been going for hours at great speed, she used her powers to ease his fatigue. She nearly lost her grip from the wave of weariness that ran through her. She held tight and let it dissipate out.

            “Thank you,” said Mormoire, “but save your talents for my King.”

            “I can’t help him if we don’t get there,” she defended.

            He fell silent then, exerting his strength to pass the many leagues that needed to be covered. Haelan meditated uneasily on his back as the minutes slipped into hours.

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            Dawn was not quite upon them when the great aviary of the pegasi came into view. Their mountain home was part natural cave formation, and part construction. Mormoire explained to Haelan that the rocky castle was made ages before by the dwarves. For reasons lost to time, they abandoned the nearly finished structure and moved south into the Davanhi Range of the West Reach Mountains. It was at that time that the pegasi were also forming their first commonwealth, and so they used the empty dwellings as a stronghold. When the Dwarves never returned to claim what they had built, the developing of the winged race stayed and kept as their own.

            Mormoire glided down to a large balcony.

            “Is this the King’s chambers?” Haelan asked.

            “No, it would be presumptuous to enter directly, no matter the haste.”

            The balcony opened into a large hall. A great steed came galloping up to meet them. He was ocher of hide and wing, and violet of mane.

            “Noble Grossaille,” Mormoire greeted, “how fairs the King?” “Unchanged. Is this the Haelan that Veillatif spoke of?”

            “Yes. Let us conduct her to our liege.”

            “Should you not rest?” Grossaille inquired.

            “Only when I see the King healed. How fairs Veillatif?” The two steeds led Haelan into a passage.

            “He is up and around, ready to stomp Tachebrum into dust.”

            “Tachebrum still opposes the alliance with Vulcania then,” Mormoire stated as fact, not as a question.

            “Aye. And Veillatif opposes idleness.”

            Haelan tried to enter the conservation, even though her mind was more on the task ahead. “Where is Vulcania? I’ve never heard...oh!”

            Her cry of surprise came at seeing another Pegasus entering the passageway in front of their path. All of the winged horses were impressive to the petite healer, but this newcomer was magnificent. He was a giant of a steed, towering well over seven and a half feet at the withers. His black hide glistened and his red mane and tail reflected the fiery temperament of his eyes. Black also were his wings with just the tips of his wings scarlet.

            “Hail, Veillatif,” the other pegasi greeted.

            “Grossaille, Mormoire,” he returned. “I see your quest was fruitful.” He nodded an acknowledgment to Haelan and then turned to lead them on.

            “You’re welcome,” she muttered.

            Mormoire whispered to her, “Take no offence at our Champion’s manners. His heart is greatly burdened with the King’s illness.” Aloud, he asked, “When will a decision be made on this Pyrage alliance?”

            “It must be soon,” the black stallion’s voice rumbled. “Great Tencendor’s illness could not have come at a worse time. We must wait for him.”

            Grossaille said, “Tachebrum is of the opinion that a temporary regent should be appointed.”

            “Tachebrum!” Veillatif stomped his hoof. “No doubt who he would have rule. He preaches peace, yet in the end he would have us allied with McAmal.”

            “I doubt you not, fair Veillatif, but ‘tis difficult to prove his friendships. He has the respect of the elders for they remember his prowess in the Troll Wars. And he woos favor of the young pegasi with his talk of peace and prosperity,” Mormoire explained.

            “He aspires too high,” added Grossaille.

            Veillatif declared, “He will not see his ambitions ripen while I live.”     

            Tachebrum is jealous of the King favoring you. He always boasts of his part in the war against the Troll King, Riejim, while downplaying your role.”

            The black pegasi sighed. “Curse him. He was valiant once, but envy has undone him.”

            Haelan listened without comment, as the pegasi seemed to take little note of her anyhow. Having come from a loosely structured tribe of nomads, this political intrigue was almost too much for her to understand. She only wanted to get to the King’s chamber and practice what she knew best.

            Within the moment, that wish was met.

            Stopping in front of a great door, Veillatif said, “Wait here. I will see to King Tencendor before conducting you in.” After entering the chamber, the door closed behind him.

            Haelan turned to Mormoire and asked, “I’m still not sure why you need me. Surely there must be other healers around?”

            Mormoire replied, “Aye. The Pyrages of Vulcania have great magicks. But Tachebrum had counseled against seeking their help, stating that it would put the King under obligation and a pact with them would be unfair.”

            Grossaille added, “ Veillatif circumvented his weak argument by going to a neutral wizard. When he directed us to you, there was not the time for further searching. I pray you can help.”

            “The King must be made well,” Mormoire said. “We need his direction for this time of upheaval. Tachebrum is swaying favor for himself for some ill purpose, I am sure. His attempts at downplaying Veillatif’s role in the Troll Wars are ludicrous. Our great champion held the pass of Nanoc alone for nine hours ‘till reinforcements came. But the younger members of our kingdom were not there, and Veillatif does not boast of his own accomplishments. I only hope they will not listen to the jealous Tachebrum.”

            The door to the King’s chamber opened again. Veillatif came out and nodded to Haelan. “Heal him,” was all he said. He stood to wait with the others as the girl went in.

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            The great stallion’s sides trembled. He had one wing extended to give him support as he strove to upright. His regal carriage awed Haelan; even in sickness the winged horse was majestic. She knelt at his side and brushed his wild mane back from his eyes.

            “Where does it hurt?” she asked.

            “Pain means nothing to me,” answered the Lord of the Pegasi.

            “Would you rather keep it? Be honest with me or I won’t be able to help.”

            Tencendor sighed wearily. “You are right, lass. I should set pride aside for the present. The pain comes from my stomach.”

            Haelan moved to a better position and lightly touched the King’s side. He lifted a golden wing to give her more room. Inhaling deeply, she let her instinctive senses probe for the source of his ailment. She could have easily diagnosed the problem herself, but it was always better if the patient cooperated. That’s what her mother had always said.

            She breathed normally and probed deeper. Pain! Red-hot pain! She could not understand how he could remain conscious with that much pain. Willing the link to become stronger, she felt a twinge in her own stomach. Sweat beaded off her brow as she fought down the fear. She could see the red lines of the affliction travel from the King’s body, up her arms and into her own stomach.

            A cry escaped her lips. The link was strong; the pain came in wave after wave. It was coming too fast for her to dissipate. It was necessary to absorb the illness before her body could heal it, but this was too much. The pain became agony. Her face was white and her body convulsed. The agony seemed to be without end.

            Suddenly, she was flying away from the King. She lay gasping across the chamber.

            “Would you kill yourself seeking my cure?!” Tencendor demanded. He had swept her away with his wing. “You absorb the symptoms, I see. But I am a Pegasi. I can withstand much more pain than a mere human.”

            Haelan let the last of the pain fade away. “The link was too strong for me to regulate.”

            “By Equa’s balls! Even so, my strength is returning!” As he stood upright, he called, “Grossaille!”

            The chamber door opened. “My Lord?”

            “Get me Tachebrum and the Vulcanian Ambassador! Tell Veillatif to wait until they arrive before he comes in!” the King commanded.

            “Aye, my Lord.”

            After he left, Haelan said, “You should rest. I didn’t finish.” “I am well enough. I must complete this affair first, but you must confirm my suspicions. What was the cause of my ailment?”

            Haelan hesitated as she told him.

            King Tencendor nodded. “This is a dark day, but I should have known it was coming. My own loyalties blinded me. Now, all must be made right.”

            They waited in silence. Several minutes later, the door reopened. A green and black Pegasus shouldered his way past Grossaille as he tried to enter. Mormoire followed the two, and a man dressed in red and gold trimmed robes came last.

            The green colored Pegasus stopped when he saw the King standing, but then he came forward and said, “Your highness, you should not be up.”

            Tencendor gave him a stern glance. “We shall talk momentarily, Tachebrum.” He turned to the man. “Zable, most worthy emissary. Tell your masters that when the need arises, the pegasi shall be ready to give whatever assistance is called for.”

            The man bowed. “Thank you, great Tencendor.”

            “But your majesty...” began Tachebrum.

            “Now, Tachebrum, faithful councilor, who alone waited upon me...alone of all my faithful chargers did serve my food, see to my needs.”

            He nodded to the acknowledgment.

            “Why did you do it?”

            “Your Grace?”

            “I have been poisoned!”

            “My lord!” shouted Veillatif. Mormoire and Grossaille blocked the door as Tachebrum looked from side to side.

            “What have you to say for yourself?” demanded the King. “Why?”

            “Why??!” Tachebrum spat. “You ask me why? When you put me aside for this colt? After all my service? I was sent to parley with the trolls; alone I went to certain death! And I would have died had not another helped me. He treated me with dignity and gave me good counsel. He showed me a great source of strength and power; the pegasi could one-day rule over the land as when this world was new. I hungered for that, but he bade me wait - bide my time. That day would not come until Vulcania sought aid against my new allies. That day is now!”

            “You dealt with the fowl deamons of McAmal?!”

            “Aye! And I would do so again!” Tachebrum stomped his hoof. “We shall rise up and crush all who stand in our way!”

            Veillatif cried, “You are done!” and charged at him.

            The traitor reared and fled the chamber, bowling over Mormoire and escaping out into the hall. Veillatif galloped after him; Grossaille followed.

            Tencendor staggered back, weak from his partial recovery and the revelation of a friend turned betrayer.

            “Get out, now,” Haelan directed the remaining Pegasus. “I’m not finished here.”

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            Several days passed. The Vulcanian emissary left after working out the details of the alliance. Tachebrum had eluded pursuit and presumably had fled towards McAmal. King Tencendor made full recovery with the aid of Haelan, and Veillatif railed and stomped about the castle promising revenge - all the while ruefully cursing himself for failing his King, despite the arguments by everyone to the contrary.

            As Tencendor regained his strength, many types of council were met and the activity around the mountain castle increased. All of the pegasi were openly joyful at their King’s recovery, but there was also an unspoken nervousness beneath the renewed spirit. It puzzled Haelan until she finally realized that they were behaving much like a normal horse herd would before a great storm.

            Haelan had been given a room in the main aerie and was visited occasionally by Mormoire. Other winged horses came to visit her also, but she felt more of a friend in the white stallion.

            “So your people could still be alive,” Mormoire tried to encourage.

            “I don’t see how anything could have survived that stampede. They were directly in the path of the Maori.”

            “There is always cause for hope. No bodies were seen and, without a body, it is how the Dwarves say, ‘Habeas Corpus.’ What if I were to search the area again? We owe you much.”

            Haelan sighed. “You have repaid me many times over by making me feel I have another home here. No, you have searched more than enough. I think I should just accept the fact that I am probably alone now.” Her voice wavered, but did not break. “I’ll be all right.”

            Mormoire nuzzled her hand. “Your brave heart does me proud. You will always have a friend here.”

            “As she has friends elsewhere,” came a voice from the dark.

            Mormoire reared up, alert for signs of treachery. Haelan drew back from the portentous tones of the intruder.

            “No need to be alarmed.” A dark cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows.

            “How long have you been there?” demanded Mormoire.

            “Not long at all. Haelan, your help is needed again.”

            “Who are you?” she asked timidly.

            “My name is Zandor.”

            “The wizard of Castle Shine!” the Pegasus exclaimed.

            “You seem top know a great deal about me,” Haelan said. “You told the pegasi that I could help them, and now you try to direct me again. Why do I feel like I’m losing control over my life?”

            Zandor said, “We are all directed by life’s events. I simply follow the visions of events to come. A vision led me to send the Pegasi to you. And now another vision has involved you elsewhere. A gathering of heroes is taking place, and your destiny is tied to theirs.”

            “I’m no hero.”

            “To us you are,” stated Mormoire. “But remember I am your friend. If you do not wish to listen to this man, I shall remove him.”

            “No,” Haelan said. “That’s all right. Let him talk.” She was feeling some trepidation at having another mysterious event intrude upon her life, and yet there was a small tinge of excitement in knowing that her talents were of importance.

            Zandor continued, “I ask you openly to join the gathering. The danger is great, for you will face a powerful foe.”

            “I am not a fighter.”

            “They have enough warriors. It is your talents that are of importance.”

            Haelan started slightly. “Who...who is the enemy?”

            “You would be siding against none less than the denizens of McAmal,” the wizard intoned.

            “I think I am already on their wrong side.” She looked to Mormoire. He nodded his head. “What should I do?”

            “Go to Frazettapur. Seek out a Yutavian lady - Tala, by name. The gathering centers around one close to her.”

            “But...what’s going to happen on McAmal? Why are we needed?” Zandor shrugged. “I do not know; the vision goes no further than that. I can only ask you to go. The decision is yours.” With that, he turned and walked back into the shadows. Mormoire followed, but found only a deserted corner.

            “I am having second thoughts about this wizard,” he said. “He does not feel right.”

            “But he didn’t promise anything. No riches or glory - nothing,” Haelan mused. “Besides, I may be helping you by going against McAmal.”

            “Are you contemplating this rash act?”

            “It’s not all that rash. I’ll go find this Tala of Yutavia and get some answers from her. I won’t commit myself to anything, and I can drop out at any time. Will you take me to Frazettapur?”

            Mormoire sighed. “It is against my better judgment, but you must choose your path.”

            Haelan hugged him around the neck. “Thank you. You’re a good friend, Mormoire. Maybe I can meet you after I’ve found what I need.”

            “I wish to be sure of your safety, but I will not go into a human town.”

            “I understand. I’m sure something will throw us together again.” “Aye. That it may.”

            They talked longer into the night. Haelan mostly listened as Mormoire gave her advice on how to lay plans and anticipate all contingencies.

            But what could be certain when magic was involved?

CHAPTER FIVE

To Meet By Chance

            The sun was close to setting over the southern plains of Negluvia. The warm air and clear sky promised a pleasant night for sleeping, and the river flowed lazily by, burbling towards its final destination in the Gulf.

            A lone, young-looking man watched this scene. He stood at the top of a hill overlooking the river and the plains. A mile or beyond the river he could see the ruined walls and buildings of the long dead city of Drawoher. He closed his eyes and recalled a different image of the city. It was young and teeming with life, a center of activity for settlers, pilgrims, and the usual lot of tourists. It had been a favorite place for him to come and relax or to find minor adventuring. The duality of the city’s peace and excitement had been only one of its appeals for him. It was there that he had met his one, true love for the first time.

Figment sighed at the bittersweet memory; it was there that he had also lost his love for the first time.

            Opening his eyes again, the five hundred year old mage looked down at the river. He put his musings aside as he noticed a small figure crossing the shallow river. It was a young blond girl not much past the age of twenty. She wore only a halter and loinskirt; her only belongings seemed to be a light pack and a slim, curved scimitar which she carried high to keep them from getting wet.

            Figment watched as she climbed up the opposite bank from where he was. Looking around, she put down her pack and stuck the scimitar into the ground. After gathering some wood and making a small fire, she removed her wet clothes and hung them on a nearby bush to dry. Finally, she spread a bedroll out onto the ground, crawled between the blankets, and was soon asleep.

            The old mage considered himself a gentleman, but he could not keep from staring at the girl. It wasn’t so much her nakedness that attracted him, though she did have a finely trimmed, petite build. It was the azure glow around her that he could see when he concentrated beyond his five senses. It was a very recognizable aura that he had seen in twelve other women - twelve other women who were one in the same.

            He shook his head and sighed once more. What goes around...

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            The smell of bacon cooking wafted over the campsite. Figment smiled as he stirred the small flame under the pan. He had been many places and experienced many things in his half a millennium life, but he thought that nothing could come close to the pleasurable scent of frying bacon in the open air.

            Figment noticed the girl stir in her bedroll. She half smiled. Suddenly, her eyes popped wide open. Rolling out of the blankets, she snatched her sword and came up at the ready. She remained in a fighting stance as she glared over the fire at the grinning mage.

“Good morning,” he greeted.

            “How long have you been there?”

            “Since a little after midnight. I’ve fixed the bacon the way you like it: not too raw not to crisp.”

            “How do you know how I like it?”

            Figment toned his grin down to a smile. “A fork is much better to eat with than a sword.”

            “Huh?”

            “You’re shivering. I’ve left a cloak over by your other clothes.” The girl glanced down at herself as if noticing her unclothed state for the first time, but she didn’t jump to quickly cover up. Instead, slowly and with much dignity, she walked over to the bush where the cloak was, put her own clothes on first, and then wrapped the dark purple cloak about her shoulders. It clasped at the neck with a silver Pegasus.

            “Very nice,” she said.

            “I was just thinking the same,” Figment complemented. He handed her a plate with eggs and bacon. “Here, enjoy.”

            She took them and warily sampled the breakfast offering. She smiled and nodded, then silently dug into the food - all the while still watching him over the plate.

            Figment knew that he did not intimidate the girl in the least. Besides the fact that she looked every bit the fighter who could take care of herself, he, on the other hand, looked more like a pampered nobleman. It was an image he had cultivated to throw off his enemies and had nothing to do with liking opulent dressings.

            Being five-foot eight with blond hair and a clean-shaven face that made him look about twenty years old, he was not a physically imposing sight. The grey tights further softened his looks, blue tunic with silver embroider-work dragon, and brown and blue cape he wore. His boots were doeskin, and his only weapons were a skull pommel dagger and a gold hilted broadsword. Both looked to be ornamental than useful - a mistake that many an enemy had made only once. Figment, like his sword Traynor, held much strength and power behind a disarming appearance.

            “So,” he asked, “what name do you go by this time?”

            “Beg pardon?”

            “What do they call you? That is, deleting the obnoxious appendages of enemies and cutesy pet names of friends and lovers.”

“Oh.”

            “Well?”

            “Ah...Samantha.”

            “Lovely name.”

            “And what’s yours?”

            “Figment.”

            “Named for that northern wizard, huh?”

            “You might say that.” He wondered how familiar he should get with her. He knew her other 12 incarnations, but he was still a stranger to her as far as she could know. He decided to take it one step at a time. “Are you heading for Drawoher this morning?”

            “You mean that old ruin?” Samantha gestured seemingly nonchalant.

            “Yes, that ruin. I was going there myself. Bit of a treasure hunt.”

            Samantha raised an eyebrow.

            “Not for gems or gold,” Figment explained. “I was hoping to find a few books or scrolls.”

            “Uh, huh. Well, I was thinking of exploring the place. Mind if I tag along?”

            “Not at all. It’ll be refreshing company after my last companion. She left me for a man that fixes wagons. Can you imagine? Ah, well, life.”

            Samantha gave him a puzzling smile. He wanted very much to use his extra senses to read what she was thinking, but that came too close to violating her privacy. Figment would wait and let natural time revel what new personality traits his one true love had picked up ion this incarnation.

            Breakfast was cleaned up and they proceeded on foot to the ruined city. It was only a short hike and Figment kept up a pleasant conservation interspersed with many a joke. Samantha seemed reticent to talk about herself, but Figment also managed to avoid giving away much on his background. The getting to know each other was a two-way bridge.

            Coming to the city gates, Figment tried to keep Samantha to his left so she would not be able to examine the open door too closely. HE did not want her to notice that the huge, brass gate hung weakly from its hinges. And he especially did not want her to see the footprint in the metal from where he had kicked it in the night before. He did not need his extra senses to know that she was a bit jittery at entering the dead city.

            The pavement was cracked and vegetation was slowly winning a war with the streets. At one point, scrub trees blocked the entire path. Figment wished he had continued beyond the gates the night before; but then again, it might have looked too suspicious to have a freshly cut path waiting. The mage drew his sword and commenced to clear the way.

            He kept them on a direct path toward the main palace. Once there, he found that it’s doors were smashed - but out, instead of in. His guard was momentarily put up; he certainly didn’t do this one. But on closer examination, he could see that the door had been broken decades before. Figment took Samantha’s hand and led her over the wooden fragments and into the hallway. Perhaps it was a little overly familiar, but she did not protest or pull her hand away. Maybe she was feeling secure with him already. She was probably feeling a dozen conflicting emotions, so that was a good sign that they would begin to unjumble themselves. Good, Figment thought, the transition to recognizing him would come quicker.

            Halfway down the hallway, he stopped by an open stairwell. He pointed. “Down there are the old treasure vaults. I’m going to the library. It’s a flight of steps up just down the hall here...if you need me for anything.”

            “Ah, thanks.”

            Figment hated to leave her behind, but he knew it would be helpful if she had some time alone to sort her feelings out.

            As he started to go, Samantha grabbed his arm and stopped him. She asked, “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

            Figment chuckled, “Everybody gets that feeling from time to time. Maybe we knew each other in a former life.”

            “I don’t believe in that stuff,” she scoffed. “Why learn lessons in a past life, only to forget them in a reincarnation?”

            “Why indeed?” he shrugged, and then continued down the hallway. He glanced back before entering the stairwell to the library. Samantha stood, staring off at nothing, her face tight with concentrated musings. Finally, she shook her head, lit a torch, and entered her own stairwell.

            Figment chuckled at himself. There was no doubt about it: he was falling in love with his one true love all over again.

 

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            The young-looking old mage was in a cheery mood as he entered the dusty library. Not that that was too far off from his usual outlook on life. His moods had to be measured in degrees of happiness, as melancholy was a practical stranger to him - unlike his friend N’Con. Figment was always an optimist, continually believing that things would eventually work out for the best. Not that it always did, for destiny had a way of imposing her little reality checks from time to time.

            Destiny! Figment laughed. He had found her again, this time as a sword-wielding treasure hunter. Maybe this time, maybe she would survive. He prayed to the One God, the one who had taught him humility, that she would outlive the curse that followed his love.

Figment laughed again, but this time at himself. He found it hard to believe that there was actually a time that he had thought of himself as a god. True, he had gained his many powers from his father, who was considered the deity of Air. But his father was, more accurately, a primal force in the universe. He was not a flashy personality with myths of valor and scandal, like the northern sky god, Nirdon. The Primal Elemental of Air would not even have had a personality if his worshippers had not tried so hard to impose one. And so the only scandal he had ever created was when he made his high priestess bear a son - a rebellious son.

            Figment sighed and ran his fingers along a shelf. It had once held many a book of the last Baron of Drawoher. But the books, like the baron, were nothing but dust. He had hoped that one, at least, had survived. Even some fiction would have been nice for entertainment. Negluvia was known for it’s racy novels and plays. He brushed his hand off and decided to go see how his love was doing. She should have, by then, discovered that the treasure vaults had been sacked long ago. Going over to a second story window, he flew out and down to the first floor, entering one of the arched windows closest to the stairs Samantha had descended. He didn’t need a torch, as he could see just as well in the dark. It only took him a minute to reach the vault.

Trying the door, he found it barred. Maybe he had overestimated Samantha’s trust in him. He decided against kicking the door open; she might be on the other side of it. Besides, it was better to explain things slowly to her, rather than give her a crash course.

            Easing himself into a state of relaxation, he breathed deeply, then exhaled slowly. His body wavered and became translucent as he changed himself into mist. Finding a crack under the door, he slipped noiselessly through to the other side. If Samantha were there, she would see nothing but a fog coming into the vault.

            The sight that greeted Figment on the other side would have caused him to hold his breath, if he hadn’t been a breath himself. Samantha was battling a monstrosity - a giant spider-like creature with a humanoid torso jutting from its body. She was holding her own; one leg of the creature was already severed, but it was spitting sticky threads of webbing that were hindering her movements.

            The monster raised an axe high and took a swipe at Samantha’s head. She blocked the cut with her scimitar, but stumbled into a strand of webbing; her foot became stuck. She was totally on the defensive. The creature had height, strength, and mobility going for it. It was only a matter of time before she missed a block.

            Figment solidified, his anger rising. Every time, he had been helpless to prevent her death. Her twelve other incarnations had died in front of him. But not this time. This time...

            A wordless cry flew from his lips as a bolt of energy shot from his hands. The arachnoid was slammed upwards into the ceiling.

            But it was not out of the fight. Rising up in a tangle of legs, it peered at its newest attacker through a double set of eyes. Figment slowly, deliberately, drew forth Traynor. A gleam on the blade turned into a glow. He waited as Samantha freed herself from the webs and retreated to the farthest wall. Figment grinned and moved towards the creature with his sword at the ready.

            A low, feminine chuckling echoed from the shadows of the chamber; Figment froze at the recognition of it.

            “Darling,” followed a voice, “so nice to see you.”

“Aramantra, my dear sweet pain in the ass.”

“As charming as ever,” she hissed.

            She stepped into the light then. She looked exactly as Figment remembered her last. Aramantra, witch of the Necrobellum order, was as lovely as ever. A golden circlet held her waist-length white hair back; a crystal shard glinted there. The blue stone had been chipped from the Sapphire Throne in Figment’s last encounter with her. He had lost that battle, but now was the time to make things right.

“Cute pet, there,” he directed at her. “You been getting into animal husbandry?”

            “And you are still traveling with common sluts, I see.” The shard glowed on her brow and a giant blue hand came forth and made a grab for Figment. He flew through its fingers and shot a bolt of energy from Traynor’s edge. It hit the ceiling above the witch’s head, causing a shower of stones and plaster to rain down. The hand that she had created changed into an arc and diverted the hail of rock. She smiled.

            “The trouble with you is, you’ve never been able to handle rejection,” Figment taunted.

            “Rejection?! Insect!” A javelin of blue streaked towards his heart, but he deflected it with a sweep of Traynor.

            “You disgust me!” she spat.

            “Is that why you keep following me all over Blacksent? And I just thought you liked the shape of my buns.”

            Aramantra’s eyes flashed. “I could have killed you last time. That mercy was wasted. Now I shall deal with you, as I should have when first we met. Zandor’s council was good.”

            Figment tried to hide his surprise. “So what’s that old warlock up to these days?”

            “It matters not. Soon, nothing shall concern you any more. You are dead.”

            “Wrong again.” His tone betrayed no anger. It was calm, level, and held its menace on a leach. “Your lust for power has corrupted your reason. You’ve never understood me or the reasons I left you. You’ve got a bad attitude lady, and you’ll never understand true power.”

            “I have all the power I need, Figment, my love.” She laughed as a blue glow surrounded her body.

            “No. You don’t even understand the power of the shard you use.” He knew what he spoke of. The Sapphire Throne had been his at one time. It was a connection between Blacksent and the Abyss, and he had used it in his younger days when he had thought he was a god. “You’ve only used it to conjure and work your will. Let me show you it’s true purpose.” He floated off the floor.

            His mind reached out and touched the latent energies she had not tapped. He pushed and opened the portal into the Abyss. It was nothingness and everything - a sheer vortex of energy and void; eternal concepts and oblivion. It engulfed Aramantra, flooding her mind with the totality of the universe, just as it sucked her dry of every bit of being. Figment felt little remorse as he contained the area of disruption to within the shard again. She had brought it upon herself.

            He floated down to the old hag who had once been his lover, decades before. Gingerly he lifted the circlet from her head. She looked up, but her eyes were unfocused. Figment crushed the metal and stone in his hand and dropped it beside her. Everything was right again.

            A moan behind him told him that was not so. He cursed himself as he turned. Samantha had been too close to the Abyss’ vortex. It could cause madness for a human to even glimpse it. He rushed to her side and gently cradled her head. Looking into her eyes, he tried to see what his recklessness had caused.

            “Some warrior,” she muttered. “Leaving a foe at your back.”

            He looked past her. The spider-thing lay in a corner, it’s head severed from its body. Samantha had covered his backside.

            “You’re something else,” he said.

            “Just forget it. I don’t like to be taken for granted.”

            Never before had his one true love bee a warrior. Would he ever have to worry about her now that she could defend herself? She had defended him as well, for that matter.

            He kissed her then. It seemed right and she met it warmly. They held each other close and shared a few minutes of silent intimacy.

            He helped her up then and they began to leave the vault. He stopped and stared at the place where he had battle the witch.

            Aramantra was gone.

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            “So why didn’t you tell me that place was ransacked long ago?” Samantha asked. “You could have saved us both as lot of bother. And now I’m as poor as ever.”

            Figment held her hand as they walked away from the ruined palace. “Well, I’m not actually hurting for money, love. What’s mine is yours, it always has been.” Samantha looked askew at him.

            “I’m not quite sure if I totally believe that part yet. But I’m willing to give you a chance.”

            “Hey! Chance brought us back together again. I can live with that.”

            “Okay. But don’t be offended if my trust comes slow. You wizard types are a bit strange.”

            “I’m not really a wizard,” he corrected, “mage is more accurate.” He paused to consider her statement, and then he asked, “Have you had run-ins with other wizards?”

            “Just one. At least, he seemed like a wizard.”

            “Tell me.”

            Samantha continued, “I ran into him a few days ago just past the Frelcock border. He was the one who told me I could find treasure here.” She squeezed his hand. “Well, his tip wasn’t totally worthless.”

            “What did he look like?” Figment asked.

            “Oh, he was a big guy. He wore a dark cape and hood. His beard was streaked with grey, and he had a deep creepy voice.”

            Figment shook his head in disbelief. “Zandor again! This is really beginning to stink.”

            “I take it you know him?” Samantha asked.

            “Less than I thought I did. What in the world could he be up to? Listen, you don’t mind taking a little trip with me do you?”

            “Where to?”

            “Regnad K’Cin. A friend of mine could be getting in deep where he shouldn’t be.”

            Samantha smiled. “More adventuring? I take it that life with you will be anything but boring.”

            “That,” Figment laughed, “is one guarantee I can give for sure.”

CHAPTER SIX

Mountain Secrets

            Cold, dark, immovable, and mysterious: those were the West Reach Mountains to N’Con. The majestic peaks of the Davanhi Range rose close by to the east of his path; the Nosirrah Anaidni Range could be seen to the west. As he traveled his solitary way, his horse’s hooves raised small puffs of dust from the powdery lowlands. It was a quite desolate place, and the possibility that any life could be found there seemed far removed.

            Yet N’Con continued to travel. His objective was indefinite, the conclusion unknown. But that was no different from what most of his life had been. He had found some years of purpose under the hazy concept of questing. Unlike Figment, though, he got involved in adventures for the end results rather than for the sake of the quest itself. After freeing himself from the bonds of McAmal, N’Con had never felt a particular urgency to do anything. He had pretty much fallen into his adventures with Figment, but that was because he had followed the old mage for many years, and adventure was a constant companion of Figment. It was a life-style that suited N’Con fine, for there was really little worry involved with it. He did what he did without wondering why.

            But that had all changed. Questions of N’Con’s past, his parentage, and maybe even his future had surfaced in a way that was so demanding as to not be ignored this time. He had never believed much in outside forces or destiny, and had been very comfortable in thinking that events were just things that happened. It was odd, considering that he had spent 21 years under the rule of the living god, the GrandWeir, and that his travels with Figment had exposed him to many instances of magic and mystery. But those were things that N’Con could put off as extra-natural or things that he didn’t bother to think about at all. Now it was as though he was being forced to think about them, and he didn’t like that much at all.

            He was beginning to regret not having waited for his friend. Figment was used to such matters, and just his presence made them seem less intimidating. But Figment wasn’t with him; he would have to deal with it alone. He had started out on this course and he would carry it through to the end.

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            It was on the tenth day of N’Con’s journey that relief came to his monotonous ride and sombre thoughts. His map showed that he was perhaps three days away from where Vulcania was marked. Accordingly, nothing else should have been in the area except for the mountains around him and something called Brine Lake 70 miles to the northwest of his position.

            A small wisp of smoke from a campfire told him that he was not alone on the flatlands. He followed it to its source and found two strangers by its dying embers.

            Both men were of the dark brown-skinned race usually found on the southern continent, but their style of dress showed that they could not be of that region. Though N’Con had never seen the people before, he guessed that these two must be from the little known tribes of the northern Barbarian Reaches.

            One man was standing and eyed N’Con with caution as he approached. He was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall. He was so dark as to be almost black, and his dress denoted him as a warrior. The breastplate he wore was of a crude, but serviceable construction. His head was covered by a pointed helm, and his hand clutched a wicked looking axe. From his belt hung two other weapons - N’Con could not identify their exact use. He also wore a loincloth; metal-plated boots covered his feet.

            As imposing a sight as he was, the other man was quite his opposite. He was small and frail looking, and he carried no obvious weapons. His baggy, rough-weave cassock hung on him like an old skin. The sandals he wore seemed to be his only other property. He sat and regarded N’Con nervously.

            It occurred to the former Assassin that these two men must have been through a harrowing journey. They had no horses and very little supplies. They were not dressed for the desert, so they could not have come from the south. It was very unlikely that they were from Vulcania, which only left the mountains. The Davanhi Range would have taken at least three weeks to cross, and that was if they had been fortunate enough not to run into any trolls. But their presence showed that that could not have happened. Not many who had ever met a troll had lived to relate the experience.

            N’Con slowly got down from his horse. He was going to greet them and introduce himself, but the big man held his axe up in a defensive pose and spoke first.

            “Mendo lu min slah! Kolpin ta!” he growled.

            The small man got up a put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Nu Kalam. Clykaran g tessin?”

            “Excuse me,” N’Con interrupted. “But I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

            The two strangers looked at each other with surprise, then they turned back to N’Con. The small man said, “You speak the Old Language.”

            N’Con shrugged. “Well, it’s known around most of Blacksent as the Common Tongue. I think it’ll make things easier if we stick to it.”

“Most certainly,” the small man replied, still amazed. There were a few moments of uneasy silence.

            N’Con broke it. “Maybe I should introduce myself. My name is N’Con. N’Con Barsin.”

            “I am called Badli. I am Cleric to his worthiness, the Prelate of the Central Barbarian Tribes. And this is...”

            “I can talk for myself,” the big warrior growled. He addressed N’Con, “the name is Kalam.”

            “Good to meet you.”

            “He is Templar to the Prelate,” Badli supplied.

            Kalam scowled at the Cleric, but didn’t admonish him.

            N’Con said, “I’m passing through to the north. Do you mind if I join you for a bit of rest?”

            “Of course not...”  “Well, I don’t...” Badli and Kalam said together.

            “If I’m intruding...?”

“Not at all,” Badli said. “We could do with some new company.”

“You’re telling me,” Kalam mumbled, none too discreetly.

“Please excuse the rudeness of my companion. We have heard that this area was barren, and so it was somewhat surprising to see you here. Would you tell us what your purpose is?”

            That is something I’ve been asking myself lately,” N’Con mused.

            “Oh, great,” Kalam moaned. “You two should get along just wonderful.”

            Badli covered his eyes and shook his head, but N’Con just chuckled and said, “Actually, I’m trying to find a place called Vulcania. I’m looking for some answers...if it or they exist.”

“Come, sit with us,” Badli motioned. “Templar, put away your blade and sit. Please.”

            The ebony giant joined them by the remains of the campfire. N’Con studied the two for a moment, and then asked, “So, where are you heading?”

            “West.”  “South.”  Badli and Kalam answered together. “Civilization.”  “Somewhere,”  they overlapped again.

            N’Con held up his hand. “That’s all right; it’s none of my business.”

            Badli said, “We are not evading your question. Truth be told - we have no travel plans. Our only direction has been leaving.”

            “There’s no need to get into that,” Kalam grumbled.

            “Perhaps it is time to discuss it.” Badli sighed. “We have not talked about it since it happened.”

            Kalam shrugged and then tossed up his hands in resignation. Badli nodded. He took a small pouch off his belt and held it up. “It has to do with what is in here.” He put the pouch down and told their story.

“In the mountains we came across a vile looking creature, it was part human and part beast. It attacked us - at least, that is what we thought it was trying to do. We followed its trail and found an ancient altar with a rock of black metal on it. We were compelled to take this small chip of black metal. But when we both touched it, it stung us. A woman of unearthly beauty appeared, and we were suddenly prepared to fight each other over her. One of us would surely have been killed if it had not been for the creature that attacked us earlier. It fought the woman and broke the spell she must have had over us. It killed her and then...then died of it’s own wounds. We buried it and the rock together, but we kept this chip.” He held up the pouch again. “I believe this chip of metal has...taken something - from both of us. I know that may sound strange, but it is how I feel.”

“It’s good to listen to your feelings,” N’Con commented. “Though a friend of mine would say to temper them with a little common sense. My advise to you would be to find a good wizard and have him unlock the secrets of that chip.”

            “Bah!” Kalam exclaimed. “There’s no such thing as a good wizard. Bunch of godless heathens. It was probably a wizard that put that metal rock there in the first place. They’re always causing trouble for others.”

N’Con asked, “Then you’ve had a bad experience with a wizard?” “Well, I’ve never actually met one, but I have heard enough about their kind to know their no good.”

            Badli interceded, “I must agree with the Templar on one thing: it is not good to rely on any but the One God. However, It may be necessary to consult others for the knowledge they have in this area. Perhaps when we reach a populated area, I will seek out a practitioner.”

            “Sure, and I’ll seek out a cask of ale!”

            N’Con said, “Fine, but I can tell you that both are many weeks away - if you walk south, southeast, that is.”

            “Then I estimated pretty close to where we are,” Kalam mused. “Not that I’m happy to hear that we are that far from a watering-hole.

            “You could be closer than that,” N’Con told them, if Vulcania does exist. My map shows it to be three days to the north of here. Perhaps you would care to travel with me?”

            “Why would we want to do that?” Kalam asked, more puzzled than suspicious.

            Badli sighed patiently and asked, “What he offers is a shorter path to what we seek. We have not decided which way to go, and I would welcome new conversation.”

            But Kalam pressed the issue. “Look, no offense, Barsoon...”

            “Barsin. But please call me N’Con.”

            “Sure. Well, we don’t even know you, N’Con. Not that I’d have anything to worry about, but I’m a little picky about who I travel with.”

            The Cleric laughed a little, then stopped as though it was something he was not used to. He said, “Yes, you enjoy my company so much, that the Prelate had to order you to come with me.”

            “The pilgrimage was your asinine idea,” he retorted. “I never said I liked being sent with you, but at least I know how to follow directives.”

            Badli looked stung by the Templar’s comment. N’Con decided to intervene before it went any further. “Perhaps if I told you something about myself, you might feel more comfortable. You can decide if you want to travel with me afterwards.”

            Kalam said, “Sure, why not?” But Badli just shrugged.

            The former Assassin nodded and told them his story. The two barbarians shared some more also. They talked well into the morning.

That afternoon, all three men began their journey to the north.

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            The next two days went well. N’Con enjoyed his conservations with Badli and Kalam, despite their frequent bickering. He was surprised to find out that they were to devotions of the same religion. They both worshipped the One and answered to the same Prelate. But whereas the Clerics had taken to a studious path, the Templars had worked on a physical one. The Clerics spent their time in meditation of something called the Word, while the Templars built up their bodies and fighting skills.

            N’Con also learned that their unspecific travel plans had been so from the beginning of their journey. The Barbarian Tribes had pretty much kept to themselves, and the Templars insured that no outside invaders intruded upon their lands. Badli had gotten the idea that if he could spread the Word of the One God around, others would understand them more and leave them alone. The Prelate had let him go, but he insisted that a Templar, Kalam, was to go with him.

            The two men had experienced nothing but hardship on the road, running into various bandits, and finally the creature. That experience seemed to have left them with some doubt about their purpose, though neither would go into further detail about what else happened.

            N’Con didn’t press them on it. What they probably needed was a good adventure with a clear goal. All that mucking around in grey areas could confuse any man.

            Much, N’Con thought, like himself.

            Clarification was needed, but it didn’t come. Instead something new was added to the mystery of the area.

            It was on the afternoon of the second day of their journey together. N’Con had dismounted and walked along with the Cleric and the Templar. They were near to Brine Lake, and according to the map they should have been within fifteen miles of Vulcania. They tried to see if anything man-made was ahead, but there was only a bright, washed-out glare on the horizon. The sky was clear and the sun was at a strong angle above. It would be near to dusk before they would be able to see what was causing the glare.

            But something else happened first.

            A line on the horizon started to darken and grow. The glare wasn’t letting up - something was blocking it. And it was moving towards them.

            “What...what is it?” Badli asked.

            “We will soon find,” Kalam replied.

            N’Con said, “There’s something familiar about the way it’s moving. I think we have a hoard running at us.”

“Do you think they’re armed?” Badli tried not to sound nervous.

            Kalam shrugged, “Not that it matters. A number of anything that great doesn’t need weapons.”

            “They are weapons,” N’Con asserted. “Living weapons.”

            “You know what they are?”

            “Yes. Old friends from the island I told you about. I knew there was a link between McAmal and Vulcania but I didn’t realize how close.”

            At half a mile away, and closing fast, the hoard could be seen as thousands of individual creatures.

            “What are you trying to say?” There was no hiding of Badli’s nervousness.

            N’Con faced the two barbarians. “Those, good men, are the Deamon Hoard of McAmal.”

            “Then what are we standing here for?”

            “We could never outrun them; they’re far too fast.”

            Kalam offered, “You could get away on your horse.”

            “What?!” Badli exclaimed.

            N’Con shook his head. “I doubt it. I make my stand here with you. At least we can take a good number with us.”

            Badli was astounded. “You would do that for us? You hardly know us.”

            “You both seem like good men. That’s all I need.”

            There were a few moments of silent camaraderie. The fate of the three men had been sealed, and there was nothing to do but to meet it as best as possible.

            Kalam held out one of his weapons for Badli. The Cleric hesitated, but then took it. He held it as if he didn’t know quite what to do with it, yet the determination on his face showed that he was going to try to be as brave as the Templar.

            The deamons were very closer. Their misshapen human-animal bodies and faces were hideous. But what made them so terrifying was the base ferocity of their unheeding flight. They were like the Fire Ants of far southern Candow, sweeping a path of total destruction. None could stand in their way.

            But then a realization came to N’Con.

            “Wait a second. Put away your weapons,” he said.

            “What?!”

            “Put them away. These deamons can’t hurt us.”

            The hoard was almost on them.

Badli said, “I could not fight anyway,” and dropped his weapon.

            Kalam lowered his axe. “Doesn’t matter if you are wrong. But I hope you are right.”

            N’Con stepped forward to meet the wall of oncoming creatures. A scaly, fanged nightmare leapt at him...

            ...and passed right through. Hundreds of creatures passed through the three men without so much as mussing a hair. Then, suddenly, the Deamon Hoard disappeared. They returned to the thin air from which they came.

            “Not real,” Badli was slack-jawed. “Not real at all.”

            Kalam asked N’Con, “How did you know they were phantoms?”

            “No Smell. Deamons stink of death. Whoever put up that illusion didn’t cover that area. But we can assume two things now.”

            “What is that?”

            “There is someone in Vulcania.”

            “What’s the other thing?”

            “They don’t want us to come there.”

            N’Con was more resolved than ever that he would find answers ahead. He told his two companions so, but also added that they need not continue with him. Kalam said that he had no problems about going along, and Badli was only a little less enthused, so they both decided to stay with him.

            They walked toward the bright glare on the horizon, and as they walked it seemed to grow taller. By late afternoon they were within a mile of where Vulcania should be. The glare was definitely growing; it also began to take on some vague, regular shapes.

            “Excuse me for repeating myself,” Kalam said, “but what do you think it is.”

            “It has to be made by man. And if I may repeat myself, it looks familiar somehow. If it wasn’t for this glare I could be sure.”

            “You will soon have that chance,” Badli observed. “Clouds are moving toward the sun.”

            Banks of early evening clouds were coming over the mountains. Within minutes one large cloud shrouded the sun. The three men stood in shadow and looked again to the north. The glare was gone. In it’s place stood a crystal-spired castle.

            “I believe that we can assume that that is Vulcania,” N’Con announced.

            “It is beautiful.”

            “What do you think it’s made of? Diamond?”

            N’Con shook his head. “Nothing that big. I said it was familiar. You can see it’s man-made, but you’ll also note that there is something organic about it. It’s like the structures back on McAmal. Those were grown and shaped coral reefs of that area. This, I think, was grown from salt.”

            “Salt?! Where did they get so much?”

“The lake,” Badli suggested. “Perhaps even the ground.”

            “Exactly,” N’Con agreed. “The Pyrages are a powerful wizard sect. There’s no telling what they could accomplish. And that’s what worries me. They splintered off from the FirePriests of McAmal, but they could be different in name only.”

            Badli observed, “Would they also not be different in intent? Some disagreement made them leave McAmal.”

            “We only know of what our weapons-master told us in training. I’ve unlearned much of what I learned there, and so far everything they told me has been a lie. They said the Pyrages were enemies, I think I’ll find some friends ahead. At least, I hope I will.”

“They have a strange way of welcoming their friends,” Kalam said.

            They walked on. A great archway could be seen in the crystal wall surrounding the castle. No gate closed it off, so they headed that way. As they neared, there were still no visible signs of life. No guards on the walls, nobody looking out of the many windows. N’Con would have preferred that somebody show up and make another show of power. The silent anticipation was unnerving.

            As they entered the city, the tension was finally broken. And anticipation turned into disappointment.

            Only one old man waited in the courtyard to greet them.

            He was a frail old man, perhaps in his late seventies. He wore a dull white toga with no trim. Its voluminous draping did nothing to hide his frail frame; it only looked like it was ready to drag him down. His only decoration was a pendant. It was gold and shaped like a dragon rising from a flame; a small red jewel made the eye.

            The old man’s face was gaunt, but friendly. He smiled in greeting.

            “Who are you?” N’Con demanded.

            The man replied, “My name and title is Vinculum. I welcome you, N’Con.”

            “I won’t ask how you know my name. From that little display outside, I assume you’re capable of many things. So you probably know why I am here.”

            “Yes. And I do hope you will forgive the illusion defense. It was put up many centuries ago and we know longer know how to dispel it. And let me say that why you are here and why you have come may not be for the same reason. But the answer for both are contained within one.”

            “Oh, great,” Kalam groaned. “You three should have some wonderful conservations.”

            Vinculum said, “I am sure you have many questions. But let us see to your comfort first. Come; we will confer after you have dined and rested.”

            “Just the food is fine for now,” N’Con told him. “I’ll rest better after I find out what is going on.”

“As you wish. Follow, please. Kalam, Badli - come also, please.”

They were led through the bare outer courtyard and into the main entrance of the castle. Like the archway, it had no doors. A few crystal steps, roughened so as not to be slippery, led up to the grand hall. Everything seemed to be made of the same crystal. N’Con wet a finger, touched it to a wall, and then tasted.

            “It is salt. What do you do when it rains?”

            “We pray for more,” Vinculum answered. “It is the only thing that keeps the growth of the city in check.”

“Your people built this place, and now you can’t control it?”

            “Our forefathers put many things into motion that are now beyond our grasp.”

            N’Con disliked being kept in the dark, but it was obvious that this man would answer no question before it’s time. He clenched his teeth and continued to follow; patience was one of the human qualities that he hadn’t quite caught on to.

            As they walked down the hall, there were still no other signs of life. For a place so big, it seemed odd that there were not more people.

            “We are only a few hundred in number,” Vinculum answered unasked. “This is a large place. You will meet others after you dine.”

            N’Con was going to ask a question, but the old man turned off into a side room. A large table was set therewith food enough for a dozen men. There were no servants.

            Vinculum motioned to the table. “I hope you do not mind tending to yourself. I will return when you are done.” Before they could ask anything, he left the room.

            “Quick old bugger,” Kalam commented. But at least there’s enough food here for a decent supper. Too bad he didn’t get something for you two. Ha! Just joking.”

            Badli whispered to N’Con, “But not by much.”

            The three sat and dug into the lavish meal. N’Con and Badli finished long before Kalam, and the Templar might have continued to eat had not Vinculum returned.

            “Gentlemen, please follow me.”

            Kalam wiped his hands on the tablecloth and grabbed some figs as he followed the others. A short walk down the hall took them to a different, larger room.

            Many people were there. It was a meeting place of some sort. There were a few tables scattered here and there with more chairs than they were meant for. A few score of people sat by the tables; others stood. All were dressed in togas of different colors and cuts, but they were similar in that they were unadorned and nearly drab. The people varied in age from the early twenties, to as old as Vinculum. Everyone stopped talking and watched the three men and their guide enter.

            Vinculum led them to a table at the center of the room. A young woman sat talking to a man who looked out of place with the others. He was dressed in red and gold trimmed robes. He noticed N’Con and stopped talking.

            The young woman also noticed the visitors and excused the man. “We will talk later, Zable.”

            Vinculum bowed deeply to her. It surprised N’Con ion that nothing about her noted nobility above the others. She was a pretty brunette, not beautiful, but her voice was music.

            “Greetings, gentlemen. I hope the meal was satisfactory?”

            “It was most wonderful,” N’Con said as he bowed. The woman giggled.

            “Sorry?”

            She composed herself. “I should be the one to apologize. I forget that customs elsewhere are not as they are here. A bow is for parent to child. We have great respect for our heirs. But I prattle. I have not told you who I am. You may address me as Sola.”

            “And you know who we are?”

            “Yes, N’Con. Please sit. Kalam, Badli - join us.”

            As they sat, Vinculum stood behind his daughter. It struck N’Con that he must have been healthier than he looked. He would have been about fifty when he fathered Sola. Must be something in the water, he thought.

Sola asked, “Would you care for something to drink?” and then covered her mouth to keep from giggling again.

]           N’Con was starting to feel very exposed. He wished they would get to what he was looking for.

            “I am sorry,” she said seriously. “You have a question?”

            “Many,” N’Con replied. “But you know what they are, so let’s make this quick and get to the answers.”

            Sola looked slightly guilty. “Yes. I will not prolong this.” She glanced at her father, and then around the room. N’Con noticed that the other’s were watching intently. Sola’s grey eyes locked with his.

            She said, “We are almost certain that you have no deamon blood in you. But the only way to find out for sure may cause your death.”

            N’Con was crushed. “You don’t know? Then I came all this way for nothing.”

            “No, N’Con. We may be able to help you reach that goal, and more.” Sola put her hand on his. “But as I have said, there are great risks involved.”

            “That’s nothing new to me.” N’Con drew his hand from hers. “Start from the beginning, and go to where you say there’s a way to help me.”

            Sola breathed deeply and then began.

            “You know our sect broke away from McAmal over 500 years ago, but you do not know why. The FirePriests had become obsessed with finding the ultimate power. You see, we have control over the element of fire because our linage can be traced back to the Primal Flame; all our magic is based on that. But that was not good enough for them. They wanted to control the Flame itself. For that purpose, they were going to pull the God of Fire from the Abyss and manifest him as an avatar in our world. Many did not agree with that plan, though, and most escaped the FirePriests madness; the rest were killed. Those who left McAmal came here to Vulcania for protection. They knew the FirePriests would be successful, but they numbered too small to stop them. So our ancestors did the only thing left for them: they created a weapon to destroy what our former brethren called up.”

            “A weapon to destroy a god?!” Badli exclaimed.

            “What the FirePriests brought forth was no longer a god. He became the MagnaObique. You, N’Con, know him as the GrandWeir.”

            “I wish I didn’t”

            Sola continued. “He is only a physical representation of a god. He is pure flame made flesh. The GrandWeir is only what the FirePriests have made him.”

            “Evil.”

            “Yes. But it is their evil. Their intent perverted the purity of the Flame. The MagnaOblique is powerful, but he can be destroyed. As the FirePriests were evoking the Primal Flame, our ancestors were invoking it. What they have is weak flesh; what we have is metal tempered by the Flame itself. A sword.”

            “A sword?” Kalam laughed. “You’re going to try to kill a god with a sword?”

            Sola smiled. “This sword is a direct link to the Abyss and the Primal Flame. It will destroy the MagnaOblique with the very power that created him.”

            “What happens to the person who uses this sword?” N’Con asked suspiciously.

            He thought she averted her eyes for a second, but he couldn’t be sure. She answered, “He is protected by the blessings of the Flame.”

            “Uh, huh. So why haven’t any of you used it to destroy the Mag...the GrandWeir? You know what he has planned for the world.”

            “More than you could imagine, N’Con. You see from what the Assassins were told: world domination by selective killing and planting the seed for easily controlled children. That was only the surface of his plans. In actuality, he is going to control the world, by becoming the world. All flesh will be tainted by his blood and, eventually, be made a part of him.”

            N’Con was getting angry. “I repeat: why haven’t you used the sword?”

            Sola did avert her eyes then. “As the FirePriests made a mistake in calling down the God of Fire, the Pyrages made a mistake in the creation of the Flame Sword. They used a Primal substance, black silver, to contain the power of the Flame. But you see, our entire ancestry can be traced back to the Primal Flame. Our bloodline is of the pure Element. By using a substance outside of our line, we are shut off from unlocking its power. Only someone of mixed lineage can use the Flame Sword. And that brings me back to your parents. At least, who we hope they are.”

            “This better be good.”

            “Within Vulcania, we have stayed as a pure race. None have entered until you. And for fear of being destroyed by the FirePriests or their Assassins, we have never left - until 24 years ago. A Pyrage named Oug decided to explore the world outside. He thought we should know how the MagnaOblique was progressing in his plans. Along his journey, he met a Yutavian woman...”

            “...Tala, my mother.”

            “Exactly. They were bonded to be wed. But first, Oug had to complete his mission. He was going to travel to an island near McAmal to discover what he could. That is the last we heard of him; we can only assume he is dead. Tala, we know, was captured, but escaped McAmal many years after.”

            “I know,” N’Con said. “I was the one sent to kill her. But how do you know? I thought mind-link could be done only over a short ways.”

            “That is correct. But we followed Oug’s example and sent out another spy. We traced Tala to Core in Frelcock. We watched to make sure she was safe, but did not contact her.”

            “Why not?”

            “I am sure she blames us for Oug’s death, and there was no need to cause her more pain. And besides that, we lost our second spy somewhere in Levin. We did not want to send out another to perhaps die.”

            N’Con mumbled, “Sorry about that.”

            Sola put her hand on N’Con’s again. “That is all right. We know you are not what McAmal tried to make you into. There is nothing in your past to forgive.”

            “Which brings me to the present,” N’Con said. “You are not sure if Oug and Tala are my parents?”

            “No. Tala, we are positive, is your mother. But we are not certain of your father.”

            “And you have a way I can find out?”

            “Yes. But there is danger in it. If you are anything but a Pyrage and human mix, it will destroy you.”

            “Anything is better than this doubt. What do I have to do?”

            Sola looked as if she was trying to keep from crying. “You must...take the Flame Sword from it’s sheath. That releases the power. If you are of the mix, you will not be harmed and you will be able to return the sword to its sheath. If not, the Flame will consume you.”

            N’Con looked to Kalam and Badli. Both were silent, but the Templar did nod slightly. It suddenly occurred to the former Assassin that, though he had only known the two barbarians a few days, they were, and would be, life-long friends.

            However long that would be.

            N’Con turned back to Sola. “Let’s get it over with.”

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            They were led out of the room and down the hall again. Sola took over as guide, as her father stayed behind. She tried to encourage Kalam and Badli top do the same, but they would have nothing of it.

            She led the three down a long flight of stairs to the lowest regions of the castle. Even fifty feet beneath the surface, the crystal still reflected the light well enough to see.

            Sola brought N’Con to the only door he had seen in the place. It was made of a white metal, as were the walls outside of what must have been a room.

            “This is the keep of the Flame Sword,” she explained. “It is at the center of the room. I will shut this door after you to protect us from its power. The white iron will absorb the heat.”

            N’Con looked at Kalam and Badli. “Either of you want to be my second? Just joking.”

            Badli said, “If I could, I would switch with you. May the blessings of the One be with you.”

            Kalam added, “Sure, what he said. And remember: that which does not destroy us, makes us stronger.”

            “You are both faithful men.” N’Con looked at Sola. “If I don’t come out, see that they’re well taken care of.”

            “They will be honored, either way, as the friend of a great warrior.”

            N’Con smiled. “They are at that.” He turned to the door. “Open it.”

            Sola touched a small jewel to an indentation on the door. It swung open to reveal a small room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made of the white iron. An alter of the same metal held the Flame Sword.

            N’Con stepped into the room and looked back at the others. Badli smiled bravely, and held a clenched fist up - the sign for a warrior’s victory. Sola’s eyes were watering over and she looked away from N’Con’s questioning stare. Whatever she was hiding, he supposed he would find out in a few moments.

            The door closed.

            N’Con turned to the altar. Everything about the Flame Sword was black except for a single red jewel in its hilt. It was of the one handed, short sword style. The sheath was of the same black metal as the hilt and, he thought, the blade itself.

            He took hold of the hilt and the sheath, and tried to lift it. It wouldn’t move. Either it was attached to the altar, or it was just too heavy. Perhaps if he could slide it out of the sheath, the “power” would let him lift it.

            He took hold of the hilt and pulled with one hand. The blade slide out a fraction of an inch. N’Con took hold with both hands. He put his foot against the altar and pulled with all of his strength.

            The Flame Sword came out.

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            Sola, Kalam, and Badli waited in silence after N’Con entered the room. Both men could feel that she was hiding something, and so neither wanted to talk to her. Sola was just too nervous to enter into conservation. She paced as the minutes began to stretch.

            She finally headed for the iron door, but she never got there. An inhuman scream shook the walls of the room. It seemed to continue on for many minutes, and actually made the castle around them rumble in echo.

            The screaming cut off as if cut off. But then it started to get warm. The walls of white metal began to radiate an increasing heat.

            Sola and the two men moved away and up the stairs as the heat became oppressive. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, a red glow could be seen from where they had come.

            N’Con would not be following.

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            Sola led them back to the meeting room. The others were waiting; expectation filled their eyes. Any hopes they had were dashed as only the three entered.

            “So is that it then?” Kalam finally asked. “No regrets or anything? What are you people made of?”

            “Please. We are grieved for your friend. But...” She could find no more words. Vinculum came to her side.

            “Come, daughter. Sit. I will see to the needs of his friends.” He addressed Kalam and Badli. “We will provide you with food, silvers, and horses. You may stay or go. Either way, you will always be honored as N’Con’s friends.”

            Sola looked up at the two to see what their answer would be. But they never got the chance to reply. In the next second, she screamed in surprise, or terror. Probably both.

            N’Con was standing in the doorway.

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            His clothes were smoking, but unburnt. He held the sheathed Flame Sword in his hand. He had succeeded, but both Kalam and Badli got the distinct impression that nobody in the room was totally happy at that. They seemed afraid.

            N’Con stepped further into the room. He looked unscathed, except...

            ...except for his eyes. They were two black orbs, reflecting nothing.

            He looked around the room until his dead gaze fell on Sola. She was shaking; tears filled her eyes. She held out her hand in supplication as he walked to her.

            He stopped in front of her. After a moment, he spoke. His voice was ghostly. “Damn you. Damn you straight to all the hells.” then he turned and left.

            Kalam faced Sola. “What has happened to him? What did that thing do?”

            She was too overcome to answer, so Vinculum said, “It has given him the power to destroy the MagnaObique. And it has given him the answers he was seeking.”

            Kalam stared at Vinculum angrily. His hands clenched, wanting to go around the scrawny neck. But that would solve little. He said, “I hope you can live with whatever you’ve done to him. But I doubt you will.” He turned to follow N’Con.

            Badli caught up with him. “Where are you going now?”

            “Do you really have to ask, Cleric?”

            “No. I suppose not. Do you think N’Con will be all right?”

            Kalam shrugged. “It doesn’t look like he’s been given that option. I guess we can only do what we can for him.”

            They followed N’Con out of the castle. He did not stop for his horse, so Kalam led it by the reins.

            “Where do you think he’s going?” Badli asked.

            “South-southeast.”

            “That I can see. But where does it lead him?”

            Kalam considered for a moment, and then replied, “I believe he is going to his death.”

            They were silent after that. Both men knew they would follow N’Con on his road, wherever it led. Somehow, he reminded them of what their purpose was. Being faithful, and acting on faith, were two different things.

            Both men prayed to the One to give them the strength to continue in that resolve.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Old Friends

            The wizard stepped through the trees into a clearing in the woods. There stood the tower of his search. It was of a wholly unspectacular construct; mud brick, slate roof, one door with an “A” over it; total height of the tower being over 40 feet. The only thing out of place about it was that it was out of place. There were no other buildings near it. The entire clearing, in fact, showed no signs of human life or even travel. The tower looked like it had just been plopped down with no care of what was around it.

            And since the wizard knew the occupant of the tower, he also knew that that was exactly as had been meant. He knocked on the door. No answer came. He knocked again.

            The sound of something crashing came from inside, followed by a familiar voice, “Ah, frigget!”

            The wizard knocked once more. The voice called from in back, “Bah! Go away and leave a hermit in peace!”

            “You have been decidedly hard to find,” the wizard said. “Now open up.”

            The sound of feet stumbling closer, and something else crashing, came in return. Then the voice asked, “Who are you to look for me?”

“Open the door and find out.”

            There was a grumbling from behind the door. “Fair enough. I’ll bite.” The door opened.

            Zandor walked into the tower.

“I gave at the office,” said Alceste, the owner of the tower.

            Zandor tsked, “Really now. Is that any way to treat an old friend?”

“I don’t have any friends,” Alceste retorted. “What do you want?”

“My, aren’t we grumpy? Did I interrupt your stargazing?”

            “Yes! Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

            “Do I need a reason to visit you?” Zandor asked.

            “You went through a lot of trouble to find me. I know, because I make myself hard to hunt down. Why the bother?”

            “Well, if you must know...”

            “I must, I must...”

            Zandor eyed the tall, lean stargazer. He always seemed to be making sport of whomever he talked with. Zandor couldn’t understand Alceste’s humor. He doubted there were many people who did.

            “Mind if I sit down?”

            “Not at all. Mind if I have a drink?”

            “It’s your tower.”

            “Damn straight!” he said, pouring a mug full of dark ale. Then he sank into a chair opposite Zandor.

            The wizard looked slowly around the room. It was a mess. Shelves, tables, and chairs were crammed with books, maps, scrolls, charts, and bits of uneaten food. A spiral stairway at the center of the room led up to what Zandor knew was the observatory. His eyes locked on a small sketch of a familiar face: the mage, Figment.

            Zandor smiled; there were no small ironies.

            “Well?” Alceste asked. “Who do you want killed?”

            “Oh, nothing that drastic, really. There are some mutual friends launching an enterprise that you may be interested in.”

            Alceste grinned. “I’m always interested - at least in knowing what’s going on. Who’s involved?”

            “Figment and N’Con.”

            “Say no more. Forget it. I’ve got things to do.”

“But it promises to be most interesting,” Zandor proffered.

“I’ll bet,” Alceste scoffed. “Listen, people have a way of kicking off when those two are involved. It’s always, ‘Oh, boy! There’s the villains!’ and it’s out with the cutlery. My doctor told me to stay away from sharp, pointy things.”

            Zandor looked at his unkempt, untrimmed beard and couldn’t disagree. “This relates to more than just Figment and N’Con. At least nine others are already involved.”

            “Yeah, sure. Do they know about it yet?”

            It was Zandor’s turn to grin.

            “I thought so,” remarked Alceste. “Look, I’m in the middle of something right now. A new comet is passing through Leonardo, meaning trouble and fire.”

            “Is that the one you said would be back every 76 years?”

“No. That’s not due for another ten years. Maybe twelve.”

 “You’re not sure? I thought you were a good astronomer.”

            “That’s Astrologer! And I am good. Comets are just tricky; they always mean trouble. Must be related to women. Anyway, I’ve got a paper to do for Dolman University. Promises to pay good. And I’m a bit behind in my payments at the Rampant Snail Inn over in Zerros. Man cannot live by homebrew alone. Rampant!”

            “I see,” Zandor said thoughtfully.

            Alceste eyed him cautiously. “Oh, I get it. Here’s where you whisper about hidden treasures maybe being involved. Or is it wisdom unimaginable to tempt the scholar in me? Sorry, but I’m on to all those wizard’s tricks. They might sucker some other poor sap into a suicidal mission, but not this sap. I’ve read all about that guy from Oz.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Never mind. It won’t work. I don’t fight for money, books of knowledge, or lost cities. Bheer, maybe. Cold bheer, definitely. But that’s really important stuff.” Alceste quaffed deeply from his mug. “So nothing you can say will work.”

            “What about the fate of the world?”

            “What about it? It’s gone on this long with out me getting involved in risky business. Now what about you? What do you get out of it? A new book for Castle Shine? Ah ha! I see by that smug look that you do get something out from it. What is it? The secret of the universe?”

            “Close. I suppose everyone does things for something.”

            Alceste asked, “But who gets the biggest piece of the pie on this one?”

            “I don’t follow you.”

            “Sure you do. You hoodwink a bunch of average Joes to go traipsing off on some damn fool idealistic crusade; some of them don’t even know how they got involved. They get killed off, or lose close friends. And if there is gold involved, it usually slips through their fingers. Then you or some other manipulating wizard steps in and claims all the glory or power, whichever the real prize was. Leave me out of it, please!”

            Zandor shook his head. “You are a cynic, Alceste.”

            “But not far from the mark, am I?”

            The wizard sat back in silent contemplation. Perhaps he had rationalized a lot of it. Destiny was involving them with the forces surrounding McAmal, but yes, he did have a stake in it that did not concern the others. Was he risking too much for his goal, even though he helped the goals of others? The foundation of the world depended upon their success. It was not possible to avert the rising storm.

            “So, cousin,” Alceste said, interrupting Zandor’s musings, “what did you get N’Con and Figment into this time?”

“I thought you were not interested.” “In going, not in what’s going on.”

            “Well, you see portents of it in the heavens even now.”

            Alceste whistled. “You’ve involved them in something so involved that it involves the heavens? Thank God I’m an atheist.”

            “I did not bring them into it,” Zandor defended. “They are simply involved. N’Con’s birthright is at the heart of the matter - as are the doings of the fire worshipers.”

            “Bah! Worship any element or deity and it leads to trouble. Those FirePriests and Pyrages tampered with the fundamentals of the universe, and now it comes back to haunt them.”

            “Indeed. Then you do know what is happening. The forces set in motion half a millennium ago are ripening to fruition. And your friends are swept up in those forces.”

            “Uh, huh. Well, I’ll keep an open mind on this stuff. But don’t call on me...”

            “Alceste, destiny is pointing towards you.”

            “She better watch who she’s giving the finger to!”

            Zandor sighed and shook his head. “I will never understand you. One minute you are complaining about the foundation of the universe being tampered with, and the next you make light of it.”

            “What do you want from me? Consistency? At least I drink constantly,” he said, taking another sip of ale.

            The wizard rubbed his beard. Could the crystals have been wrong about Alceste being involved? And what help could the astrologer really give? He scorned the use of magick, except for amusement, and his swordplay was abysmal. Perhaps it had been a mistake to have even asked.

            Zandor stood up. “Very well, Alceste. Watch your stars; they may show you the outcome of things. Perhaps you are wiser for not getting involved.” He went to the door.

“Who ever accused me of being wise? Say hi to Uncle Van for me.” “Good-bye, Alceste.”

            “Ba, Zandor.”

            The wizard left, shutting the door behind him. But as he was going, he heard Alceste mutter, “Probably doesn’t know what he’s gotten into; not that he ever did.”

            Zandor knew that his cousin was more concerned about his friends than he would let on. As he walked away from the tower, he dared even to consider that maybe Alceste would change his mind. A large pop of air being displaced stopped Zandor and brought him around.

            The tower was gone.

            Then again, Zandor thought, maybe Alceste would not change his mind.

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            Stepping through the shadow, Zandor found himself home again at Castle Shine. He entered the great library.

            “Well?” came an echo from the walls.

            “He sends his love,” Zandor answered as he took a seat by a table.

            “Did he agree to join the quest?”

            “No. He refused. It was a mistake to have sought him out.”

            “Perhaps. Perhaps.”

            “He was the last, though, Uncle Van. I have seen to everyone else. There will be twelve, including myself, who will be on this quest.”

“Only twelve? What of the others?” Zandor’s uncle asked.

“The Princess and her suitor are too wrapped up in domestic affairs. Beth of Greenwood is also involved in other areas. The wizard flight has a new apprentice that the crystals show as having much raw power, but he has no practical experience. I could not find the others; the crystals cloud when I probe for a closer look. And there is something else: something that binds them all together, but I do not know what it is.”

            Van said, “You, Zandor, are also bound to them.”

            He looked up at his uncle’s last statement. Zandor disliked it when Van was being cryptic. Sometimes talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. He coughed down a chuckle at the old joke and felt a bit guilty. He looked around at the castle walls that imprisoned his uncle’s essence. He supposed the wizard Van had a right to be cryptic now and then.

            Zandor asked, “What is it that binds us?”

            “Light and shadow,” the castle walls echoed. “You are vital in the destiny of Blacksent. ‘Umbra arise in the time of need.’ That is what the books of Kyklos say.”

            Umbra. Zandor had come across the term before in his studies. It was a word that affected him, puzzled him. The few writings that dealt with “Umbra” were more than a little vague. At times it seemed to indicate that Umbra was a force; other times it was a person or group of people. One definition used Umbra in connection with a legendary hero of Blacksent; then again it was used in passages referring to Nilsend, the end of the world.

            It was a puzzlement, but one that he could look into further once he reached his goal. The people of Fulcrum would have knowledge that was literally beyond the world. Zandor had exhausted the resources of Castle Shine’s library and, perhaps, his stay in the physical realm.

Zandor said, “It does not matter now, dear Uncle. Everything is set in motion, and I have only to watch and make sure it goes in the right direction.”

            “As you wish, dear Nephew. But always remember that the answer may be contained in the question itself.”

            Zandor let his uncle’s last cryptic admonition go over his head. He left the library and headed for his chambers for a much needed restorative sleep. On the morrow, the next part of his mission would begin in earnest. He wanted to be ready for anything.

            But, as Uncle Van might have asked, would he be ready for nothing?

FIRST INTERLUDE

 

            The island of McAmal juts out from the Spakit Ocean like a scab on the waters of the world. The unnatural formations of coral and rock blend together in an obscene reflection of the minds that created it. It is where the FirePriests plan, where they breed and train the Assassins, where they practice a foul version of a once pure magic...and it is where the world will be consumed.

            For centuries the FirePriests have built their empire. The blood of their evil has spread slowly through the lands. Time was once their ally, but time was beginning to run short. A new obstruction had to be met.

            In a private chamber, the High Priest Lusus spoke to a master Assassin.

            “What do you wish, my lord?” the black-garbed Assassin asked.

“I have need of your talents, V’Ribus. We have a problem.”

“I am only to serve you.”

            “That is well. Do you know of the barsin called N’Con?”

            “Yes. I know the traitor well.”

            “Good,” smiled Lusus. “He is to be your mark.”

            The Assassin did not answer.

            “Surely, you do not fear him?” Lusus asked.

“I fear none. But He has forbidden any to harm the barsin.”

            “He is not aware of the danger N’Con holds for us. I am now rescinding his command.”

            “Be careful of how you step,” V’Ribus warned. “You are my Lord, but He is my God. Your reasons had best be good.”

            “You know of the Flame Sword?”

            “I have heard rumors.”

            Lusus paused, and then said, “It is now with the barsin.”

            V’Ribus understood then.

            “Where is he now?”

            The High Priest replied, “He travels south. We believe he will go to Regnad K’Cin, and from there along the Scew River to Frazettapur. Others may be traveling with him.”

            “They shall not stand in my way of the barsin. He will not reach McAmal.”

            “Good. You see well in this matter. Succeed and I will make your title Grand Master Assassin.”

            “My success is my reward. I will leave today.”

            “The Flame is with you.”

            By the Flame, I go.”

            The Assassin left; Lusus was alone with his thoughts. He knew that V’Ribus was the best, and his confidence was with him. Yet a nagging bit of doubt refused to leave his mind. What had he overlooked? What small detail had his Sight passed by that would later come back to ruin his plans?

            “Nothing,” he told himself. He had seen to everything, and nothing would stand in his way.

            “Nothing,” her told himself again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Few Are Called

            Zandor stood on the docks of Frazettapur and watched the sun rise. The different members of the Group were coming together, but they would have to be watched carefully. It would take some delicate maneuvering to make sure they were on the same path. Yet the wizard was feeling quite up to the task. Despite Alceste’s criticisms, he was sure he was only doing as Destiny directed. The Group needed him.

Zandor smiled as he noticed that the general class description of  “the group” had taken on the specific noun as “The Group” in his mind. Fine then. The Group is what they were and would be from that day on.

He put his musing aside. There was much for him to do and the day was on him. The wizard went to work.

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            The ship he was looking for was not too far away. It was held in a private slip not only because it had once belonged to a baron, but also because of its size. It was a huge and magnificent ship, unique, Zandor knew, in the entire world. The Barracuda was her name, and though her young captain could not have possibly seen it yet, she would soon be sailing into legend.

            The Barracuda belonged to the tall ship class usually seen on the east coast. But nothing in the Shipping Guild’s registry could match her beauty. From prow to stern she was 300 feet in length; the tallest of her four masts stretched to nearly 200 feet from the keel. The woodworking had finely crafted carvings and scrolling along the full length of the ship. The figurehead was sculpted into the form of the Goddess Naiad. Though the Barracuda was very old - so old that she had been sailing the oceans even before Figment was born - her age was not apparent and looked, in fact, as if she had just come from dry dock.

            The most unique feature of the Barracuda was one that could not been seen without close inspection by a woodwright. The hull of the ship was smooth and without blemish or patch; there were no ill-fitted planks or knotholes. That was because the entire hull of the ship was formed from a single piece of wood. Whether it had actually been carved from one of the great roanwoods, or if some other forgotten craft had shaped it, could not be told. That knowledge had been lost with the artistry with which it came.

            But that did not matter to Zandor. The Barracuda was a magnificent ship, and she would be more than adequate for the wizard’s purpose. She would sail the Group through the treacherous waters surrounding McAmal and bring them all to their destined goal.

            Perhaps she would even bring them back from it.

            Zandor found the captain on the foredeck. He didn’t look like a captain, but Zandor knew he was an experienced seaman. He was still young, in his mid-twenties. Dark of hair and swarthy, not too tall, but sinewy of frame. He dressed in clothing native to Zerros: black bell-bottoms and a black and white striped shirt. There was no one else on deck with him; there would be nobody below deck, either. The captain had a ship, but no crew.

            The wizard smiled to himself as he approached the man. He just loved to solve problems.

            Zandor said, “Excuse me.”

            The captain jumped at the sound of his voice. “Who are you?” he demanded.

            “I did not mean to startle you. Are you Chris Krieger?”

            “Aye, and captain of this ship. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

            Zandor reached into his cape and took out a silk bag. He noticed Krieger’s hand fumble nervously with the hilt of his cutlass. Lightly shaking the bag, Zandor said, “I am a paying customer.”

            Krieger seemed to brighten somewhat at that. But then he became very businesslike. “Just a few things to get straight first. I don’t transport contraband or druggers.  The Barracuda takes only high-class clientele, and all money is paid up front. The rate is ten silvers per customer per day. For two hundred silvers, you can have it as a private charter - two hundred a day that is. If you’re in a rush, you’re out of luck. My first charter won’t leave for three weeks yet. That’s the only thing you need to know. But now I have a few questions for you...”

            Zandor held the coin bag out to Krieger. He took it, and his face immediately registered his surprise at the weight of it.

            Zandor said, “That is 2,000 gold of Monexian coinage - the highest yield of the West Countries. I know you have a problem of no crew. That should help you nicely. The rest is for a private charter of about twelve. Total round trip should be for a week to ten days. Now then, about these questions you had...?”

            Krieger frowned. He obviously did not like being put at the disadvantage. Zandor knew that the captain had been through much to claim what was his by blood: the Barracuda. But now that it was his, he was in the position of not really knowing what to do with it. He would accept.

            But not without a small concession. He asked Zandor, “Where and for what reason?”

            Zandor’s face remained impassive, though he was amused at Krieger’s show of resolve. “That is the easiest part. It is a simple scouting party to a small island just south of Herian.”

            “Herian? Those are dangerous waters.”

            “I can assure you, there is little danger in this voyage. I am going, also. The weather is the only thing difficult to predict in that area, so you need a good crew. However, I have taken the liberty of charting a route for you. It will take us far south of Herian’s influence.”

            “Uh, huh. So what’s the catch in all this?”

Zandor replied, “We need to leave within a week and a half.”

            “Well, I guess you really want your money’s worth.” Krieger looked off across the waters as he considered the offer. He looked back to Zandor. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try to meet your time schedule. Understand that there is no refund if I’m late. It’ll take all of what you gave me to hire a crew and stock the ship with just the basics.”

            “Certainly. But you will find my party to have varied tastes, so we will require a number of different spirits.” Zandor handed him another coin bag, smaller than the first, but still heavy. “This should take care of the hospitalities.”

            The captain shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll get the best vintages around.”

            “Fine. Just one more thing. See to it that you have two fresh bales of hay on board. One of the passengers may be bringing a pet.”

            “Aye, aye,” Krieger laughed and saluted. “I never thought I’d start my captaincy with a charter such as this. Shall I send a messenger to you when she’s ready?”

            “No. I will return with my passengers at the appropriate time.”

            Krieger raised an eyebrow. “If you say so, stranger.”

            “Good hunting for your crew. And by the way, you may call me Zandor, Captain Krieger.”

            He smiled at hearing the formal title with his name and nodded. “Well then, Zandor, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.”

            “Of course. Farewell ‘till then.”

            “I’ll be waiting.”

            Zandor turned and left then. He allowed himself to smile at a job well done. It had really been very easy, but it was a good way to start the day. He felt confident that the rest would go just as easy.

He continued to his next stop.

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            Tala had not had a good morning. Since arriving in Frazettapur a little after dawn, she and Sal Mayd had been refused lodgings at three of the native inns. The innkeepers had argued that they were all full up, but Tala could tell that their ugly prejudice of Easterners was the underlying reason for their refusals. More than once she had had top restrain her bodyguard from getting into a fray over their reception in the city. There was nothing to do but to keep going and hope for a friendlier section of town. They did not receive warmer greeting until they found the eastern quarter of Frazettapur. It was much smaller than the one back in Core, but there were enough hospital places for them to find accommodations.

            They got their rooms at a place called the Ingle’s Nook. Tala told Sal Mayd that she would buy them a brunch after she rested for a bit, and that she could have the rest of the morning to herself. Before Sal Mayd had a chance to ask what she was going to do later, Tala excused herself and went to her room.

            Tala plopped her travel bag on a bench, but did not unpack; she lay down on the bed, but could not rest. Her mind was still abuzz with the morning’s problems, yet something far deeper disturbed her. Something had happened to her son. Something had affected N’Con to beyond his soul. Oug had felt it, too. She hoped to the Goddess that N’Con had not found the vile weapon hidden in Vulcania. But that is where he had gone, and so, perhaps, his Fate had been sealed.

            Getting up from the bed, Tala went to her bag. There was something she had been hesitating to do, but if she was going to be sure about her son, it had to be done. She took out the box of cards and the map, and sat back down on the bed. As she prepared to read the location of N’Con, Oug entered the room through the open window.

            “Hello, dear one. Sorry I’m late.” He hopped from the sill onto the bed. “Do you know where he is now?”

            Tala shook her head. “I haven’t tried yet. What have you found?”

            “Not what I was looking for,” he answered. Tala was glad that he never knew her well enough to not mention her changing of the subject. Oug continued, “But I have found something else that’s interesting. There’s a girl asking around about you.”

            “Me?”

            “Well, there are not to many Tala’s of Yutavia around here. I didn’t see the girl; I read it off a shopkeeper she must have asked. She must have been quite pretty to make such an impression on him. I think she’s a red-haired girl, maybe from northern Frelcock or southern Negluvia.”

            “That is interesting. Well, we can worry about her later.” Tala took the crystal pendant from around her neck. She sighed. “I have to do this first. I have to know.”

            Oug curled his grey feline form next to her. He said nothing.

            Tala put her son’s card in front of her and held the crystal over the map. She concentrated on N’Con’s image and watched as the crystal swung over the general area of the map, but it did not stop in one place. She snatched the crystal back.

            “What is it?” Oug asked. “Where is he?”

            She fought against the coming tears. “I think...near Regnad K’Cin. I can’t be sure though. It’s like...like he’s only partially in this world. Oh, dear Goddess! What did that thing do to him?”

            Oug rubbed up against her hand. “He will be all right, Tala. Even if he has it, it is not too late to help him.”

            “I pray you’re right.” She wiped her eyes. “I’ll never forgive myself if he’s not.”

            “Tala, we have been over this dozens of times. There is no way for you to have known. If there must be fault found let it lie with me for not having come to you years earlier. But in the end, this is perhaps beyond us or any power of this world.”

            Tala looked at the card portrait of her son. It was unfair, so unfair what he had to face. She looked back to Oug, a stoic resolve flashed in her eyes. “Understand this: I will do anything to save N’Con. Neither the FirePriests, nor the Pyrages, nor deamons, nor the GrandWeir, nor destiny herself will keep me from that. I will go against anything to help him.”

Oug averted his yellow eyes and said, “You forgot one power, though, that we may not be able to face.”

            “What?” Tala was taken aback. “What...do you mean.?”

            Looking at her once again, Oug asked, “What if he chooses to go through with it? Can we go against his free will?”

            Tala sat back in the bed. If there had been any tears left, she would not have fought against them then.

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            The first small complication that Zandor had to face was exactly where he expected it to be, and so he knew how to deal with it. He was almost glad for it. Everything had been going too easy, and that was a sure sign of trouble.

            It came just within the city limits. The boy and the Equessa were coming in by a side street so as to be not too noticeable. It did little good, for either someone reported them, or a city-guard patrol happened by at just the wrong time. Whatever the cause, the result was quite volatile. The Four City Guard was verbally restraining Hel, though not with much effect. Dallon was between them trying to diffuse the situation, with even less effect. Zandor watched from the shadows.

            “I have as much right to be here as anybody else!” Hel challenged the sergeant of the guard.

            He growled back, “Lowbreeds got no rights! Especially around here!”

            “Stop calling me that! I don’t know what a lowbreed is, but I’m definitely not one. Now, will you get out of my way?”

            Dallon pleaded to her, “Let’s get out of here. It was a mistake to come to town.”

            “Where’s your guts, boy? There’s only four of them.”

            “I don’t think that bashing the city guard will increase our welcome here.”

            The sergeant barked, “I’m not going to tell you again...!”

            “Good!” Hel interrupted. “Your voice is starting to grate on me.”

            “That’s it! We’ll show you the way...!”

            “Excuse me,” Zandor’s voice commanded. “Perhaps I can straighten this out.”

            The sergeant turned to the wizard, irritated. Hel looked on impassively, but Dallon’s eyes grew wide at recognizing him. He said nothing, though.

            “Who are you?” the sergeant demanded.

            “I am Zandor, newly appointed wizard to his majesty, the Caliph. Here are my papers.” He reached into his cape and handed him a folded piece of parchment.

            “It seems in order,” the sergeant said after examining it. “But, ah, what do you have to do with these two?” he jerked a thumb in the direction of Hel and Dallon.

            “They are my guests,” Zandor replied, feigning a slightly offended attitude. He noticed Dallon hushing Hel. “Do you have a problem with that?” he directed at the sergeant.

            “No, sir. Not at all.” He leaned into Zandor. “But do you really want her clopping about? She’s likely to scare folk.”

            “That may be,” Zandor whispered back. “But do you want to tell her that?”

            The sergeant became officious again. “I suppose not. On your way, then. Uh... by your leave, sir.”

            Zandor touched his hand to his forehead in the salute of the region. The city guard returned it, and then went back down the street. The wizard regarded Hel and Dallon.

            Dallon said, “Well, gosh, thanks a bunch. Sorry we can’t stay...”

            “Hold it,” Hel stopped him. She asked Zandor, “Do you mind explaining to me what that was all about?”

            He shrugged, “I was merely trying to help you out of an uncomfortable situation.”

            “I could have handled it, thank you very much. And who are you really?”

            Zandor was a little surprised. “Is there a reason for you to think that I am not who I said I was?”

            “Well, for one thing, that paper you showed the ugly one was blank. There’s still much I don’t understand about human customs, but the boy has told me about identification papers and how to forge...”

            “Find the proper ones,” Dallon interrupted.

            Interesting, Zandor thought, the Equessa could not see the illusion he had used on the papers. He would have to investigate that further.

            Zandor said, “You are correct. It was a simple ruse to deal with those simple men. My name is actually Zandor and no, I have nothing to do with the Caliph. But, if you will allow me, I would like you to be guests of mine in this town.”

            “Well, goodness, thanks a lot!” Dallon tugged on Hel’s mane. “But, you know, we really are just passing through. So busy. Gotta go. It’s been swell.”

            “Will you stop that?!” Hel snapped at the boy.

            “Sorry.”

            Turning to Zandor she explained, “He’s been nervous ever since I insisted that I come to town with him. Sure, I don’t look like everybody else, but that doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t have the right to explore where I want to.”

            “I couldn’t agree more,” the wizard concurred. “All the more reason why you may find my proposition to be interesting.”

            “Which is...”

            “I am forming an exploratory party of sorts. People of various talents will be gathering in this city within the next week to ten days. It would be very helpful to all concerned if you would join us.”

            Hel asked, “What’s this party all about?”

            “Well, it’s a rather complicated situation, and I would prefer to wait until I have everyone together so as to explain it only once. Suffice it to say that there is a generous reward in it for all who join.”

            During Zandor’s explanation, Dallon tried to make himself less noticeable. But when the reward was mentioned, he looked very interested. He asked, “What kind of reward?”

            “Ah, young one. I was beginning to think you were not interested,” Zandor said cheerfully. “How does 200 gold Cemers sound for two weeks of your time?”

            “Sounds good!”

            “It sounds too good to be true,” Hel interjected. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful for the offer, but there’s just too much about this that I don’t understand, and too little about you that I don’t know. I’m a natural skeptic.”

            Zandor smiled, “I understand your reluctance. But you do not have to give me an answer until I have explained everything. I will pay for your lodgings - at no obligation - until I can gather everyone involved together. As for who I am - I am interested in helping people. Your little friend - and you, indirectly - have benefited from some of my help.”

            Hel asked Dallon, “What is he talking about?”

            The young thief chewed on his lower lip. “Um, he’s the one...you know...that left the knives.”

            “I see,” Hel nodded. “Then I suppose I should thank you. So, are you what he calls a wizard? The boy tried explaining them to me, but the whole idea sounds kind of absurd.”

            “Then it should not matter to you what I am,” Zandor said. “Know only that you may be my guests in this town until I can gather everyone together to explain the whole situation.”

            Hel thought for a moment, and then looked to her companion. “What do you think?”

            He shrugged. “It sounds okay. And we do have a problem of short finances. I guess I can’t see any harm in sticking around and checking it out.”

            “Fine,” she said. “So where and when?”

            “The Ingle’s Nook,” Zandor answered. “Three streets down and two to the left. I have a number of rooms paid for in advance there.”

            “A room?”

            “For Dallon and the others. You, I believe, will be more comfortable in a stall?” When Hel nodded to the affirmative, Zandor reached into his cape and took out a small coin bag. “This will help you get a clean, private one, and to take care of the amenities for the both of you. Consider it a trust gift.”

            “You are being more than generous.”

            “At no obligation, right?” Dallon quickly added.

            Zandor laughed. “That is correct. I will send a messenger to you within a week when the meeting is finally ready. Until then, enjoy the city.”

            “I’m sure we will,” Hel remarked.

            “I know I will,” Dallon echoed.

            Zandor bowed, turned, and left them then. It had been much easier than expected. He would still need to check on them to make sure they stayed out of trouble; the boy was not yet trustworthy and that which she did not understand raised the Equessa’s temper. But he was still sure that they would work out and that everything else would also work out. As long as he remained faithful to what the crystals had shown him, he was sure that Destiny would continue to guide him along.

            And what he would receive was surly just compensation for that faith, he reminded himself.

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            By that early afternoon, Tala felt ready to be up and about again. Oug protested that he would be able to scout around just fine by himself. But Tala would have nothing of it - arguing back that they could find the red-haired girl faster together, and that it actually would be good for her to get out and be active. Oug just flicked his tail, since he couldn’t shrug, and followed Tala as she left her room.

            Sal Mayd was waiting downstairs.

            “I was just about to come up and look for you,” she said. “Are you all right?”

            “Fine,” Tala replied. “I guess I was a little more tired than I thought I was. Poor girl - you must be famished. Come, we’ll go find that brunch I promised you. A bit late, but I’m sure we can still find someplace serving an after-lunch menu.”

            “Well, I actually grabbed a light snack. But I’m still hungry and I know better than to refuse a meal offered by you.”

            “Good girl! You’ll need your strength, too. We have a job to do afterward. We need to find someone.”

            Tala could read past Sal Mayd’s calm facade. The girl’s mind was racing with the possibility that it was N’Con to whom she was referring. Tala sighed inwardly. She had been trying to subtly trying to work on the girl and perhaps cause enough doubt in her mind that she would question her goal of killing N’Con. If she could at least slow Sal Mayd down enough so that she wouldn’t carry out her quest immediately upon seeing him, maybe then, Tala thought, she would have the chance to prove his innocence. There seemed to be some confusion amid the girl’s agitated thoughts, but that was nearly lost under her single-minded sight. Sal Mayd wanted N’Con dead, and Tala knew she would have a tough time of preventing that.

            But she would handle that in it’s own time; for the time being, she would concentrate on the day at hand.

            During their meal, Tala told Sal Mayd what their objective was for that afternoon. That seemed to dull the girl’s anticipating thoughts of finding N’Con, but they were more pushed aside than forgotten. Sal Mayd’s goal was ever-present tick in her mind that distracted Tala when she tried to read her. So whatever else might have been in her thoughts would have to remain a mystery.

            But then again, Tala wondered, did she have a right to intrude so much into Sal Mayd’s head? True, she did need knowledge to save her son’s life, but never before had she been so intent on probing someone. A person’s thoughts should be their one secure sanctuary.

            Tala genuinely liked the girl and felt guilty for violating that privacy. And, despite Sal Mayd’s goal, Tala felt that she liked her too. Whatever doubt or confusion the swordswoman was having perhaps was fed by that growing friendship.

            That decided Tala; she would not try to read the girl anymore. Whatever she was going to accomplish would have to be through a mutual trust between them: Tala valued friendship, and, she considered, the gods did also. They were more likely to smile upon her because of the respect of her heart, rather than the tricks she could do. Their blessings would be very valued, indeed.

            The search began immediately after their meal. Oug was not waiting outside the inn, so Tala decided to start without his help. She knew that more ground could have been covered if she had sent Sal Mayd off alone, but for some reason she could not fathom, she wanted to have her with her. Tala knew better than to ignore her feelings, and so she directed Sal to stick with her “for protection.”

            “So where do we start?” she asked Tala.

            “At the spice market. That’s where my...my source said the red-haired girl was last seen looking for me.”

            “I’m still puzzled as to why anybody would be looking for you - and here, especially. You’ve never been to this part of the country, have you?”

            “No,” Tala replied. “My son has, though. Perhaps she’s a friend of his.”

            Tala mentally bit her tongue. She had automatically responded so as to read her reaction. She reinforced her promise to herself; it had become too easy to use her mind powers.

            But Sal Mayd did not drop the subject. “If she is a friend of his, maybe she can lead us...you to him?”

            “Perhaps. But that is a very remote possibility. It’ll be a mystery until we do find her - or she finds me - whichever comes first.”

            Sal Mayd’s excitement pushed the outer limits of Tala’s self-control. “Then let’s get cracking! Oops, sorry. You lead the way.”

            “Certainly,” Tala sighed.

            They spent the next few hours covering a major portion of the Eastern Quarter of Frazettapur. The smells, the sights and sounds reminded Tala much of her home in Yutavia, though it did have the influences of the surrounding city and a little of the northeastern coastal countries. She felt a tinge of nostalgia, but it did not dull the purpose of finding her son, or the more immediate goal of finding the mystery girl. Rather, she took in as much as she could without breaking her concentration. It was still enjoyable.

            Tala thought it a bit unusual that she had found a new purpose in life, especially at her age. Gallivanting about the world on quests should be for the young and foolish. She knew she wasn’t the former and only hoped she wasn’t the latter. All she wanted was for her son to be alive and fine. Whatever the gods took her through to accomplish that was beyond her control, but she would meet them as best as possible and continue on.

            The afternoon was close to becoming early evening before they found another trace of the mystery girl. They had searched in an outward spiral pattern from the spice market, describing the girl and asking if Tala’s name had been mentioned by anyone. The trail had turned cold after the shopkeeper that had first seen her. It was as if the girl had asked only one person about Tala, and then moved on.

            After much lack of success, Tala had decided to take them back to the Ingle’s Nook to freshen up and have dinner. But before they had a chance to go upstairs, the innkeeper called to Tala.

            “Yes, what is it?” she asked the old man.

            “Is your name Tala? Of Yutavia?”

            She hesitated, and then answered, “Yes. Why?”

            “A young girl was looking for you earlier. I didn’t know if you wanted to be found, so I said I didn’t know of you.”

            “Did she have red hair? And mid-country dress?”

            “That she did.”

            “Where is she now?” Sal Mayd butted in.

            “Don’t know. She left right after that.” He paused to scratch his thin beard. “I think she left with someone, though. Spooky looking fellow, all dark cape and clothes. Don’t see why she’d be hanging with his type - unless she’s not as sweet as she came off as.”

            Tala hushed any more questions and said, “Thank you. You have been very helpful.” Then she motioned Sal Mayd to follow her upstairs.

            When they got to her room, Tala said, “This is getting stranger all the time. First the girl, then the wizard shows up again.”

            “Wizard?!”

            * Careful Tala. *

            Tala looked around at the familiar mental voice and saw Oug sitting on the windowsill.

            * About time you showed up, * she sent back. * I will handle this. *

            Sal Mayd asked again, “What do you mean by wizard?”

            “The dark clothed man that was with our mystery girl. I’m quite sure he was a wizard I’ve run into before. It sounds like him.” Tala did not tell her that she had gotten a mental image from the innkeeper and knew for sure that it was he. Zandor was once again involved in her business.

            “Do you think he has something to do with the girl?” Sal Mayd inquired, a hint of suspicious tension in her voice.

            “It only goes to follow. I am quite sure that it is not a coincidence. The question of why is what bothers me.

            * We could ask him, * Oug sent to Tala.

            * What do you mean? *

            * I know where he is. And he is not alone. *

            * More than just the girl is with him? *

            * Yes, * Oug returned. * But I do not know for what purpose. *

            * I am liking this less and less. *

            Sal Mayd tapped Tala on the shoulder. “Hello? Are you all right?”

            “What? Oh, yes. I was just thinking.”

            “You looked pretty distant there for a minute.”

            “No, I’m fine. But I think I know where we can look for the girl and her friend.”

            Sal Mayd shook her head. “We’ve looked everywhere between here and the markets.”

            “True,” Tala agreed. “But we have not searched beyond. There are many inns we have not been to.”

            “It could still take awhile to look.”

            “No, I don’t think so. I have an idea on how to narrow it down.”

            “How’s that?”

            “I’ll...tell you later.”

            * Yes. I would love to hear how, * Oug mentally chuckled.

            * Hush, you. Just tell me where they are. I will figure out what to say to Sal later. * She told the swordswoman, “We’ll start now and eat later. If we’re lucky, it shouldn’t take too long to find them.”

            “Okay. You’re the boss.”

            “Well, I hope you trust me as a friend on this.”

            Sal Mayd paused a moment, then nodded. “Sure, that sounds fine.”

            Tala smiled at her. As they started to leave, Oug sent to her the location of the inn and added, * I will be close by. *

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            “I really don’t feel comfortable about this,” Hel told Zandor. “Ditto here,” Dallon added.

            Zandor sighed patiently. The three of them stood by the rear entrance to the Den Of Ease. The wizard explained for what seemed the hundredth time, “This dining room will insure us much privacy. You will not have people staring at you. This is the best place for me to explain my offer to you and to the others who will soon be along. One of our party already awaits. So please, let us go in. I am sure you will find it most comfortable if you give it a chance.”

            Hel shrugged. “I’d be just as happy relaxing on some dry straw. But, I guess I am looking for some new experiences.”

            “That’s the spirit,” Zandor cheered. “Dallon?”

            He thought a moment and asked, “Do I have to use a fork and napkin?”

            The wizard chuckled. “No, my boy. You do not have to do anything you do not want to do.”

            “Okay. I’m in.”

            “Good! Follow me.”

            Zandor led the Equessa and the young thief through the rear door. It was a private entrance that opened to a short hallway. It was high, but Hel still had to duck a little. Six doors - three on each side of the hall - were spaced about fifteen feet apart. A nervous little man stood by the last door on the left. He was dark-skinned, bald, dressed in brown robes, and he bowed continuously as the three neared.

            Zandor said, “Thank you, Momar. Misk tea, mead, and a large goat’s milk.”

            “Yuck!” Dallon exclaimed. “I hate milk!”

            “That’s for me,” Hel interceded. She asked Zandor, “How did you know? Another one of your tricks?”

            “An educated guess from the little I know of your race. Come.” He motioned them into the room.

            The ceiling was higher than the hall, so Hel could stand straight. The room itself was large enough to comfortably hold a six by fifteen foot rectangular table. Twelve chairs rounded the table with one space left - obviously for Hel to sit at since a bowl of apples and oats had been placed there. A lone girl sat by that place. She stood suddenly as the three entered.

            “It is all right, Haelan,” Zandor told the girl. “These are the friends I told you about.”

            “You’ve elevated us from ‘guests’ to ‘friends’ rather quickly, haven’t you?” Hel commented.

            Zandor smiled and nodded. “Please excuse my forwardness. I am a hopeful optimist. Hel, Dallon - this is Haelan.”

            Hel nodded a greeting to the girl, but Dallon was more direct. He went to her side, took her hand and kissed it. “Well, call me a knuckle-headed optimist, but I’d sure like to be your friend.”

            Haelan blushed as red as her hair.

            “All right, children,” Hel said, “Let’s not get too friendly before we know what’s going on.” She causally picked up an apple and took a bite. “Mmmm. Sweet. So, Zandor, when are you going to tell us what this is all about?”

            “Soon. Our last three...guests should be arriving at any time. It will be best if I speak to you all at the same time.”

            “Okay. I guess I can’t argue with a free lunch.”

            Dallon’s attention strayed from Haelan long enough to say, “But this is supper time.”

            “It’s just an expression,” she playfully chided back.

            Zandor felt good as the two females and the boy chatted friendly. It was all coming together very easily. His confidence was building for the coming goal.

            Then, Zandor chuckled inwardly as he thought about what the Equessa had said. He knew, very well, that there was no such thing as a free lunch.

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            Tala and Sal Mayd stopped at the front entrance of the Den Of Ease.

            The swordswoman asked, ”Why here?”

            Tala floundered with the answer. “Well, I hear they serve Negluvia specialty dishes. If she’s from there, she might come...here. Maybe.”

            “Ah...right. We might as well start here.”

            Tala mentally kicked herself as they entered the dimly lit restaurant. She had hoped that Sal Mayd would not push the issue of her “source,” and so she hadn’t really prepared an answer. She knew the reasoning she had given was quite lame, and so she hoped once more that Sal Mayd wouldn’t pull away from their growing trust. It would be needed for what was going to come. And because of that, she also knew that she would soon have to tell her everything.

            As they entered the Den, a small, dark man came up to them and introduced himself.

            “Greetings, dear ladies. I am Momar, your host. Hookah, or non-hookah?”

            Sal Mayd started, “Hey! You watch your...!”

            But Tala cut her off. “Actually, we are looking for a girl. A red­head.”

            His eyes widened. “Oh! Are you Tala of Yutavia?”

            “Yes. I take it that someone is looking for me, also?”

            “Yes, yes. Oh, please, come this way. So sorry for the delay. Please.”

            Tala laughed a little as Sal Mayd grumbled about the simpering little man. They followed as he led them through the serving areas to a door at the back. It opened to a hallway with six more doors. He opened the first one on the right, bowed, and motioned them in.

            The sight that greeted them in the dining room only half surprised Tala. Zandor was there with the red haired girl, but there were two others she had not anticipated: a street-urchin, and, Tala guessed from the hints in legend, what must be an Equessa. After she thought a moment, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised at all. This venture was getting stranger all the time, and Zandor seemed to be tied to the nexus of most of it.

            The wizard stood and greeted them. “Ah, good ladies. Welcome. I have mead and tea for you.”

            Tala eyed Zandor levelly. He was a blank page. He knew of her ability, then. She said, “Perhaps we could dispense with the pleasantries until you explain what’s going on.”

            “Momentarily. Please, sit. It will take some time.”

            Tala looked to the girl. “I’m Tala of Yutavia. You’ve been looking for me?”

            She stammered, “Yes...yes. I’m Haelan. I...I need...I mean...I..” She waved her quiet. “That’s all right. I’m sure that Zandor has an explanation for you, too. Sal Mayd, let’s sit. Sal?”

            She looked to her swordswoman. She was still standing by the door. Amazingly, she almost looked frightened. Her eyes darted from Zandor to the Equessa. “Sal!”

            “What?” she started as if waking form a dream.

            “Let’s sit down.”

            “Yeah. Sure.” Tala heard her mutter, “This is nuts.”

            They sat a few chairs down form the rest of them. Zandor smiled and said, “Perhaps I can handle the introductions. I, as you may now know, am Zandor.” He went around the table. “Tala, Sal Mayd, Dallon, Haelan, and Hel. But we seem to be missing one of our party.”

            Tala was going to flash a warning to Zandor. She wasn’t quite ready to let Sal Mayd know about Oug. And how would the others react to a talking cat?

            * About the same as the Equessa. * Oug sent to her from somewhere. Before she could say anything, he said aloud, “I’m here.”

            Tala and the others looked to the voice. Oug was sitting on the windowsill behind Zandor.

            The old grey cat jumped down from the sill, and then climbed up on the chair beside Tala. He looked only at the wizard and said, “You have something to tell us?”

            Sal Mayd muttered, “This is nuts. This is too nuts.”

            “Yes,” Zandor began. “Oug, this is...”

            “Skip it,” he cut him off. “I heard the introductions. Talk.”

            “Certainly.” The wizard quickly regained his composure. Tala was trying to hold off her judgment until he explained himself, but she was sure she could feel smugness from just beyond his blank front. Her unease grew with her distrust.

            Zandor continued, “You all know me in one way or another, and so you may think that I have called you together for my own purpose. That would be an incorrect assumption. There is another who needs our assistance. Each of you has a unique ability that may prove very useful on the venture he will be setting out on. I am authorized to pay you quite well for your skills, but know too, that there will be a small amount of risk involved.”

            “What kind of risk?” Hel asked causally.

            “Specifically - your fighting skills may be called into play. You will be acting as a bodyguard for this man. His goal will certainly be met with some opposition, and so you may have to protect him.”

            Hel pressed again. “I don’t get it. If a fight is certain, how come we only ‘may’ have to protect him? Whoever ‘he’ is.”

            Zandor explained, “You will understand more when you meet him. He is a skilled fighter himself. It is the amount of opposition he will be meeting that is not certain.”

            “So who is this guy?” Hel asked once more.

            “Forgive me. I was getting to that. His name is N’Con, and his goal is to destroy a great evil in this world.”

            The anger and fear had been growing in Tala ever since the wizard had begun to talk. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place with a sicking finality. Zandor was more than just a small part of the mystery of what was happening to her son: he was behind most of it. Whether he was an agent of fate or on his own didn’t matter. Zandor was trying to help N’Con destroy himself. She tried to contain herself to see how far he planned to go with it.

            Hel asked Zandor, “That sounds like quite a task he’s on. Why should we help him?”

            The wizard chuckled. “Well, as I said, you would be paid very generously. But I would hope more that you will see the nobility of his quest.”

            “I have nothing against earning some money, but I don’t see anything noble in questing. His problem isn’t mine.”

            “Ah, but the evil I spoke of could be. N’Con’s goal is to destroy a deamon who seeks to infest the world with his blood.”

            So, Zandor even knew about the GrandWeir. The question was: which side was he really on? Tala contemplated the possibility that the wizard was on no side but his own.

            Hel stopped him. “Okay, wait a second. This is getting a bit too weird. I’m not saying I’m interested, but why don’t you start from the beginning again and cut out all the embellishments. Straight out: Where is this deamon and what is it that N’Con is going to do to it?”

            Tala could feel a bit of Zandor’s blank front slipping. He wasn’t used to being confronted so directly. Tala was beginning to like Hel. Perhaps she would get to the bottom of the situation with her help.

            Zandor replied, “N’Con is going to destroy a deamon by the name and title of the GrandWeir. To do this, he must go to the island home of the GrandWeir. That island is called McAmal. He...”

            But Tala had had enough. She could no longer contain herself. She still didn’t know the full extent of Zandor’s involvement, but it didn’t matter. She was going to stop it right then and have Oug get the rest of the story later. She stood up to cut him off.

            But she never got the chance.

            Dallon was already out of his chair. His eyes were wide with terror. He half yelled, half moaned, “Oh, no. No, no, no! Not there. No. No!”

            He was out the window before anyone could react.

            “Dallon, wait! Wait!” Hel called after. “What’s...?!” She turned to the wizard. “What scared him? No! Never mind. I don’t want to hear it. I have to go find him.”

            As she started to leave, Haelan asked, “Can I help you?”

            “No offense, dear, but you do what you want on your own. This party is over for me.” She ducked under the door and clopped down the hall.

            After a moment, Haelan said, “I’ll be back.” Then, she too left. Tala glared at Zandor over the table.

            “I don’t know how far your involvement goes, and I don’t want to hear it right know. But I will be back later and you had better have a good explanation. No. Wait. Make it the truth.” She started to leave.

            “Wait,” Zandor pleaded. “Where are you going?”

            “To find the boy. I want to see what he knows first. Are you coming, Oug?”

            “Yes,” the old cat replied. “I do not care for the wizard’s presence anymore, either.”

            “You’re on your own,” Sal Mayd added.

            Tala left the room without looking to see if they followed her. She wasn’t sure if she was actually going to look for the boy, she only knew that she had to get away from Zandor before she was tempted to do something she wouldn’t regret later.

            What was more important was the question of what she was going to do about N’Con. Or more accurately: could anything be done for her son?

            She walked, and worried.

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            Zandor stood alone in stunned silence. He had failed. He had actually failed. The vision crumbled before him; his goal was lost to the black despair that overwhelmed his thoughts.

            It was over then. There was nothing left for him to do but leave. He started to wrap himself in the cloak of darkness, but then he stopped. He had no place to go.

            And so he walked, and thought of nothing and everything.

 CHAPTER NINE

Together Again Once More

            The Purple Vole, old Samuels Inn, catered to a northern clientele. Figment tried to reassure Samantha that she would be safe there. There would be no customers from Frelcock that could identify her from the slave revolt of 2485. Apparently, she had been the symbol of that revolt, even though all she had done was to escape from an over-amorous keeper - leaving part of his anatomy separated from the rest of his body. She could take care of herself quite well, but she still worried about much. She was a contrast to Figment’s eternal optimism. But even that amused the mage. He felt needed to keep her from sinking into an eternal blue funk.

            Figment was also amused by Samantha’s constant frugalness. She had taken on the obligation of making sure he didn’t squander away all his money. She was always certain that the coin he spent would be their last. This, despite his constant reassurances that he was far from poor. Samantha could accept the fact that he was a 500-year-old mage, but she somehow ignored his economic status. For all his wisdom, there were still some mysteries beyond Figment.

            But he could understand some of her insecurities. Such as, would his friend N’Con like her? Figment didn’t worry about that. N’Con had always accepted the mage’s relationships, whether they were serious or not. Figment and N’Con’s friendship went beyond most, and so they both went out of their way to make sure they didn’t stand in the way of each other’s happiness.

            If Figment was worried about anything, it was more in wondering if his friend would show up anytime soon. It was a long way into Vulcania and he was unsure about taking Samantha into an unknown danger. And yet it could also be dangerous to leave her behind. He knew that from past experiences. No, he was determined to keep her by his side. If nothing else, to keep her from taking over a kingdom to build the security she longed for.

            And so, another comparatively quiet evening began at the Purple Vole. Figment and Samantha shared stories of each other’s exploits over watered-down mead barbecued sow fat. Card games, fights, and shadowy characters whispering in shadowy corners went on around them. It was easy for them to become oblivious to anything but each other. So it was many moments before either of them noticed that the common room had become very quiet.

            The silence didn’t last very long, as everyone turned back to his or her own business. But not before Figment spotted the reason for the lapses in conversation.

            Three men had entered the common room. Two of them were of the dark-skinned barbarian race. One was a Templar and the other was a Cleric. Figment knew this because they were of the tribes that he had tried to gather as worshippers in his egotistical youth. It was a Cleric who had opened his eyes to the One God.

            The third man was N’Con. Figment had known his friend to have his sombre moods, but those were mild compared to the dark aura that surrounded him. Even his eyes seemed darker than usual. A haunted, hunted look was reflected there as he slowly searched the room.

            It was academic whether Figment should stop worrying or begin to worry more.

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            The trio, led by N’Con, slowly walked over to Figment and Samantha’s table. The mage looked at the former Assassin questioningly, then he said, “About time you showed up.”

N’Con shrugged, “What can I say?”

            “How about, ‘The next round’s on me.’?”

            “A round what?”

            “Ha! You’re okay,” Figment exclaimed. “You never did know how to tell a joke. Come on and sit down and introduce me to your friends. They are your friends?”

            N’Con didn’t answer but simply said, “ This is Kalam, and this is Badli. They are from the northern Barbarian Reaches. I met them on the way to Vulcania.”

            Figment nodded, “Glad to meet you. My name is Figment, since N’Con forgot to tell you. He hasn’t quite got this courtesy thing down yet.”

            “Ahem.”

            “Oh, yes. This is Samantha. N’Con, Samantha. Samantha; N’Con, Kalam, Badli. She’s my better third. Ow!” The girl elbowed him in the side. “She’s small, but frisky.” He ducked a swat. “I better order some drinks while I’m still able. Sit.”

            At that time, Samuel himself came over to the table.

            “Wait a minute!” the proprietor barked. “We don’t serve their kind here,” he said as he pointed to Kalam and Badli.

            The Templar growled and started to go for his weapon, but N’Con put a restraining hand on his. Figment stood up and leaned against a support post. He looked at Samuel.

            “I’m sure you’ll reconsider,” the mage said. “It would not do to provoke another whole race.” Smoke started to rise from where his hand rested on the post. I mean, the Frelcockese I can understand, considering your valiant fighting against them in the River Wars.” He removed his hand to reveal a charred imprint. “But let’s not provoke my friends to rash acts, hmm?”

            “Um, right you are,” Samuel responded. “Please, be comfortable. Rocky! Get these fine people served.” There were a few snickers from the regulars as he retreated to his office.

            Figment ordered a bottle of wine as his friend and two guests settled at the table.

            “Okay,” Figment started, “how did things go?”

            N’Con looked at the table.

            “Did you find Vulcania?” the mage tried again.

            This time, N’Con nodded.

            “Okay, fine. We’ll play twenty questions. Is it animal, vegetable, or Pyrage?”

            N’Con half-smiled, but then just shrugged. “I don’t know where to start.”

            “How about with what you went there for? Did you find your father?”

            “Yes and no. They seem to know who my father is, and that he was traveling with mother when their ship ran aground on McAmal. They know about her escaping, but nothing about what has happened since then.”

“Good,” Figment said cheerfully. “So now you have a new relative.

Now we can get back to...our...normal... Okay, what’s wrong now?”

            N’Con sighed. “Well, my father - Oug is his name - was on a mission at the time of the shipwreck. So, I thought if I continued his mission I might...”

            “Wait. What was his mission?”

            “His mission?”

            “Yes. What was it?”

            “He was on a spying mission to McAmal.”

            “Oh.”

            “You’re not mad?”

            “That you’re contemplating a suicide mission? Why should I be? Are you crazy?!”

            Kalam finally spoke. “If you are afraid to go with your friend, we will.”

            “Yes. That is correct.” Badli added.

Figment stammered. “Wha...but...Do you realize what McAmal is?”

            “Yes. We have had a small taste of it,” the Templar replied. “But does it matter, if it leads N’Con to his father?”

            “I don’t get it. Why do you two want to go with him?” Samantha asked. “You hardly know each other, do you?”

            “That is difficult to answer,” Badli said. “For myself, I have noted a kinship of following faith.”

            “What about you, big guy?” Figment directed to Kalam. “Why are you going?”

            The Templar frowned a moment in thought, then he grinned as he asked back, “Why are you friends with N’Con?”

            Figment guffawed.

            “Is he always this cheerful?” Kalam asked N’Con.

            “You’ll get used to it,” he replied.

            “Okay! Okay, okay,” Figment coughed out as he recovered. “You made your point. Oh, I love it. But listen, N’Con. Don’t you think you should go talk to Tala first before you go off gallivanting again?”

            A grim look came over N’Con’s face once more. “I...don’t know about that.”

            “Come on now! I know what you’re thinking and I think you should give your mother a little more credit than that. Maybe she didn’t know she was pregnant with you when they were captured. So maybe she didn’t know you weren’t deamon spawn. Think about what she’s had to live with.”

            “Well...maybe.”

            “Ah! Forget maybe! Either find out for sure or live with it!” The mage put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll be with you.”

            “I could pass through Yutavia,” N’Con mused.

            “Sure! Then we can all go merrily off to McAmal.”

            N’Con looked at Figment. “There’s really no reason for any of you to come. What I have to do, finally, I do alone.”

            “Oh, will you can the paladin tripe!” Figment admonished. “We’re a band now and we’re sticking together.”

            “What do you mean by ‘band’?” Badli inquired.

            Figment explained, “Five is a band, seven to twelve a company, twenty a troop, and one hundred or more is an army.”

            “Far be it for me to argue with statistics,” N’Con commented dryly.

            “Ha! There’s the old stick-in-the-mud we all know and love.” Figment then asked. “Do you guys have horses?”

            “Just one.”

            “No problem. We’ll get some for you tomorrow.”

            “Wait a minute,” Samantha cut in. “Horses are expensive.”

“I can earn our keep,” Kalam said, indicating himself and Badli. “Good,” she retorted. “But doing what?”

            “I will be a bodyguard for you and your man.”

            Figment guffawed again. Samantha sneered.

            “Even if we had the money to hire you, we don’t need protecting. I used to be a bodyguard.”

            “That is all fine,” N’Con interrupted, “but there will be no need for horses. I...we will go by boat.”

            “More expense!” Samantha exclaimed.

            N’Con shook his head. “No. I have my own boat. She’ll be here by tomorrow.”

Figment suddenly grew sober and asked, “You don’t mean Perenna?” N’Con nodded.

            “Hoo, boy.”

            “Who’s Perenna?” Samantha asked, puzzled. “Not an old flame of your, I hope?”

            “Hardly,” Figment replied. “Perenna is N’Con’s boat. His Ladyship, to be more precise.”

            Samantha looked still more puzzled.

            Figment asked N’Con, “You don’t mind if I tell her?”

            “That’s fine. I’ve already explained her to Kalam and Badli. I’m surprised you haven’t told her yet, though.”

            “Oh, you mean about you being an Assassin? Sure I have. You don’t think I’d leave out a juicy detail like that now, do you?”

            N’Con just mumbled and shook his head.

            “Anyway,” Figment continued, “as I was saying, Perenna is N’Con’s Ladyship. They are what the Assassins use to get from kill to kill. But the Ladyships aren’t just boats - they’re a race of inanimate being. They have the form of a solid watercraft. Though they can’t move, they can command the water to propel them through it.”

            Samantha was getting very puzzled. “Wait a second. Why would the Assassins use a race of creatures just for transportation?”

            “We use horses,” Figment suggested.

            “It’s more that that,” N’Con said. “The Ladyships are intelligent, sentient, and very empathic. The Assassins are cold-blooded, but they do have some latent emotions. The Ladyships are used to hold their emotions in check.”

            “But if they are intelligent, why do they help the Assassins?” the girl asked.

            N’Con looked hurt. “Certainly not by choice.”

            Figment picked up the explanation again. They were tricked into some kind of pact with McAmal. I don’t understand the full extent of it, just that they’ll die if they leave it of their own free will.”

Samantha shrugged, “Death sounds better that that kind of deal.”

“Not for the Ladyships.” N’Con sighed. “Their race has never known death. They have existed as long as their memory. Death, for them, is the ultimate terror.”

            Figment added, “But N’Con gave Perenna her freedom when he disowned McAmal. She has been freed of the pact. Which makes me wonder why she’s still around.”

            N’Con said, “We have had contact from time to time. She was my first friend, even before you, Figment. She is coming because she wants to help. She’s known free will longer than she’s known slavery.

            Figment chuckled. “Well, far be it for me to accuse you of telling me all your secrets. It’s good to know that even I can be surprised.”

            “This talk of living boats has given me the creeps. No offense,” Samantha said. “Why don’t we have something to eat?”

            “You actually want to spend money?!” Figment teased.

            “Don’t press your luck, buddy.”

            N’Con said, “Let’s go somewhere else to eat. The food here is no good.”

            “I agree. How about the Red Bull?” Figment offered.

            “That sounds good.”

            “If we’re going out, I’m getting my sword,” said Samantha as she got up. “I’ll be back in a second. It’s just in our room upstairs.” She left.

“Is it safe to give her a blade?” Kalam asked with a grin.

“About as safe as taking a Barbarian Templar into a civilized tavern,” Figment grinned back.

            Kalam barked a laugh and slapped Figment on the back. “I like you, little one. We will be good friends.”

            As they all started to leave, Figment rubbed the muscles on his back and whispered to N’Con, “It’ll be interesting to see how he treats his enemies.”

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            The Red Bull Tavern was a study in contrasting styles. Because it was one of the better eateries in town, it catered to a respectable clientele during the daylight hours. But, because it was also a tavern, at sunset a steady stream of dock workers and sailors entered the Red Bull to quench their thirsts for alcoholic spirits and back­room gambling. Occasionally, the two distinctive and opposite clientele met in an awkward moment. But a watchful and diplomatic host had avoided most trouble.

            As the host watched the party of five adventurers enter, though, he began to wonder if his skill could handle such a group. Five warriors, from a least four different countries, traveling together, were sure to attract the attention of some troublemaker.

            “Yo, Pepe! Five for dinner,” one of the group called to the host. It wasn’t until then that he recognized the man and one of his friends. They had helped to oust a band of drunken mercenaries a month before. So there should be nothing to worry about, Pepe thought.

Either that, or truly worry more.

            “Ah, yes. Lord Figment, is it not?” the host greeted.

            “You’re right. It’s not,” Figment replied. “Its just Figment. You remember N’Con?”

“How could I forget? That will be five for dinner, then?”

“Six, if you count him twice,” the mage said, pointing at Kalam.

The four men and one woman were seated in a partitioned area. Over tea and cino, they shared more of their respective stories. Badli and Kalam told of why they were traveling together. And N’Con learned a new fact of how the Barbarian Tribes were actually descendents of tribes who had emigrated from the little known southern continent. Figment explained some of how he had met Samantha, and of the unknown fate of the witch Aramantra. N’Con told more about his mother, Tala, and of her captivity on the island of McAmal. Samantha listened much, but talked little.

            Dinner was a wonderful spread of roast beef, broiled tuber with oyam sauce, a noodle and vegetable salad, pottage, baskets of warm bread rolls, fruit and many a split of Negluvian wine. The conservations faltered only slightly as they put their various energies and appetites to devouring the meal. The entire mood of the evening had settled into a relaxed, friendly peacefulness.

            But then --- nothing good seems to last forever.

            Figment was in the middle of a tale of one of his many exploits, when he was interrupted by a woman’s scream and a few raucous laughs from the common room of the tavern. All but Badli and N’Con were immediately out of their seats.

Kalam held up his hand to the others. “I’ll go see what it is.”

Figment smiled and nodded. This would be a chance to see what the big man was capable of. He patted Samantha on the head as the barbarian left and said, “There, there now. I’ll let you spill some blood next time.” He ducked the anticipated swat, but then winced as she went for his ankle instead.

            N’Con asked the mage, “Are you sure it was a good idea to let him loose?”

            Figment replied, “We’ll know in a second.”

            At that moment, a mail-clad mercenary came flying over the partition and landed on their table.

            “Now we know.”

            Figment led the rush to where the Barbarian Templar had gone. The ebon giant was holding another mercenary in the air while pinning a third to the floor with his foot. Figment took the mercenaries to be Cranian by the headgear they wore. They had a reputation for being vicious fighters, but Kalam had taken on three of them. If the Templar had heard of the Cranian’s reputation, he had not obviously been impressed by it.

            “What’s up? Besides him,” Figment inquired.

            “They tried to take our waitress,” Kalam answered, still holding on to the mercenaries.

            “Sounds reasonable to me. But maybe you should let him down now; I think he’s beginning to turn blue.”

            The barbarian looked reluctant to comply with Figment’s request, but then a new voice was added to the moment.

            “Put my hireling down!” commanded the newcomer. He was dressed in a gold silk coat over a blue blouse adorned with a ton of lace. The wardrobe was that of a fop, but the sabre that hung at his side looked to be anything but ornamental. He strode toward the scene with fire in his eyes.

            Kalam causally tossed the mercenary aside and stepped over the other to meet their employer. Though the nobleman gave the impression of being smaller, he actually bested Kalam in height by a few inches.

“And who are you, peacock?” the Templar smirked.

            “I am Count Lin De Lager! Why have you set upon my men?!” he demanded with a tone that implied he was not used to being mocked.

            “They were accosting our serving wench. I mannered the louts,” Kalam growled.

            “Here, now! What’s going on?” interrupted the barkeep.

            “Ah, yes, Tubal,” the Count answered, trying to seize the moment. “I am sure that everything will be worked out - as soon as a constable is summoned to take this jayhawk away.”

            “Sorry,” interjected N’Con, “but he’s with us.”

            “Be that as it may, he participated in a public brawl and should be remanded to the appropriate authorities.”

            “Actually,” Figment countered, “any action of incarceration should be directed toward the idiots that started the ruckus.”

            “He started the ruckus!” the Count spat.

            “He went to investigate the ruckus.”

            “Ba! This is pointless! Summon the constable!”

            “Good idea,” Figment agreed. “Since your men tried to accost a maiden, and they are under your charge, you can also be held responsible for an attempted rape.”

            “What!?”

            “You study law, too?” Samantha whispered.

“Among other embarrassing habits,” Figment whispered back.

Further debate was interrupted by a noise from the dining area. The first mercenary came staggering around the partition, spied Kalam, and charged. He went sprawling when Samantha put an out-stretched foot in his path. He skidded to a halt in front of his red-faced employer.

            “Antar! Get up and stop this display!” barked the once dignified Count.

            “You should be ashamed - unleashing such uncouth rabble in a public place,” Figment commented.

            “Ruffians,” added Kalam.

            The barkeep asked, “Count? What do you want me to do?”

            But Samantha interjected, “Maybe we should ask the waitress if she wants to press charges?”

            “Well, Count?” Figment pressed.

            Count De Lager tried to keep from fuming. He answered through clenched teeth, “Perhaps...the matter could be dropped.”

            The barkeep hurriedly added, “Yes! There were no real damages! I’m sure we can keep this to ourselves. Yes?”

            “Kalam?” Figment directed.

            “Huh? Oh, yes. Sure. That’s fine by me.”

            “Then it’s settled. Have a nice day, count.”

            With that, Figment motioned the others to follow him back to the dining area. The mage glanced back once and saw the Count kick the mercenary still on the floor. His face was purple with rage.

            Figment paid for their meals, much to the complaint of Samantha, and they left the Red Bull Tavern.

            As they walked back down the street to the Purple Vole, Kalam came alongside of Figment and said, “ You handled that situation well, little one. I admire your style. I never thought I’d enjoy ending a conflict without a fight, but this sure was fun.”

            Figment nodded. “Thanks. But I doubt we’ve heard the last of the Count. His kind will never accept losing.”

            Kalam grinned, “Then perhaps the fun is just beginning.”

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            After returning to the Purple Vole, rooms were obtained for N’Con, Kalam, and Badli. Figment noted for the first time that N’Con was being very possessive and guarded about his saddlebag. It wasn’t the first unusual thing he had noticed about his friend that night, but his respect overrode his curiosity and so he had not pushed the matter. But one glance beyond his five senses told Figment that something in that saddlebag was very wrong. After everyone else was settled in and Samantha was fast asleep, he decided that the matter had to be investigated.

            He went to N’Con’s room and knocked.

            “Who is it?” came a voice that was almost a stranger’s.

            “Room service,” Figment tried to crack back, but something in N’Con’s voice had dulled his humor. For a moment, he thought N’Con wasn’t going to reply, but then the door opened.

            “Catch you in the middle of a good dream?” Figment smirked.

            “I don’t...I’m not tired. What do you want, Figment?”

            The mage was beginning to worry. It was so unlike N’Con to respond in this way. The feeling that he was talking to a stranger refused to be subdued.

            “Can’t an old friend come by to chat? We haven’t had the chance to talk alone all night.”

            N’Con looked at Figment impassively for many moments. Finally, he just shrugged and walked back into his room without closing the door. Figment took it as the best invitation he was going to get from his friend, and so he followed him in. He closed the door behind him and found a chair to sit on. N’Con stood at the room’s single window and looked out into the night.

            Figment knew that he could play word games with the former Assassin all night and still probably not get the answers he was looking for. So he decided to drop all pretenses and be direct.

“Okay. What really happened to you in Vulcania?”

            Neither N’Con’s voice nor body revealed anything. “I don’t know what you mean.”

            “Sure you do. You and your two new friends talked a lot about what happened, but all three of you were skirting something. There’s a very important gap in the sequence of events that happened to you. Now what’s up?”

            “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

            N’Con could sometimes be closed about himself, and nothing frustrated Figment more than when he was. But this absolute blank that his friend was projecting chilled the mage. He needed something sharp to break through.

            Figment sighed and asked, “So what’s in the saddlebag?”

            That did it. N’Con turned suddenly, his face was panicked and angry. “Did you look in my bag?”

            Figment stood. “You know I never look through your stuff. But you’re hiding something in there that’s pulsating enough power to level this fair city. It stinks of the Abyss. Care to explain when you decided to start collecting magick items?”

            N’Con closed up again. “It’s nothing but a bauble.”

            But the mage would not be shut off. He grabbed his friend by the tunic and hoisted him off the floor. “Cut the crap! Now! That thing scares me!” He put N’Con down. “What is it?”

            For the first time that evening, some of N’Con’s old self came through. But what emotion was he projecting, Figment could not guess. He was just relieved that his friend was opening up again.

            N’Con said, “It...contains the answers I’ve been looking for all my life. It’s a culmination. It is the reason I’m going to McAmal.”

            “Okay. So excuse me for repeating myself: what is it?”

            N’Con smiled, but it was not warm or friendly. “It is a weapon for destroying the GrandWeir.”

            “Okay. Fine. So why am I not pleased at hearing that?”

            “You should be, Figment. This world can finally be rid of a great evil. This is a time to rejoice.”

            Figment was totally unconvinced by N’Con’s show of cheer. And yet he still could not fathom what was bothering him about the whole situation. Or maybe he did, but he was afraid to continue. And yet, he had to.

            “N’Con, is the GrandWeir the only thing that ‘weapon’ will get rid of?”

            “Why would you think otherwise?”

            N’Con did not seem closed off, but his answer was not really an answer. Figment did get the feeling, though, that that was the best he was going to get out of his friend - for that evening, anyway.

            He told N’Con, “You know I’m going with you, of course.”

            “If you wish. I probably couldn’t stop you anyhow.”

            “You got that right. So we leave in the morning, right?”

            “Yes. Perenna will be here by then.”

            “Okay, good. I guess I’d better let you get some sleep, then.”

            “Sure.”

            Figment walked to the door and opened it, but then looked back at his friend. “N’Con, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

            N’Con nodded. His face remained impassive, but his voice echoed true warmness as he said, “I know, Figment. And maybe I will. Goodnight.”

            Figment returned the goodnight and shut the door as he left. He was more bothered than satisfied he had received but they would have to do. He would have to be, as always, prepared for anything. He was not about to let anything happen to his friend.

            He hoped and prayed that that would not be beyond him.

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            Over breakfast the next morning, travel plans were made for which route they would take. Figment suggested again that they could go over land to Yutavia to find Tala, and continue to McAmal from there. But N’Con insisted that they travel by Perenna down the Scew River. A bigger boat could be found to take them from Frazettapur across the Gulf of Whales. He pointed out that a bigger boat would also be needed to make the trip to McAmal. Everyone agreed. He tried once more to point out that he could make the trip by himself. Figment led the protests contrariwise, and so N’Con dropped the subject.

            After eating, the five adventurers packed their few belongings and headed for the docks on the west side of town. The sun was coming up bright, and the sky showed the promise of a clear warm day. The docks were already busy with activity by the time they arrived, but N’Con seemed none too bothered by the throngs of sailors, shopkeepers looking for buys, and dock workers busily unloading goods. He walked with purpose to the far edge of the dock area, and finally got out to the end of a little used and unkempt dock. Figment and the others stayed close behind as the former Assassin went up to the object of his search. There, at the end of the dock, was what could only be his Ladyship, Perenna.

            She was perhaps fifteen feet from nose to tail and another twenty feet from wing-tip to wing-tip. Nautical terms could not be used for her, as she looked more alive than boat-like. Her form was that of a dark-brown dragon. Her wings were unfolded out over the waters as if ready to take flight; her long neck craned forward, and her black eyes looked ever ahead. But no movement, other than the bobbing in the water, betrayed any life that could be there.

            Closer examination revealed that she was indeed carved from some wood-like substance. Her surface showed a fine-grained and smoothly polished sheen. The work was so fine on her as to actually show veins in the wings and individual tufts of hair about her head. A hollowed out area between the wings was large enough to carry a half a dozen passengers standing or sitting on the edge.

            Figment had seen Perenna only once before, but he was still taken by her beauty  - and the aura of life she gave off. He knew of her sentience, yet he was still amazed by what happened next.

            N’Con knelt down by the edge off the dock near to where Perenna floated. Then, very gently, as if being moved by some unseen current, the Ladyship turned in the water until her head came to rest against N’Con. He put his arms around her neck and held her as if welcoming an old friend.

            Or, as Figment suddenly realized might be more accurate, as if welcoming an old love.

            After a minute or so, everyone was obviously beginning to feel uncomfortable, so Figment cleared his throat to get N’Con’s attention. He looked at them as if noticing them for the first time, but then let go of Perenna and stood up.

            N’Con said, “She says she’ll be happy to take you all, but she agrees with me that there’s no reason for you to come.”

            “Okay, so she has one little flaw,” Figment shot back. “And I certainly wouldn’t accuse you of putting words in her mouth since she can’t speak for herself. Now, can we go?”

            N’Con just shrugged, but before any of them could board Perenna, a familiar voice stopped them.

            “Go no further!” Count Lin De Lager bellowed. The command in his voice was obviously boosted by the six armed men who followed him as he marched down the dock.

            “Oh, we really don’t need this,” Figment moaned. “I just cleaned my sword.”

            Figment, N’Con, Kalam, Badli, and Samantha faced the Count as he neared. He stopped short of them and pointed at the barbarian Templar. “My argument is only with him! This is a matter of honor!”

            “Yeah, right!” Figment rebuffed. “Is that why you brought your hired men along? Put the odds a little more in your favor?”

            “I shall deal with you also, if you wish,” the Count growled. “And by myself! Come then, you black dog!”

            “Oh, I’m going to love this,” Kalam growled back.

            “Wait!” Badli interrupted. He immediately became self-conscious as all eyes turned to him.

            “Well? What is it, Cleric?” Kalam demanded.

            “I...I want to say something to the Count first.”

            “What?”

            “What sort of trick is this?” Count De Lager asked suspiciously.

            “No tricks. But I must speak before there is bloodshed.”

            Kalam said, “You couldn’t have picked a worst time to preach about peace.”

            “A preacher, hmm?” the Count mused. “Let him speak. Perhaps he pleads for your soul. Ha! If you had one.”

            “Why you...!”

            “Please, Templar,” Badli stopped Kalam. “Let me do this. I have yet to prove my worthiness on this trek.”

            Kalam grumbled, but then said, “Go on.”

            Badli nodded and then started to walk to the Count. He and his men were put immediately on guard. But then the Cleric pushed up the sleeves on his robe, showed his hands empty and said, “My words are only for you.”

            Count De Lager eyed him suspiciously, but then nodded him to come forward. He did not, however, put down his guard.

            Figment watched with growing interest and guardedness as the skinny Cleric approached the imposing Count. Badli seemed to show no fear as he leaned up to De Lager and whispered something in his ear. Figment had hearing above that of humans, but he could barely make out what the Cleric said. He was certain, though, that he only said one word. It was something like “bil-hah”. Figment was unfamiliar with the language, yet something about that word and the way it was spoken made him suddenly afraid of the little Cleric. His surprise at his own reaction was overshadowed by the Count’s reaction. His eyes grew wide and his brow beaded up with sweat. Badli turned and walked away from him.

            “What is going on?” Figment mumbled to himself. The fear he had felt was gone as quick as it had come.

            But not, obviously, for the Count. Kalam shrugged off the going on and advanced toward De Lager with his axe at the ready. The Count suddenly dropped his sword and fell to his knees before the ebony giant.

            “Please!” the Count sniveled. “I beg of you to forgive me! I...I was totally at fault for the incident at the Red Bull, and I plead for your forgiveness! Please don’t hurt me!”

            Kalam’s amazement was only a little less than De Lager’s hired men. The Templar backed up, quite disgusted, as the Count fawned at his feet. He turned away from the quivering man and walked back to the rest of the group, stopping only to shoot Badli an enigmatic look. He said, “Let’s get out of here,” and continued on to Perenna.

            Figment followed the rest of his companions as they boarded the Ladyship. He and the others looked back as the Count’s hired men stood by their weeping employer. Many silent, awkward moments passed as Perenna turned out into the waters and took the five adventurers south on Talon Lake. Finally, Figment broke the quiet.

            “Okay, what happened back there?” he asked the two barbarians.

            Kalam nodded towards Badli, “Ask him.”

            “Badli, was that your doing?”

            The Cleric looked slightly ashamed as he answered. “Yes. It is called the power of the word. It is part of the study of the Clerics of my tribe. We...are not supposed to use it so freely, but I thought it was needed to prevent any bloodshed.”

            “Ba! Just a lot of weak-kneed tricking,” Kalam scoffed. “You interfered in a matter of honor. A fine time to vacillate on your oath!”

            “I did what I thought I had to do.”

            “You don’t know what you want!”

            “Whoa!” Figment interrupted. “What’s all this about?”

            Badli looked at the water and was silent. Kalam looked at the Cleric and then at Figment. He said, “Nothing. It’s between us. It won’t affect my helping out on this venture. I can’t speak for him, though.”

            Badli didn’t look up but said, “I will also do my part. There is no need to worry for me.”

            Figment wasn’t quite reassured, but he once more found himself in a situation that he thought it was best not to push. He did wish that he could be tactless just one time and find out what was going on. Ant yet, he knew that these things usually had a way of working themselves out, so he just had to have a little patience and watch things closely.

            The mage sighed inwardly. Even after 500 years, he still found it hard work to be a responsible adult.

            He looked south as Perenna glided silently through the waters and towards the mouth of the Scew River. He wondered, certainly not for the first or last time, what his friend was getting him into. Not that it made any difference. He was, after all, N’Con’s friend. A little trouble just naturally came with the territory.

CHAPTER TEN

The Gathering

            The cave was dark and cold; the dankness chilled Zandor to the bone. But he did nothing to lessen his discomfort. The wizard felt quite miserable and he was certain he deserved nothing better. He sat alone with his thoughts for many days. He did not enter meditation; he did not consult the crystals. His unraveled plans lay before him like something that grew on the cave’s floor. He was certain of only one thing: he had broken the prophecy by too much direct intervention. There seemed little need to do anything but meld into the dark earth and disappear. The silence of the cave did not contradict him.

            But then the silence was broken.

            “So there you are.”

            Zandor looked, but saw no one.

            “Down here.”

            The wizard redirected his vision lower. The glowing yellow eyes of a cat returned his stare.

            “Oug? How did you find me?”

            “Certainly not from wanting to,” the cat replied. “But Tala insisted.”

            “Tala? But she was ready to strangle me.”

“Maybe she wants another chance. But she said we still need you.”

            Zandor shook his head. “No. I have made enough of a mess of this already.”

            A low growl came from Oug. “You are not getting out that easily! Taking the blame will not absolve you of the guilt. You started something and you must see it through.”

            “It is no good now. I broke the prophecy. It is finished.”

            “Not for N’Con. Tala and I are more certain than ever that he has the Sword. He will let it lead him to the Abyss without a second thought. But you know that, do you not? It has something to do with this ‘prophecy’.”

            Zandor wanted to leave, to get away from the accusations. But they were true. And truth had been his goal from the beginning.

            “Yes,” he answered. “But what do you know of the prophecy?”

            “Not much,” Oug replied. “ The girl, Haelan, said you told her something about a vision. And Tala read a fragment of your thoughts when your guard dropped. She says that the only chance for N’Con is to complete this ‘group’ you have been gathering. Is that true?”

            “Yes. The prophecy is a vision I saw in the great Ice Crystals of the Northern Wastes. There were many different outcomes shown, but N’Con’s quest was the one constant. The gathering was only essential to his surviving. That is how the others were related to the vision.”

“And what about your part?”

            Zandor suddenly felt guarded again. How much should he tell Oug? How much did he know? Did it matter? Perhaps.

            I was to draw everyone together - gather a group to support N’Con. The vision directed me to these specific people. You and Tala were also part of the group shown. There are a few that were shown that I did not contact, but their part in the vision was not so clear and so did not seem as important. Now, though, it seems I have chased off the ones that were important. So much for my part.”

            He felt Oug measure him. He tried to remain stoic. He was not certain why he still held on to his lone goal, but maybe it was not out of reach.

            Oug said, “So I take it that this is what you mean when you said you broke the prophecy?”

            Zandor nodded. “I revealed too much, too soon. And I intervened more directly than the vision had shown.”

            Oug was silent in a moment of thought. Then he told Zandor, “You had no way of anticipating the boy’s reaction. But perhaps you should not have named McAmal so soon. Surely you could have guessed that someone had heard rumors about the island. I am surprised, though, that Dallon is the one who knew about it.”

            “Has anyone found him?”

            “No. Tala is casting, and the two girls search on foot. I do not know about the Equessa. If Hel has found him, then you may have lost two, though she still could return.”

            Zandor averted his eyes as Oug’s yellow orbs bore into him.

            “You, Zandor, have no choice but to return.”

            Yes, of course he would return. There was still a chance for fulfillment.

            “If you insist.”

            “Oh, I do.”

“Then I will come back. I am not certain what good it will do.”

            “I believe you do know,” Oug shot back. “A prophecy is not concrete and may be altered. You said yourself that many outcomes were shown. If N’Con has a chance, then you must help. And if you are holding anything back, wizard, now is the time to tell me.”

            No. He would save the last for himself. Perhaps N’Con did have a chance to survive. But if he didn’t, was it such a terrible trade for the world?

            ...and what lay beyond?

            He told Oug, “No. There is nothing beyond what I told you. Perhaps you are correct. There may be enough of the group to save N’Con. I expect he and the others will be arriving in Frazettapur soon.”

            “You mean more than just Figment travel with him? You have been busy.”

            “Yes. I can go into detail later with Tala. I hope that I can prove to you both that I have been trying to help your son.”

            “For your sake, that had best be true.”

            As Zandor followed Oug out of the cave, his worries began to fade. He knew he could be very convincing.

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            “I can’t believe you won’t drop it.”

            “Really, N’Con,” Samantha added to Figment’s admonishment, “we’ve been through this a hundred times.”

            Figment interrupted, “Samantha. Haven’t I told you a million times not to exaggerate?”

            “Cute. Real cute.”

            N’Con waved them both quiet. “Listen, I know you’re going to follow me. But what I have to do at McAmal, I do alone.”

            Figment studied his friend. He had the sudden urge to toss him into the river. Not that it would solve anything...but then again, there was little satisfaction in restraint.

            The mage sighed. “I will follow you to the end.”

            “That’s a good way to put it.”

            “And so will the rest of us,” Samantha added.

            “That would be a mistake.”

            “Blast it all!” Figment exclaimed. “Why do you make it so difficult for your friends to help you?!”

            N’Con did not answer for many moments. The only sound was the water being cut by Perenna’s passage. Then he said, “It’s because you are my friends that I don’t want you to go.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because of the danger.”

            “What’s the danger?”

            “I can’t tell you.”

“Then we’re going anyway! So why keep bringing it up?!”

“Figment...”

            “No! You don’t want us to go, but you won’t be more specific. So we’re going to go to see why you don’t want us to go. You have your position; we have ours. Impasse. End of argument. Drop it. That’s all, folks.”

            N’Con said nothing more. He sat down and leaned forward onto Perenna’s neck. He looked out at nothing.

            Figment was more worried than he would let on about what N’Con was hiding. Not for himself - he had faced many deaths beyond the natural and had come out fine. No, he was worried for Samantha. He did not want to leave her behind; that was how she had met death in her previous incarnations. Yet he was also afraid to bring her into the unknown. It was the first time his love was a fighter, but would she be able to face the horrors of McAmal?

            Figment knew about the deamons and other physical dangers of McAmal, yet he somehow knew that those were not the dangers N’Con refused to elaborate on. That also worried Figment - that there could actually be something worse than those nightmares. Could Samantha or the others, or even himself for that matter, face such unknown?

            But finally, Figment was worried for N’Con. Something beyond his six senses told him that his friend was on a final quest. N’Con had told him - none too convincingly - that the weapon, the Flame Sword, would protect him as he destroyed the GrandWeir. The mage had seen many mysteries, natural and otherwise, and had always been confident in his ability to ferret out the truth. But that black, unshining sword remained a complete enigma to him.

            And maybe that’s what worried him most of all.

            There was little talk over the next hour as they finally neared Frazettapur. The early morning mist was lifting, and the lights of the city and activity around the huge harbor could be seen.

            Figment told N’Con, “You might want to tell her to put in at the far end of the docks. Perenna is not exactly a common sight.”

            “She already knows,” he answered.

            “Fine. I’ll take care of finding us a ship when we get there. Whew, boy! What am I saying? What captain would willingly take us to McAmal?”

            N’Con smiled mirthlessly. “I would suggest you find a captain that doesn’t know about it.”

            Figment tried to think of a humorous rejoinder, but could find none. Blast N’Con anyway, he thought. His sourpuss mood could put a damper on a Cragwoodian war party celebration. And those boys had victory parties even when they lost!

            The mage said, “Well, that’s the first good idea you’ve had for awhile. The rest of you can find us rooms for the night. Hopefully, we can leave as soon as tomorrow.”

            “Aren’t these rooms and a bigger ship going to cost a pretty phenning?” Samantha asked.

            “Dear, how many times do I have to tell you that I am very well set? And wait until you see the bill I drop on N’Con for this little trip.”

            “I’m really comforted,” she huffed.

            Perenna glided into the most upriver of the docks. It was not exactly unused, and she drew many a stare form the workers loading a frigate.

            But there was also a man at the end of the dock who looked as though he was waiting for them. He was young, dark-haired, and dressed more appropriately for a harbor of the northeastern coast.

He called to them, “Lord Figment of Blacksent? N’Con of Barsin?”

Figment hopped up to the dock as Perenna pulled up. “That’s just Figment...and N’Con Barsin. Also Samantha, Kalam, and Badli,” he introduced as the others stepped up. “But I’m afraid you have us at an advantage.”

            “Of course. Excuse me. I’m Chris Krieger, Captain of the Barracuda. She will be ready for your voyage by tomorrow morning.”

            Figment was too old to be surprised by anything anymore, but this certainly came close. He said, “That’s mighty kind of you. But how did you know we’d need a ship?”

            “I didn’t. It was your friend, Zandor, who hired me. He sent me to greet you. I truly have better things to do than this, but he is paying well. However, you seem as in the dark as I am. Any questions you have, you can direct at him. I must get back to the Barracuda.” With that, Krieger turned around and began to leave.

            “Wait a second,” Figment called. Where is Zandor?”

            “At the Den Of Ease,” Krieger called back. “Left on Dock Street, two blocks down. You can’t miss it.” He turned past the frigate and was gone.

            Curiouser and curiouser,” Figment muttered.

            “What’s that?” Samantha asked.

            “Nothing. It just looks like Zandor is trying to make things easier for us.”

            Kalam inquired, “How come you make it sound like he’s not doing us a favor?”

            “Did I? Oh, sorry. He is one of the good guys.”

            “Who can tell anymore?” Samantha commented.

            Figment laughed. But he was also wise enough not to voice his agreement.

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            Do you think we can all fit into that booth?”

            Tala looked where Sal Mayd was pointing. Most of the tables at the Den Of Ease sat only four people. A few booths could take up to six. But the large corner booth Sal Mayd pointed out could hold twice that. The table was a flattened oval shape. The high-backed padded bench around it was open at one point to let people in. It would hold the ten that would be enough?

            “Tala?”

            “Hmm? Oh, yes. That will be fine. Let’s go hold it down until the others arrive.”

            Sal Mayd and Haelan followed her to the booth. But before they got there, a young woman in a brown sari stopped them.

            “Please excuse,” she apologized. “I am Kavita, your hostess. How many are you?”

            “That’s easy to see, isn’t it?” Sal Mayd retorted. Tala put a restraining arm on her arm.

            “There will be ten of us,” she told the girl. “Please bring us three teas. The others will arrive soon.”

            “Make that two teas and a juice jolt,” Sal Mayd corrected.

            “It’s a little early in the day, isn’t it?” Tala asked motherly.

            “Not if that wizard has any more surprises. I still haven’t absorbed his last ‘meeting’.”

            The hostess ushered them to the booth - even though they were only a few steps away. Haelan and Sal Mayd slid in first; Tala followed. They sat in silence for the next minute or so. Another girl arrived to bring them their various beverages. She also placed two large pitchers of water and ten cups on the table. She introduced herself as “Devy,” and left them a slate listing the day’s food offerings.

            The silence continued.

            Devy returned a few minutes later and asked if they wished to order food. Tala told her that they would wait until the others arrived. The girl smiled sweetly and left again.

            “Why do they always have to smile?” Sal Mayd grumbled.

            Tala answered half-heartedly, “She’s just doing her job.”

            “Oh. Okay.”

            The silence returned.

            Tala was usually amused by Sal Mayd’s gruffness, but she had too much on her mind to pay the girl much attention. It had been almost five years since she had seen her son, N’Con. How much would he have changed? What had the Sword done to him? Would he blame her for not warning him or not telling the whole truth about his parentage? She had not known herself, but would he believe that? Or accept her? There were so many questions he might ask - and she might not have the answers. She worried and wondered if his acceptance was the best she could hope for. She wondered...if love was beyond him.

            They sat for the next half-hour, waiting. The small talk was sparse and mostly uncomfortable. Haelan and Sal Mayd had not quite warmed up to each other, and Tala certainly did not feel like helping them along at the moment. She did know that it would eventually be important to get everyone working as a team, but she would leave that to Figment. He had a talent for such things, and Tala knew she could trust him. There was no way she was going to trust that Zandor with her son’s life. His story about them having to stick together so that N’Con would survive, did agree with the fragments of thought she had read off him earlier. But even that could have been put on. If only one of her dreams had come along to say otherwise, she could have been more sure. Oug had agreed that their only option was to go along with the surface of the wizard’s plan. Without knowing more, that seemed the best hope for their son.

            But whatever it took, she was going to stay by her son.

            Tala was beginning to wonder if N’Con and the others were going to show up. It had been unfortunate that the boy had been scared off, and it looked as though Hel was long gone, too. She worried once more if their number was enough. If there was any truth to Zandor’s vision, it was a variable that had to be considered. How such a small group could successfully enter McAmal was totally beyond Tala. What was crazier was that she was actually considering going back to that nightmare island - voluntarily. If that was needed - then so be it. But perhaps things would not have to go that far. Zandor was not the only one with plans.

            All those thoughts were brushed away in the next few minutes. Tala noticed Oug by her feet. He hopped up on the seat next to her and briefly sent, * He is here. * Before she had a chance to respond, she looked up and saw her son. Figment and three others stood behind N’Con.

            At first, Tala was shocked by the change in her son. He seemed...darker, colder. His eyes were empty and without expression. It was as if something had died in him.

            But then he smiled and life returned to his eyes. He held out his arms and simply said, “Hello, mother.”

            Tala took his embrace with hope. Perhaps things would be all right after all.

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            Figment watched with growing gladness as N’Con greeted his mother. There was an aura of hope around his friend that had not been there since his return from Vulcania. The whole situation still felt strange, but at least there was more room for a positive outcome.

            The mage glanced curiously at the two girls sitting in the booth. The redhead nodded politely at his look, but the other girl was staring past him at N’Con. She looked none too pleased. But before he had a chance to explore his sudden feeling of distrust, he noticed a grey cat sitting in the booth looking at him intently. Something made him look at its aura. He was quite surprised at the power it showed. Its aura belonged more to that of a magick-user, or at least a very intelligent being.

            * Thank you * Figment heard in his mind. Someone was sending to him. Could it be...?

            * Is that you? * he directed at the cat.

            * Yes. I am Oug. Please do not give me away just yet. I have also instructed the girls to be quiet. *

            * Why? *

            * I can only send to you and Tala. I do not think it would be good for me to talk in a public place. And we do not want to scare off the newcomers. I will explain later. *

            * Are you N’Con’s dad? *

            * Yes. *

            * Okay. I trust you. *

            “Figment?”

            “What?” N’Con was tapping him on his shoulder.

            “I said, you remember my mother, don’t you?”

            “Of course I do. Charmed as always, my good lady.” Figment kissed her hand.

            “Still a flirt,” Tala chuckled. “Perhaps we should introduce everyone?”

            “If you do not mind,” a deep voice behind them interrupted, “I would like to handle the introductions.” Zandor was suddenly just there.

            “Yes. It’s the least you could do,” Tala replied curtly. Figment wondered why there was such an edge to her tone. Things were getting deep again.

            “Let us all be seated,” Zandor suggested.

            Everyone slid into the booth. Figment sat at one end of the semi­circle, and Zandor sat at the other. There was a moment of silent expectation, and then the wizard began to introduce everyone.

            “This is the Lord Figment of Blacksent...”

            “That’s just Figment.”

            “Excuse me,” Zandor motioned to each as he continued. “Figment, mage and warrior. Samantha, swordswoman. Kalam, Templar. Badli, Cleric. Haelan, healer. Sal Mayd, paladine. This is Tala, seeress and mother to N’Con. He is a former Master Assassin - now, warrior.  And I am Zandor. You all know me in some manner or another, and a few of you already know why we are gathering here. But let me start from the beginning again so that there are no more misunderstandings.”

            Zandor continued to talk, but Figment only half-listened. One key word had brought back a memory he had thought was long forgotten. Gathering. Of course - the Gathering. Why hadn’t he recognized it before? It had happened only once during a far removed part of his life, and the number had not been so large. But it was finally coming about again; of that fact Figment was certain. Hope was alive: the Group was Gathering.

            The Umbra had been reborn.

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            “You are all needed on a mission of vital importance,” Zandor told the Group. “None less that the fate of Blacksent depends on it. I was led to you chosen few by a vision in the Great Ice Crystals of the North. There were parts of the vision that were somewhat misty, and so I was not sure how to approach you. Thus, my unorthodox way of directing you to one place.”

            “That’s putting it mildly,” Tala commented.

            “And for that I now apologize. But now most of us are here, and all should be aright.”

            Tala listened very carefully, on more than one level, as Zandor once again told the story of McAmal and the GrandWeir; of N’Con and the vile weapon; and of how they were all called to help N’Con get to the island so that he could destroy the deamon-god. She could detect no untruth in what he said, but she still didn’t like it.

            But then the wizard continued on with many details he had not included before. Tala was amazed by the duel feelings it brought forth in her. She disliked, more and more, the plan he was laying out; but it also raised in her a glimmer of hope. It began to seem that, if N’Con followed this mad path, there might actually be some hope for survival for her son. It might work.

            Tala reminded herself, though, that she had not given up her own plan of trying to talk N’Con out of going. That was the only way to be certain of his survival.

            Zandor said, “The GrandWeir is, of course, protected. A great Hoard lives on the island, and our number could not begin to face them. So there is two parts to this plan. I have enlisted the help of the Shipping Guild to launch a massive frontal assault on McAmal. The defenses of the island will be concentrated on repelling that attack. There may be help coming form an additional source, but of that I cannot be certain. It should not be needed anyway because of the second part of this plan.”

            “We, as a small band, will be able to slip in unnoticed, to the south of McAmal. We will help N’Con get to the GrandWeir so that he can destroy him. Once the GrandWeir is gone, his deamon-hoard will follow, as their existence is tied to his. And so the attack by the Shipping Guild need not be sustained, or even victorious. They need only distract the Hoard long enough for us to help N’Con to his goal. I cannot promise you that it will be easy, but know that a great evil will be removed from this world upon the success of this mission. I can only ask of you to help. Your world needs you.”

            Zandor was finished, but no one responded immediately. Tala was beginning to think that the wizard had scared them all off. The plan was mad, yet it did hold some hope for her son. Would no one help?

            Finally, though, after what was actually only a moment, Figment - good, old Figment - came through.

            He said, “Well, that sounds like a knock-about bit of good fun to me. When do we go?”

            The wizard answered, “Tomorrow morning. I have enlisted the Barracuda to take us to McAmal. That is...if everyone is agreed?” Nobody disagreed, but that was obviously not enough for Figment. 

            He told them, “Come on! Let’s show a little solidarity, gang. Everyone who wants to go on this pleasure cruise, raise your hand!”

            Figment raised his hand and looked around. One by one, all of the others, beginning with Kalam, raised their hands in agreement. Sal Mayd was the last to come into the circle, and it wasn’t until then that Tala remembered the problem that she could present. Soon, she would have to confront the girl with what she knew and see if she was still on her vendetta. She would also have to find out why Zandor had put her on N’Con’s trail. If it had anything to do with his “unorthodox ways,” then he was playing a very dangerous game with her son’s life.

            But then again, she had to question herself, hadn’t she come close to doing the same?

            “All right!” Figment cheered. “That’s more like it.”

            “Your unity is important for this mission,” Zandor agreed. “Now then, are there any questions?”

            Sal Mayd asked, “Yeah. Why is the Shipping Guild going along with this ‘mission’?”

            Zandor replied, “Very simply: the island of McAmal has been a Hel in their side for over a hundred years. The trade routes to the south have been nearly ruined by the deamon-spawned storms of that area. Their previous attacks on McAmal have been unsuccessful because of the GrandWeir. Now that there is a way to destroy him, they are more than happy to help storm the island.”

            “Okay. What are our chances of getting out of this alive?” Samantha inquired.

            “The vision showed you together - before and after. I believe everyone will survive as long as we remain a Group.”

            “What about Dallon and Hel?” Sal Mayd continued the subject. “Since they’re gone, will that lessen our chances?”

            Zandor shook his head. “I do not think so. But I do have the feeling that they may still somehow be involved. We have not heard the last of them.”

            “Who’s Dallon and Hel?” Figment asked. Zandor explained.

            Other questions were asked of less importance, and Zandor had an answer for them all. Oh yes, he was very good, Tala mused. He would keep everyone together and give her son a chance. The most important question was not asked, though, and Tala kept it to herself. What’s in this for you, Zandor, she wondered? What’s in it for you?

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            The questions eventually settled into a “getting acquainted” conversation. Backgrounds and brief histories were shared around the table as the Group ate a late breakfast. Everyone became more relaxed with each other as the morning wore on, but Figment did note a few exceptions. Sal Mayd continued to eye N’Con without trying to look like she was. He sensed something that wasn’t quite distrust, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe she just had the hots for his friend.

            Figment definitely felt a strong dislike from Tala directed at Zandor. It seemed so unlike her not to voice her feelings, but she must have her own reasons for keeping quiet. Perhaps she somehow blamed the wizard for the danger her son was headed into. He wished he could somehow reassure her, but he was not so certain himself.

            Figment did, however, feel very good about the Group being together. It was like he was among old friends, and that feeling came from more than just gathering for a single purpose. The Umbra was gathering again.

            Now, unlike Samantha, the other members of the Group were not incarnations of past friends and comrades - not exactly. Figment knew them as from a similar spiritual mold. There was, in the multiverses, a certain force which drove ordinary people into heroic deeds. Occasionally, that indefinable force made itself known in flesh and spirit - a life who’s existence could only be called heroic. Figment had known such people from both legend and personal experience. Umbra was just one of the names they had been called, though he did not know what that word truly meant. The Umbra were most prominent during turbulent times of history, and they seemed drawn together only during the most threatening of events. Figment had heard of a few such gatherings. From the one gathering that he had experienced, he also knew that “threatening event” was actually a mild description of what they had to face. More than once the world had edged towards wide spread catastrophe, but it had been pulled back from the brink by the efforts of the Umbra.

            Figment worried about little, but he did wonder about how indomitable the coming fight would be. The last gathering he had been in had involved six in the Umbra. Now there were ten, and two more had almost been part of the Group. It must truly be powerful forces that were drawing them together, and the same again that they would have to face. The coming battle would be wild and dangerous, and everyone would have to be on his or her best.

            Figment smiled to himself. That’s exactly what the Umbra - the Group - was all about. The Gathering lasted into the afternoon. It was then decided to go to the Ingle’s Nook to get rooms for everyone. Tala still had her room, and Sal Mayd shared hers with Haelan. Two more doubles were obtained for Kalam and Badli, and Samantha and Figment respectively. Zandor and N’Con each got a single. Dinner plans were made for later that evening so that they could meet and discuss the next day’s voyage. That settled, they all went to their rooms.

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            Tala waited for half an hour before going to N’Con’s room; Oug padded close behind. They were both nervous about seeing him alone, but it was necessary to bring any hanging questions out. And though there was little hope for it, Tala still planned to try to talk him out of going.

            She stood at the door for a moment, and then knocked. There was no answer. She waited a few more moments and then knocked again. The door finally opened.

            “Hello, son. May I come in?”

            N’Con looked at Tala with a noncommittal expression. He replied, “Sure. Sorry. Come in.”

            As Tala entered the room, she looked briefly around. N’Con had not unpacked his things yet. The room was too neat, too organized. She found a chair and sat down. Oug sat by her feet. N’Con shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed.

            Tala sighed. “Where should I begin?” she said, really asking herself.

            “Why not at the most important question?” N’Con suggested, not trying to be blunt.

            She nodded and said, “Your father. Yes.” She looked down at Oug. “Show him.”

            For the first time since that afternoon, N’Con showed true emotion. His beginning puzzlement turning to bafflement at what happened next.

            Oug bowed his head. His form began to waver, go out of focus. It became smoke-like and grew from the feline size to about the size of a man. Suddenly, a man was standing there - Oug’s human form. He smiled briefly at N’Con. Then he wavered again and became a cat once more. He weakly lay down at Tala’s feet.

            She looked at her son and told him, “That was Oug, your father. Your real father.”

            N’Con shook his head in disbelief. “But...what...I don’t understand. What does this cat...?”

            “Son,” Oug stopped him. “That was me. Please explain, Tala.”

            “Every Pyrage has two shapes: a human form, which you just saw, and an animal form - a were. But he is still your father in whichever form he is in.”

            “But why does he stay as a cat?” N’Con asked.

            “You can talk to me,” Oug commented.

            “Oh, sorry. This is kind of new for me.”

            Tala continued to explain. “What you saw was only a projection of his human form. The GrandWeir...took it away from him.”

            “How?”

            “It happened when he rescued me from McAmal. He was captured as I got away. He was set free later, but not before the GrandWeir punished him.”

            “He likes to set examples,” Oug added.

            N’Con clenched his fists. “Yes, I know.” His anger turned into embarrassment. “But, how long have you known each other? I mean...”

            Tala rescued him, “I was pregnant with you before I was captured on McAmal.”

            “Oh?”

            “We were married,” Oug supplied.

            That seemed to satisfy N’Con. But then another question came forward. “But why...why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I didn’t know,” Tala answered. “I didn’t even know Oug was alive until he rescued me. And then, of course, I thought I had lost him a second time.”

            Oug said, “I found your mother again only a year ago. We have been looking for you ever since.”

            Tala suddenly found the tears difficult to hold back. “And you were off gallivanting with old Figment, getting into who knows what kind of trouble. Is it any wonder it took so long?”

            “I’m sorry, mother...father. I guess I have been off in my own little world.”

            “Which brings us to another thing,” Oug said. “You don’t have to use it, my son. You don’t have to go.”

            In the next few moments, Tala’s hope for their son was crushed. N’Con seemed to suddenly close up. An unemotional set returned to his face. Tala realized then that he was doomed. All of Zandor’s talk about the visions and the Group sticking together did not matter. N’Con’s life would end with the GrandWeir’s. He knew it and yet he was going to go forward with this fool quest.

            Tala could not hold back the tears. “Oh, N’Con! Please don’t do this. Another way will be found to destroy him.”

            “No, there is no other way. Isn’t that right, father?”

            Oug did not answer.

            “N’Con, please...”

            “No, mother, don’t. I have to be alone now. We will talk further at dinner.”

            Tala reached out to N’Con, but he stepped back. His eyes were cold.

            She found her own sorrow beginning to dry up from so much despair. She said, “Fine, you think awhile. Your father and I will be back later.” She picked up Oug and began to walk to the door. She stopped and turned back to N’Con. “Think very hard, my son. We need you. So do your friends. The world is not worth that.”

            They left his room, then. Nothing more could be said. Tala felt drained of thought and hope. Her son had been taken from her even before she had found him again. Nothing seemed to be left.

            “I am sorry,” Oug told her as he nuzzled her arm.

            But she wondered whom it was meant for.

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            Zandor sat alone in light meditation. He was immensely pleased with himself. Everything had come back in line; his plans were moving forward once more. He felt strong and confident, and ready to handle anything that came along. Anything...

            Someone knocked demandingly at the door. ...Anything except Tala, he reminded himself.

            He really didn’t want to see them alone. But he supposed he had little choice. He went to the door and opened it.

            “Hello, Zandor.” Tala’s eyes were red from tears, but quickly drying to anger. “Mind if we come in?”

            “No. Of course not. Um, won’t you sit down?”

            “No thanks. This will only take a minute.”

            Zandor looked to Oug. He growled lowly at the wizard from the back of his throat.

            “How can I help you?” Zandor inquired.

            “Stop N’Con.”

            “Oh, is that all? While I am at it, are there any mountains you would like moved?”

            “Don’t get smart with me, boy!”

            Oug added, “I would listen to her if I were you...which I would not like to be right now.”

            Tala continued, “I don’t care how you do it. Talk to him, reason with him, knock him over the head and tie him up if you have to! Just stop him!”

            Zandor truly felt sorrow for her, but nothing could be done for it. He shook his head. “You know that is impossible. No power this side of the Abyss can break his bond with the Flame Sword. He is compelled to act.”

            “That was not discussed. How do you know about that?” Oug demanded.

            “The crystals showed me.”

            “The crystals! The crystals!” Tala spat. “I am so sick of hearing about destiny and the rest of that dung! This is my son we are talking about!”

            Zandor sighed. He knew he could no longer reason with her. “I am sorry, Tala. But N’Con is beyond us now. We can only follow and help him as best as possible.”

            Tala was too furious to speak. Oug asked, “Did the crystals show you what the Sword would do to N’Con? You seem to know so much.”

            Zandor put up a mental shield. Maybe they still did not know. “I know only that it will destroy the GrandWeir. Why?”

            “Then you told the truth about the vision? That N’Con will survive if we go with him?”

            “Yes.”

            Tala shook a finger at the wizard. “You can play your little games now, Zandor. But I warn you: if you have lied again you will be very sorry.”

            She turned and left with Oug, slamming the door behind them. Zandor shrugged and returned to his meditations. He could not let them bother him. They did not understand that this was for the world.

            And whatever Zandor got for himself, was surely worth all the trouble he had gone through.

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            Figment met Oug and Tala in the hall just after they left Zandor’s room. “Hey, kids. I’ve been looking for you,” he greeted cheerfully, but then immediately regretted his levity. They looked anything but cheerful.

            “Oh, yes,” Tala muttered. “We were going to come talk to you.”

            “That’s okay. I can wait.” Figment looked at the grey cat in Tala’s arms. “So, you’re N’Con’s dad, huh?”

            Oug replied, “Yes. Do you notice a family resemblance?”

            “Ha! That’s good.” The mage grew serious again. “Listen, I can bother you kids later. I’ll just keep looking for N’Con. Have you seen him?”

            “Have you tried his room?”

            “I just came from there. He didn’t answer, so...hey! Where are you going?”

            Tala did not reply as she hurried down the hall. Figment caught up with her as she knocked on N’Con’s door. There was no answer.

            “Maybe he’s sleeping?” Figment offered.

            Tala ignored him and opened the door. Figment followed her just in time to hear her gasp.

            N’Con’s room was empty.

            “Oh, what has that boy done and done now?” Figment shook his head and put a hand on Tala’s shoulder. She was stunned beyond tears.

            “We’ll find him,” he tried to reassure her. “We will,” he repeated for himself.

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            Dallon woke up and shivered, but not from being cold. The hold of the ship was actually quite comfortable, albeit cramped. The chill he had felt had come from his dream. Nightmare was more like it. He shook his head to clear it of the lingering vision of the island and deamons and mad wizards.

            But that was only a dream. Dallon was safe. The storage hold had more than enough to snack on until the ship put out to sea. Then he would simply reveal himself and work off his passage as a cabin boy or something. It did not matter as long as the madness was long behind. He would be safe.

            Dallon stretched his legs. Later on he would have plenty of time to walk around the ship. He had picked it because it was big and fancy. As he started to relax again, he thought it was not too impossible to get a respectable, long-standing job. That sounded nice and peaceable.

            The Barracuda rocked him back to sleep.

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            The setting sun shone brightly on the calm waters of the gulf, but N’Con felt no warmth in it. Only one thing felt real to him. He leaned forward onto the neck of Perenna and whispered, “Are you with me, my Ladyship?”

The thought came back, gentle and loving, * Yes, N’Con. I will always be with you. *

            * What about...after? What will become of you? *

            Perenna returned, * Where you go, I will be there. I am a part of you, as you are a part of me. *

            N’Con caressed her neck. That was all he needed, then. Some comfort would be with him then, some hope...

            ...some love.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On The Edge Of Journey

            Sal Mayd sat apart from the rest of the Group as they came on deck of the Barracuda. She purposefully checked the fletching of her arrows. The disappearance of N’Con had finally decided her mind. The others of the Group were going because of the wizard’s fool goal, but she had her own purpose in mind.

            There had been some confusion for her before. Zandor had told her that it was not necessarily N’Con who had killed her father, but only that it had been an Assassin with the wolf on his chest. And the way that Tala had continuously spoken well of her son, had also made Sal Mayd that maybe she had the wrong man.

            But now the Assassin was gone - fled to his masters on McAmal. Sal Mayd regretted ever having had given him the chance. So she would travel with the Group and play their game. They were going to try to catch up with N’Con. Good then. She would bide her time, and at the first opportunity, she would stick a shaft in the black-hearted Assassin.

            Then, maybe then, she could finally go home.

            She glanced up and noticed that Tala was looking at her. The old woman looked away, guilt crossing her face. Sal Mayd wondered how Tala felt about her son now.

            Another distraction caused Sal Mayd to look towards the gangplank. The one called Figment and his companion were coming on board.

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            “I’ll kill him.”

            “Yes, dear.”

            “His ribcage is history.”

            “Right.”

            “He has a chance of escaping the GrandWeir, but not me.”

            “Absolutely.”

            Figment stopped in his tirade and looked askance at Samantha. She smiled back at him.

            He shook his head. “I’ve got to find the Captain.”

            Krieger was just coming from below deck and waved to the mage.

            “Greetings, Lord Figment. Have the others from your party arrived?”

            “That’s just Figment, please. And I’m not sure. I just got here myself. Have you seen Zandor?”

            “Here, Figment,” a deep voice intoned behind him.

            “I wish you wouldn’t do that!” Figment chided. “You’re as bad as me. So then, are we all here? Oy! What a straight line.”

            The wizard answered, “All, of course, except for Hel and Dallon. It appears we will have to do without them in searching for N’Con.”

            “Well, maybe they weren’t meant to come,” Figment shrugged. “Are we ready to go, Captain?”

            “Aye. That we are.”

            “Well, let’s do it then.”