*****

     The boy lurked about the outskirts of Imperial City.  The hovels, the brothels, the stables of the poor, the decrepid inns, the reeking drunks and the smell of half rotten food brought a wrinkle to his nose.  He wore light boiled leather of dark brown.  His boots were black and showed the wear of a long journey.  His dark brown hair matted greasily under his cloak.  He looked around him at the poverty in this, the Empire's richest city.  He shook his head, thinking he'd rather be dead than live in such squalor.  Then thought no, he'd rather fight for a piece of what was inside.
     From his vantage point in a back alley he looked up past the dregs to the high city walls and the hills of merchants and guildhalls, and palaces and temples.  The absurdity of the moment struck him.  Such a disparity would not be seen with the Tribes of Szo.  He waited patiently for his contact to arrive.  He fidgeted with his sword handle and again checked to make sure he had not lost any of his daggers.
     "Hey you!" a voice yelled.  The boy turned and saw a couple city guards standing before him.  "Have ye got a tongue?  Who are ye?"
     "Just a miller's 'prentice my lord," the boy stammered.
     "A miller's prentice?  Yer a long way from the trade quarter," the second guard scowled.  The guards each wore the black capes of the guard with the magenta griffen on the back.  This was the symbol of the emperor's house.  The second guard licked his lips and tilted his head as he stared at the boy.
     "Tell me boy," the first guard began as he edged forward.  "Ye seem young enough, how old are ye?"  He took off his helmet and scratched his sweaty scalp.
     "I'm only 9," the boy lied, looking very frieghtened.  He began to back away, farther into the alleyway, out of the sight of general foot traffic.
     "Where are ye goin?" the second guard smiled lustily.  "We won't hurt you."
     "Much," the first guard rasped as he unbuckled his belt.
     The boy backed into a corner and fingered the hidden daggers at his sides.  The two guards closed in slowly.  He could smell them clearly now.  The mix of sweat and lust hung off of them like the musk of the great bnak, a large herbivore with a heavy fur coat.
     "Tell me boy, what's yer name?" the first guard smiled.
     "Vicandoran," the boy replied, smiling himself.
     "Wha?" the first guard stopped in his approach.  "What kinda name is that?"
     "Why a tribesman of Szo name," before he completed his sentence Vicandoran leapt at his assailants and drove a dagger into each of their throats.  The men grasped at the gapping, bloody gash in their throats and gurgled their lifesblood away.  "It means 'Stalker of Men."  Vicandoran watched silently as the two men died.  He then looted them for all valuables and cut their eyes out.  He took the cape, which looked the cleanest and pulled it over his own cloak.  He took a helmet from the ground and put it on.  It was slightly too big, but it would do.  He then stripped the men of all clothing and left them buried under garbage.  Vicandoran dumped their clothes into a trash heap and lumbered off toward the southern gate.

     Getting into the city proved more difficult than Vicandoran estimated.  In the waining hours of the afternoon everyone who wished to enter was checked at the Southern Gate.  He had to wait until dusk when the sun set in the southwest and the glare and shadows most aided him.  When a group of city guards approached the gate Vicandoran blended in amongst them and passed under the heavy portculis, over the rough drawbridge and into the outer city.  He quickly ducked away from the guards and dropped the cloak and helmet into a stable.
    The shadows grew long in the city.  The smells and sights reminded him of his last time in heart of the city.  A time when he had yet to achieve his name-hood.  And he remembered when Haradodann finally gave him his name.  The blood was still fresh upon his face from the victory of the camps. The battle was fierce as the lowlander boars faught for their lives and Vicandoran stood there a pocket of ferocious fighting.  Vicandoran remembered that day and the faintest of smiles crept to his mouth, but disappeared shortly thereafter.  The execution of Haradodann sent a shockwave through the united tribes.  The Elder council fled deeper, higher into the Western mountains.  From there his orders had been assigned.  As the 'Slalker of Men' he had been granted skills no other had and the tribes would make the best use of them.
    He stood in a small market area and watched the last of the day's foods being sold.  The inner keep would be formidable, though not impregnable.  Vicandoran began to walk toward the inner city gates.  He vowed he would not fail.  But a nagging thought stopped him in his tracks.  What about after?  How would these pigs respond?  He shook off his apprehension and strode on, determined as ever.

     *****

     Lord Jecend Pemlion sat in his chair, his hands on the table and fingers intertwined.  He quietly waited as Gevend finished his tale of the meeting with Myvar and her cohorts.
     "And Daryan stayed with them?" Pemlion asked, his voice a mere whisper.
     "Yes, but we had little choice.  There were at least thirty of them," Gevend replied quietly.
     "You stupid boy!" Pemlion exploded, jumping to a standing position.  His chair went flying backward, falling onto the floor.  An aide quickly picked the chair up and placed it back on its legs.  "Your brash character and arogance led to this again!  Don't bother to deny it," Pemlion waggled his finger at his oldest son.  "You are my oldest son, but also my oldest sin!  Come to pay me back for my fornicating youth."  Pemlion sat down and scowled a moment.  Gevend was born shortly after his parents wedding, a rushed affair.  Lord Pemlion looked at his son and saw his wife's features reflected there.  The Lady Pemlion, formerly Raelana Goldenstone, had stood at the wedding, her belly extended.  She was known for a long time as the Pregnant Maiden.  Jecend had been set to marry another, but for one drunken mistake, which begot his son, he was forced to marry Raelana.  The marriage did come with a significant perk, the Lord Goldenstone was powerful and had no other heirs.
     "But father," Gevend began.
     "But nothing!" Pemlion's face was red, but his voice quiet again.  The lord was known for his loud wrath and worse, the quiet voice of vengence afterword.  
"Daryan is an able man.  He will leave some trail.  My eyes will find him and those who took him."
     "What should I do now?" Gevend asked.
     "You will learn patience if it has to be beaten into you.  Go wait in your chambers until you are called for.  Do not leave there." Pemlion dismissed his son with a derisive gesture.  Another man appeared at the entrance to Pemlion's audience chamber.  "Ah, Deevian, what news have my eyes brought me?"  Pemlion waved his aide away.
     Deevian entered the room, and took down his cloak to reveal his face.  He had cold light blue eyes surrounded by dark circles of skin below and dark eyebrows above.  He face was shaved except for a goatee of black.  He bowed to Pemlion,
"My Lord."
     "What of Daryan?"
     "No news of him," Deevian replied.  "However, we have received an interesting report.  It appears two city guardsmen were missing for a couple of days and have been found dead, with their eyes cut out."
     "I see," Pemlion chuckled.  "We may have Szo tribesmen in the city.  They and their superstitions are stupid.  Cutting out the eyes of their enemies to prevent them finding the afterlife only alerts us to their presence."
     "It could be someone else masquarading as a tribesman," Deevian offered.
     "Perhaps," Pemlion replied.  "How many people know?"
     "The Emperor, the Lord of Justice surely, and most likely a few others, generals, lords and the like," Deevian answered.
     "Even if it is not a tribesman, perhaps making others believe it is will further advance my plans.  Go spread that seed, and water it well," Pemlion commanded.  Deevian bowed and left quietly.  Pemlion sat alone and smile crept across his mouth.

     The smile disappeared when Travend, Lord Pemlion's youngest son, entered the room.  The youth was barely a man, sixteen years, and all the swagger of a tournament champion, though he had yet to enter a single tourney.  Dispite the show of arrogance, Pemlion looked upon Travend with favour.  The fact that he would have two sons in the high lord's council brought a certain pride.  While Gevend would take the traditional Pemlion lands and titles, Travend would be heir to the Goldenstone lands and titles.  A much more profitable lordship.
     "Father," Travend smiled.  "Is my brother returned?"
     "He has," Pemlion replied.  "And failed."  He regarded his son closely to find any trace of amusement; he found none.  Travend was intensely loyal to his father and brother.  "It is unfortunate.  However,  I have a task for you.  It will not be easy, but it is necessary."
     "The Family's will, I will fulfill," Travend quoted the family motto.
     "You are to be the Lord of Justice's aide."  Pemlion watched his son's facial features turn from surprise to resentment.  "I know you wished to join the Emperor's Griffin Guard.  However, being the Lord of Justice's aide you will be privy to information I might not otherwise know.  Besides, it will bring you closer with..."
     "Myvar!"  Travend gasped.  "You still wish me to marry her?"
     "Of course.  Such a union would certainly further strengthen our power base.  This I ask for the family, my son," Pemlion continued, knowing which nerve to press.
     "As you will father," Travend replied.
     "Good.  Now, remember you are a Pemlion.  Act as such always.  You have a bright future ahead Travend."  Pemlion stood up and walked to his son, embraced him strongly.  "You are to leave on the morrow.  The Lord of Justice will be expecting you."
     "Father?"  Travend frowned.  "What did you offer Lord Nezen in exchange for this position?"
     "Do not worry son," Pemlion replied.  "It is of little significance."

     "Now go and ready yourself.  You have a rather busy day tomorrow," Pemlion advised.  Travend bowed slightly and left his father standing in the middle of the small audience room.  Pemlion smiled and even chuckled to himself.  "What a web."  He strode to the northwest corner of the room and tapped a particular stone twice, then thrice.  The secret passage opened up soundlessly.  Pemlion grabbed a lit torch from his bracket and headed down the spiral staircase.   After several turns of the staircase Pemlion finally hit the bottom floor.  Before him a tunnel stretched off into the darkness.  He reached the end of the tunnel and climbed up a set of wooden stairs.  The trapdoor above opened to a small room, which held a table and a couple of chairs.  Pemlion set the torch in a wall bracket and waited patiently.
     The door opened and a man strode into the room.  He closed the door behind him and sat at the table, facing Pemlion.  He wore fashionable leggings and richly embroidered leather jerkin of high quality.  His blond hair was long, but pulled back into a pony tail.  He smelled of rich cologne.  He smiled elegantly.  "My Lord," he stated.  "What brings you to my humble abode?"
     "Tell me, Jackel, what news?" Pemlion asked with an even tone.  "I have yet to see results and I am wondering..." Pemlion leaned forward, both hands on the table.  "...What it is you are doing for that large sum of gold I gave you."
     "My Lord, these things take time.  You will have what you require I assure you," Jackel replied.
     "I do not want assurances, I want results," Pemlion replied tersely.  He stood up and walked toward the torch, taking it from the bracket.  "Remember, Jackel.  I have something of yours.  Something near and dear to your heart.  If you betray me... well memories can be fond."
     "I know," Jackel replied, the smile gone and in its place a hard look of stone.  "You will get what you want.  But since you are in the warning mood, I shall offer my own.  Harm her, and I will move all my resourses against you."
     "You are like me Jackel, untrusting, and vengeful," Pemlion laughed, but it never reached his eyes.  "I'm sure we'll do just fine."  Pemlion stepped into the hole in the floor, leaving behind his associate.  'One more piece into place,' he thought as the trap door closed above him.  'What a busy day i've had.'

     Soon he found himself back in his small audience chamber.  The secret door closed behind him.  He touched the same stone he did to open the door, triggering a lock.  He felt it best not to take chances with the underworld of the Empire.  Certainly, dealling with a man named Jackel warrented such precautions.  He looked out the long stately windows, which faced the south, and saw the dying glow of the day's sun.  A bell sat on the table and he rang it.  His steward entered shortly thereafter.  "I shall retire to my chambers.  I'll have my meal there."
     "As you wish," the steward bowed and left the room.  
     Pemlion walked to the open staircase and proceeded to climb up to the top most portion of his palacial tower.  His room had windows facing every direction and from this vantage point, some 50 feet above the ground, Pemlion could survey the entire city.  'Soon this view will change considerably,' Pemlion thought to himself.  All his mechinations over the past 30 years were coming together; piece by miserable piece.  The war with the Tribes of Szo helped both complicate and advance his schemes.  A knock came to his door.  "Enter."
    A maid of 16 entered his room with a tray of food.  He motioned to the ornate hardwood table and she set it there quickly.  He walked over after she had left and removed the cover.  The rich aroma of broiled beef and thick spry-spice gravy made his mouth water.  As he ate he wondered how the high lord council meeting would fare on the morrow.  There were 10 at that council, the Emperor, the Lord of Justice, Lord Pemlion, the elderly and decrepid Lord Goldenstone, the wiley and trecherous Lord Gyarasos, who held the most eastern of lands in the Empire, Lord Quaz, Lord Mulrannick, Lord Aonn, Lordess Violana in her crippled husband's stead, a woman of youth and cunning, and Lord Llania.
     Pemlion went to sleep that night, mulling over his strategy for the meeting.  Some would be easy to manipulate, others far less so.  His main concern was the Lord of Justice, who was a man of intense honesty.  'Perhaps Travend could find something about him.  Something that would be the chink in his armour of integrity,' Pemlion hoped and fell asleep.

     *****

     The Lord of Justice, Nezen, watched the city guard in their black capes and mail tear through the Old One worshipers.  There were not many worshipers left in the city.  The few who did remain martyred themselves on the ends of sword points.  The slaughter took no longer than twenty minutes.  At first the Old One Worshipers' chants rose above the mailed stomp of the city guard, but as the slaughter proceeded the chants died with their owners.  Atop his horse Nezen gazed at the blood soaked cobblestone street.  None of the worshipers begged for mercy, none shied from death.  He could understand the Emperor's fears.  Fearless Old One's within the city posed a threat to the city.  However, Nezen could not help but wonder if this cleansing, as the Emperor had termed it, would remove the threat or exacerbate it.  His stomach tightened and told him the latter would prevail.  The Old Ones would retaliate.  'Nothing like righteous indignation to spur the fanatics,' Nezen thought.
     "This appears to be the last of them my lord," a voice interupted Nezen's thoughts.
     "Very well Captain Heglian.  Have the city guard do a second sweep.  Check every grotto and hovel," Nezen ordered.
     "Aye sir," Captain Heglian turned and barked his orders.  The soldiers began their second sweep of the area.
     "Get the city Cadavermen here to clean this up.  We would not want a plague spread through the city."
     "Aye sir," the captain replied.  
     Nezen knew he would have to report to the High Lord Council, and the others would relish ineptitude in him and use it to their advantage.  A thorough report however, would quell their scheming.  Suddenly, a huge whoosh went up behind him.  The Old One Temple caught fire and oil fed flames leapt up to engulf the whole building.  The intense heat forced Nezen to withdraw farther away.  He watched the green-blue oil flames slowly turn yellow-orange as the oil burned away.  He smirked, the temple turned the flames as it turned his daughter.  'Into what?' he wondered.

     An explosion ripped apart the remaining structure of the temple and jerked Nezen from his thoughts.  Debris fell all around him, some in chunks the size of small dogs.  A soldier to his right collapsed, his face a bloody mess from a stone implanted into his skull.  Nezen struggled to maintain control of his mount.  Spectators screamed and fled, trampling each other to get away from the shower of stone.  Nezen looked back at the temple and saw gysers of flame shoot out in all directions. "What did you do Myvar?" Nezen cursed.  
     The fountains of flame touched off neighbouring buildings.  Suddenly, what had been a routine burning turned into a firestorm.  The shouts of warning became  screams of terror.  Nezen knew he had to act quickly or the whole city would become a fire pit.  "Captain!"
     "My Lord!" Captain Heglian yelled.
     "Get every city guardsmen and bucket and get this fire out.  That is your priority!"
     "Aye," Captain Heglian yelled and quickly disappeared in the increasing smoke.
     Nezen watched in horror as another building burst into flames.  A feeling of doom crept up, but he forced it away and dismounted.  City guardsmen drew water from the fountains and began feebly to douse the fire.  Nezen felt control slipping through his fingers.  He had to act now.  "Captain!  Captain!"
     "Aye," Captian yelled, coughing due to the smoke.
     "Split your men into two groups, one to fight the fire, one to knock down a ring of buildings around the fire however you can, horses whatever.  We need to stop fueling it!" Nezen ordered.  Nezen turned and himself began to direct the new comers.  He motioned to the men where they should start pulling down the buildings, it was a good hundred yards from the fire, but Nezen believed the fire would spread quickly.
      Soon the whole area was full of blowing smoke, grunting men, and horses whinnying.  Hours passed and finally, the smoke began to clear away as the evening winds picked up.  The fire began to diminish, but around lay a ring of debris from torn down houses.  Nezen surveyed the damage and shook his head.  A considerable number of buildings had been destroyed.  It would take days to tally the damage and the dead, but the city was safe.  
     "My Lord," Captain Heglian called.  His cape burned away and his face blistered from the intense heat.  "I believe we've stopped the fire."
     "Yes," Nezen coughed, his own clothes dirty and torn from the toil of destruction.  "Account for every man.  I shall see to recognition for their efforts this day."  Heglian nodded and turned away.  Nezen desided he had best get some rest.   The High Lord's Council will be worse now.
     The sun peeked over the east and brought light to the tangled, charred mess.  Nezen sighed.  They had fought the whole night through.  There would be no rest for him.

     He searched a while for his horse and found it had run off.  No doubt he would find it in, or near, his stables.  Wearily, Nezen walked off leaving the cleanup to the Cadavermen and the city guard.  He would investigate the flame geysers himself later.  He pushed through the throngs of gawkers and made his way slowly to his residence.  There would be just enough time to wash and don clean clothing before the High Lord's Council.
     Finally, he made it to the entrance of the Lord of Justice's palace.  The two guardsmen looked at him, but let him pass without word, opening the large front doors to the inner courtyard.  His bath in his chambers was short and cold.  He grabbed some food on the way to his stable and wolfed down the cold meat and day old bread almost without chewing.  The stable hand brought his fresh mount and Nezen mounted it.  "Look for 'Victory' my red-brown stallion.  He was last in the Old One Quarter."  The stable hand nodded and rushed off.
     The guards opened the doors and he trotted under the front gatehouse.  He stopped there and waited a moment.  Nezen glanced around, saw nothing of particular interest, and began toward the Emperor's Palace.   A young man, a boy really, watched him ride by, Nezen glanced at him, but continued.  The day promised to be hot, and that would do little to help Nezen remain alert.
     When Nezen reached the Emperor's private audience chamber he was the last of the Council to arrive.  All eyes turned to him as he strode in and took his place to the immidiate right of the Emperor.
     "Ah, my Lord of Justice," the Emperor smiled.  "Tell us of the night's glory."
     "20 dead civilians..." Nezen paused, "Old One worshipers dead and at least 6 square blocks of buildings razed."
     "Wonderful.  That should drive the Old Ones out of reach," the Emperor spoke gleefully.
     "My Lord of Justice," Lord Pemlion spoke out.  "I have heard the Old Ones left the temple a trap.  Some spell or black magick was left to incinerate the city.  What say you?"
     Nezen regarded Pemlion a moment.  The man appeared concerned, but Nezen knew it was laying the seeds of doubt and fear.  "I have not inspected the temple wreckage.  As such I would hesitate to venture an answer as it would only be speculation at this point."
     "What of these Szo Tribesmen that are infiltrating the city?" Lordess Violana snapped.  "If our own city guard can't protect themselves what are we do to?  Have all of our armies camped within the city?"
     Nezen glanced at Pemlion and saw nothing but a blank stare.  'He covers himself well,' Nezen thought.  "I have heard of that report.  Other than the missing eyes there is nothing to suggest our city is in peril.  But," Nezen continued, trying to calm and reassure the council.   "We shall be extra vigilant."

     “That is good to hear,” Lord Gyarasos purred, in his eastern accented voice.  His black hair greased back upon his head almost shimmered in the torchlight.  He was a shorter man, but all muscle.  His black eyes constantly shifted about the room and people.  “I should hate to think the Imperial city unsafe.”
     “Gyarasos,” the Emperor chortled.  “There is no place safer, especially if you are in my good graces.”  The threat implied was caught by all.  The Emperor had to keep Gyarasos on a tight leash.  There were always rumours of Gyarasos scheming with the Eastern Hordes as the Empire referred to the peoples east of the great desert.  “My Lord of Justice how long until we hear answers to the temple incident?”
      “Perhaps a week or two.  I will employ the professors from the University for their knowledge of fires and combustion,” Nezen replied.
     “The crystal seers in the magick quarter might offer you some help,” quipped Lord Mulrannick.  “They may also throw in a palm reading.”  The others laughed at his joke, Nezen did not.
     “My Emperor I wish to draw attention to the last vestiges of Szo power,” Lord Quaz stated.  “There are still raids on my lands.  I wish them stopped and request for further aid.”  Quaz was tall and lean and could have been mistaken for the Szo tribesman, if had donned a mask of war paint.  His lands stood adjacent to the western mountains, and therefore closest to the Szo.
     “I wonder my lord Quaz if you do not instigate the situation,” Lord Llania replied.  His lands were far to the north and not in any danger.  He was of average height, with shock blond hair and blue eyes.  “You’ve the most to gain now that this war is over.”
     “I resent that!” Quaz snapped.  “I have the most to lose.  Onto whose lap will it fall to subjugate the Szo?  You?  I think not.  It will be my men to stand and die for the Empire.”
     “For which the Empire will be most grateful.  Your loyalty is most inspiring,” the Emperor joined in.  Llania smile.  
     “I also wish to draw attention to…” Quaz began again.
     “Is your hand sore?” Lord Mulrannick asked with a grin.  Quaz frowned, confused.  “You do a lot of drawing.”  The others laughed.
     “Your lands are to the south Mulrannick by the southern ocean and a prey to no one.  Your flippant remarks do no service here!” Quaz barked.
     “Calm my Lord,” the Emperor smiled.  “A friendly jest was all Lord Mulrannick intended I’m sure.”
     “Of course,” Mulrannick tried to look innocent.
     “Excuse me,” the elderly Lord Goldenstone coughed.  His lands lay just to the north of Imperial City.  “I believe we have one important piece of business yet to attend.  The taxes.”  Mulrannick groaned and the others tried to get comfortable in their seats.  Lord Goldenstone opened a large leather bound book and slowly flipped through the pages, licking his left forefinger each time.  He was the keeper of the treasury and so it fell to him to keep the Empire’s finances in order.
     “How do we fair my Lord?” the Emperor asked.
     “To date…” Goldenstone began and then paused as he flipped a couple more pages.  “All lords have paid this year’s tax levy, save one.  Lord Aonn.”  All eyes turned to the quiet lord.  His lands abutted Mulrannick’s in the south and Quaz in the west.
     “I could have sworn that payment has been made,” Lord Aonn replied.  “If it has not I will flog my treasurer within an inch of his life.”
     “Payment has not been made,” Goldenstone replied matter-of-factly.
     “This oversight shall be corrected at once,” Aonn back peddled.
     “See that it does,” the Emperor said behind his steepled fingers.  “Now, are there any other items of interest?”

     “This Old One move,” Lord Llania began after a pause.  “There could be reprisals and not just from any straggling groups of Szo tribesmen.  Within my lands there are many who, if not follow, than certainly have leanings toward the Old One.  And those are the ones I know of.  My concern is how many Old One worshipers are there in our lands of which we know nothing?”
     “Exactly the reason I moved now,” the Emperor replied.  “My Lord Llania, the Old One’s could have been a plague upon us.  But steps have been taken.  The Lord of Justice will courier the details to each of your castellans to follow.”  The Emperor stood up and everyone followed suit.  “I will not have my Empire subverted from within.  Now Gentlemen and Lady, I call this meeting to a close.”  The Emperor bowed slightly and left the room.  The others followed, leaving Lord Nezen and Lord Llania.
     “My Lord,” Llania said as he strode around the table to where Nezen had again seated himself.  “I believe,” his voice lowered to a whisper.  “This cleansing is a mistake.  This will cause more bloodshed than it will stop.”
     “The Emperor’s will must be followed,” Nezen replied without any sincerity.  “What would you have me do?”
     “Something.  Anything,” Llania continued.  “If the trouble comes, and I believe it will, next year’s tax levy will be much reduced.  The lords will have to buy more soldiers and knights.”  Nezen said nothing.  “Mark my words, this will not be the last.  As for me, I will return north and begin preparations for this new war.”
     “Be careful,” Nezen advised as he stood up.  “We are standing on the precipice, one misstep and the Empire may fall.”  Llania nodded and left the room.  Nezen slowly walked out of the room.  He walked past a young man standing on the far side of the hall, but paid him no attention.
     “Excuse me, Lord of Justice sir,” the young man said.  “I am your new steward.”
     “You must be Travend Pemlion,” Nezen spoke as he turned back to view the young man.  “Yes, your father asked that I should take you under my arm.  You’ve a strong sword arm I see, but have you been practicing with it all your life, or have you exercised your brain as well?”
     “I am a quick study my Lord,” Travend replied.
     “I am sure you are.  Come along then.  No time like the present to get your feet wet,” Nezen motioned for Travend to come.
     “May I ask you a question?” Travend asked as he fell into step beside Nezen.  Nezen motioned to signal yes.  “What did my father give you to accept me as your steward?”  Nezen stopped.
     “He has not told you?” Nezen asked and Travend shook his head.  “Then it is not my place to say anything.  Come we’ve much work ahead and little time to accomplish it.”

     “Your first task is to go to the University and summon any academic who may have a clue about combustion, explosives, and fire.  Is that understood?” Nezen asked.  Travend nodded quickly.  “Good.  Bring them to the site of the Temple as soon as possible.”
     “Aye my Lord,” Travend rushed off and disappeared down another corridor.  Nezen continued his way to the Imperial Stables, where he had housed his horse.  Once mounted he set his horse to a brisk and made for the ruins of the temple.  He soon reached the ring of city guards he left to protect the site from looters.  He dismounted and handed the reins over to guardsman.  The smell of burnt flesh still hung heavy in the air.  A few buildings here and there still smouldered and smoke burned his eyes.  Nezen stepped past the guards and looked upon the rubble.
     The temple had stood a good 60 feet high and had reminded him of a giant turret.  His men had measured the base finding the diameter was 60 feet as well.  He walked over blackened chucks of the wall.  He saw nothing but rubble.  Certainly, nothing that could account for the fire.  He found the remains of a marble support column, which had cracked and splintered in the extreme heat.  He walked around and counted 59 others.  “What does the number 60 signify?” Nezen asked himself aloud.  He wondered how the temple looked from the inside and then cursed himself.  All the Old One worshipers in the city had either left or been killed and therefore he could not tap into their knowledge of the temple structure, or what trap they had left behind.
     Nezen sifted through some debris with his boot.  It still felt warm.  It was not going to be easy to find anything left of value, but he had to try.  A flash in the sunlight caught his eye.  He walked over to it and quickly tapped it with his finger, checking if it was still hot.  The object felt cold.  Puzzled, Nezen picked it up.  It was metal.  He looked at its dark green surface and saw the symbol for the Old One; a single hand in which stood a figure of a person.
     “My my my,” a voice came from behind Nezen and he turned to look at its owner.  “The heat must have reached more than 4000 units to crack that kind of marble.  Amazing.”  The professor stepped lightly around the rubble, looking at everything with an eagerness Nezen did not share.  “Oh I’m sorry, I’m Professor Mim.  You’ve perhaps heard of me?”  Nezen shook his head.  “Perhaps not.  Be that as it may, I believe I can tell you want happened here.  Or at least what caused the tower to burn so hotly.  Some tests will be necessary though.”
     “Where are the others?” Nezen asked slightly impatiently.
     "Oh, they are busy,” Mim brushed his silk robes nervously.  “But, none can match my knowledge.  Fire is not only my profession but my, hobby, shall we say, as well.”
     “Do what you must, but stay out of my way,” Nezen grumbled.  He looked at Travend who shrugged his shoulders.  Nezen walked away from the muttering professor and continued his search, for what though he could not say.

                                                     *****
     Myvar watched Daryan stare into the fire.  The scar on his face seemed to dance and glow from the flickering flames.  His chin and cheeks held three days stubble and grime from their escape from Imperial City.  He sat there with only his boiled leather clothing, no weapons or money.  Daryan had surrendered his sword almost immediately after Gevend left.  The odds were not in his favour and a smart soldier picks his battles.  Since then he had said little, but constantly looked around as if he were remembering their path of travel.  “Do you know where you are?” Myvar asked, curious if he had paid well enough attention.
     Daryan looked up from the flames and stared at Myvar a few moments.  “By my reckoning we are a good 30 leagues north of Imperial City.  Taking the long route home are we?”
     “Perhaps,” Myvar replied sheepishly, Daryan was not far from wrong, but not overly correct either.  They were 35 leagues northwest of Imperial City.  Travelling by night did reduce one’s ability to remember the path travelled, especially when one wasn’t told of the destination.
     “When do we turn west?” Daryan asked.
     “When we are ready,” Myvar replied.  “We have a stop to make first.”
     “Why do you need me?” Daryan asked, flatly.
     “In good time sir.  But first, what do you remember of the Battle of Nor’ Ajan’s falls?”  Myvar asked.
     “Battle of the ‘Giant’s Fountain?’” Daryan translated the name of the falls into the common tongue.  “Is that what this is about?  When we smashed the Szo army and took Haradodann captive?”
     “You personally smashed the army by taking Haradodann.  On the surface of the water it was quite a feat,” Myvar replied.
     “What do you mean ‘on the surface of the water’?” Daryan turned to face Myvar fully.
     “It’s a water-seer saying.  The water may look calm from above, but under, it could be a torrent.”  She paused a moment and broke a chunk of cheese from a wheel.  She handed a piece to Daryan who took it and ate it.  “Haradodann let you capture him.”
     “What?!” Daryan jumped up, shocked at that piece of information.
     “Sit down Daryan and don’t look so surprised.  Haradodann knew it was only a matter of time before the Empire’s sheer numbers flooded his mountains.  All of the Elders knew it to.  He sacrificed himself to save his people.  But, unfortunately there are always a few zealots in any group and so here we sit, outlawed by your dear Angel faced Emperor.”  Myvar opened a sack and pulled out a loaf of bread.  She split it and shared it with Daryan.
     “And why do you need me?” Daryan asked again.
     “You are a powerful man Daryan.  You hold much influence.  You led Pemlion’s centre forces in that battle.  Even the Emperor rewarded you with title and land.  Are you not a minor Lord now, a Baron?”  Myvar did not wait for Daryan to answer. “You are an important man in the Empire.”
     “What do you want of me?” Daryan began to lose his patience.
     “To see.”

     “You wretched wizards always speak in riddles!” Daryan grunted.  “Either get to the point or kill me.”
     “Haradodann was right,” Myvar smiled as if she had a secret known only to her.  “He said you are impatient and would lead the first charge into Haradodann’s ranks.  He needed you to be the one who captured him.”  Daryon slumped down upon the ground and rolled onto his side as if to go to sleep.  “Singers sing of your deed,” Myvar continued, knowing Daryan still listened to her words.  “Young lords and knights wish to follow your footsteps.  But, more than that, you have honour, which is something in short supply these days.”
     “Are you going to talk me to death?” Daryan growled.  The first of the morning sun’s rays shot out like fingers from the east. “I’m old and need a good days rest for all this mystery night marching.”
     “Haradodann needed someone of valour to see our plight,” Myvar replied.  “And, to act on it.”
     “I care not for your tribesmen.”
     “I said our plight, Szo and Empire alike.  There is a doom coming out of the west that will threaten everything we hold dear.”
     “I heard this one, my wet nurse told it to me oftentimes.  Demons and great beasts of fire will come to crush the Empire if I didn’t go to bed straight away.  Well I never did go to bed right away and the Empire still stands.  It will stand long after I have rotted to nothing,” Daryan spat.
     “Where are you from Daryan?” Myvar asked.
     “What’s that to you?” Daryan rolled back to look at Myvar.
     “Egar Daryan.  Not a common name for the Empire is it?” Myvar replied.
     “My mother was from the east and died shortly after arriving here.  I rose serving Lord Pemlion’s father and him after.  I am of the Empire,” Daryan spat.
     “Darijann is your Szo name; your true name.  Daryan is just the Imperialized form.  Darijann means Keeper.  You remember none of this?”  Myvar paused a moment.  “You were perhaps one of the youngest tribesmen to get a name.  You could gather the goats and sheep together with but a whisper by the time you were three.”
     “What mockery is this?” Daryan stood up, his hands balled into fists.  Other Old One worshipers stood as well, sensing the increase in tension.  Myvar waved them away.  “Do not presume to tell me who I am!”
     “It is not I, but Haradodann.  He knew who you really are.  He knew what blood courses through your veins.  And he knew…”  She drifted off as another Old One worshiper came forward.  He was old and decrepit, with cloudy eyes and a severely hunched back.  He wore a simple dark green robe and sandals.  “Elder.”
     “It is not for you to divulge this information,” the Elder’s voice cracked with age.  “He will feel more with his soul when he sees than he will with your words.”
     “I’m sorry Elder.  Sometimes I…”
     “I know child,” the Elder cut her off, not unkindly.  He turned and looked Daryan in the eye.  “Best relax Keeper we’ve a ways to go yet.”

     Daryan grunted.  He sat down, grabbed a stick and began poking the dying embers.  Myvar sat down beside him and watched him.  “Am I that interesting,” Daryan said, referring to Myvar’s staring.
     “The child means no offence,” the Elder replied.  He sat down on the opposite side of the fire.  The three were silent for a while before the Elder spoke.  “That story of yours, the Demons and Fire Beasts, is not a story told in the central part of the Empire.  It is, however often taught in the White Mountains.”
     “Do I wear bells on my feet?  Do you hear me telling jokes and summersaulting around?  I kindly ask you not to take me for a fool,” Daryan replied rather brusquely.
     “Perhaps your wet nurse new a version of it,” the Elder answered.  “What is your earliest memory?”
     Daryan yawned loudly, “I am done talking.  Good day old man.”  He laid down upon the ground and closed his eyes.
     Myvar got up and helped the Elder to stand.  “He will not listen,” she whispered.  She frowned and glanced back at the unmoving Daryan.  “This may have been a mistake.”
     “No my child,” the Elder replied.  “Have patience, the Old One will light our way.  Come we should continue your training we have grown lax of late.”  The Elder took her arm and they walked to a small clearing away from the others.  It took a little while to find suitable privacy for their group had 125 people.  “Here is good.  Here,” he pulled a bowl from one of his sleeves.  “Fill this in the spring just yonder.”
     “What spring?” Myvar asked.
     “Just walk straight that way,” the Elder pointed, with a knowing smile.  Myvar took the bowl and strode through underbrush and after a few strides came upon a small bubbling spring.  She filled the bowl and returned to the Elder, being careful not to spill any water.  “Good.  Now set it down and assume the posture.”  Myvar set the bowl on the ground and sat cross-legged in front of it.  She rested her elbows on her knees.  She held her hands straight with her fingertips lightly touching each temple.  “Now look to the centre of the water; neither the top, nor the bottom,” the Elder coached as he had previously before.  “Draw your breath slowly through your nose, hold, and release through your mouth.  Now, what do you see?  Remember everything, for the smallest of details may make the greatest of difference.”
     Myvar sat dead still and stared into the bowl.  Shapes twisted and swirled as if made up of milky silt and sand in the bowl.  She concentrated on every image.  Perspiration gathered on her upper lip and where her fingers touched her head.  Suddenly, the colour changed to deep red.  Myvar’s eyes opened wide and she let out a shriek of terror.  She fell back and trembled, sobbing uncontrollably.  “It’s… it’s…”
     “Child,” the Elder rushed forward as quickly as his old legs could carry him.  Others arrived as well, even Daryan.  “Child what did you see?”
     “It’s… coming,” and she passed out.