The executioner's axe fell in one fluid motion.  A hush spread across the mass of people.  Young children crept amongst the legs of their elders, searching for the smallest of glimpses of the Step of Justice.  Old men, scarce able to see, reclined on wooden chairs, listening for the tell-tale sound of a severed head landing on the cobbled ground.  The nobility, in all their finery, stood above the rable, though just as eager to hear the proclaimation.  All stood as one and watched the Lord of Justice stride toward the body of the slain.  The executioner stood silent, masked, and calm.  
     The Lord of Justice scanned the crowd, looking for nothing in particular.  He flung his black cloak back, showing his impressive red mailed shirt and golden belt.  The pagentry of the moment accepted by all.  He knelt down and paused a moment to look into the sightless eyes of the corpsehead.  His red gauntleted hand reached down and grasped a clump of oily black hair.  He stood, with his arm outstretched and looked about him again, this time with a scowl only those who stood to judge others could wear.  He raised his arm high, blood dripped down the guantlet
     "Into the Dark, a traitor's life must go," he bellowed.  "For the Empire, For our People, a man's life has been given, a man's life has been taken."  He turned quickly and flung the head over the eastern wall to fall hundreds of feet into the sea.  As if on cue the crowd burst into cheering and dancing.  Haradodann was the last of the rebel chiefs to be taken.  In one fell swoop of an axe the war had ended.  Music burst from the crowd.  The high lilt of the reed flute and the rhythmic struming of stringed werrl sent the crowd's cheering ever higher.
     The Lord of Justice shook his head at the spectacle about him.  A lone island of sanity in a violent sea crazed blood lust.  He turned to the executioner, "See to it the body is buried in secret.  I'll not have the corpse desecrated like the last time."  The executioner merely noded and set off to work.  
    "Well done, Lord Nezen," someone called.  He turned to look upon a toothless begger.  Nezen scowled and strode off quickly.
     Myvar watched him go and closed her eyes.  She knew the pain Lord Nezen, the Lord of Justice, felt and she knew the elation the crowd exuded.  It felt odd to her to feel both sides of emotion at the same time.  The Cult of the Old One taught her well.  She opened her eyes and peered around.  The crowd seethed with a hungry pulse.  'This one death will not quell this hunger,' she thought.  A tremour of unease swept through her stomach.  She did not know what it meant, but she knew the days ahead would be bleak indeed.

  It was four months earlier when Myvar first met Haradodann.  She was a different person.  A lot had happened between then and now, and she knew a lot was yet to come.
  Four months ago she had been visiting the grave of her cousin, Nolwan, who had been lost in battle with the rebel chiefs.  While kneeling at Nolwan's marker, she heard voices coming over a nearby hill.  She had thought she was alone, so the sounds of other people quite surprised her.  Curious, she crept up the hill and along a row of trees till she could spot the source of the noise.  Myvar counted three men digging in the earth.
  "Quickly now," urged the tallest of the the strange men.  They were dressed in attire matching neither peasants nor nobility.  Having never left the city before, Myvar could not identify the origin of their garments, but she was sure her father, The Lord of Justice, would know them.
  "I'm digging as fast as I can," grumbled the stout figure.  As they dug, Myvar inched closer to see better.  The tallest man had unkempt black hair, broad shoulders, and powerful arms.  He had an alertness about him that the other two did not share.
  The stout one also had broad shoulders, but his hair was thin and tied back in a tail.  Although not as well built as his tall companion, he did not appear to lag in the digging.
  Lastly was a teenage boy.  His shovel worked twice as fast as the others, but half as effectively.  His sandy blonde hair was long and kept much of his face hidden.  Myvar found her attention repeatedly returning to the tall man.
  "There!" grunted the tall one as he tossed his shovel aside.  "Quick, Lovarr, help me pull him out," he commanded.
  "Blasted Imperials," growled the stout man, apparently called Lovarr.  "Wish they would burn their dead like civilized people.  Chief Vodd deserves better."
  While dragging a headless corpse from the ground, the tallest responded, "They do it to keep our souls trapped in the earth."
  "Why do they bury their own people then, Haradodann?" asked the boy.
  "I don't know," Haradodann replied.  "Perhaps they worship the ground gods.  The Old One can tell us when we return."
  As the three men began to wrap their prize in empty grain sacks, Myvar fretted over what to do.  Here she was, alone in the cemetary with three members of their sworn enemy, the Hill Tribes of Szo.  She could run and hopefully find a city guard before the men escaped, or follow them.
  Myvar glanced back towards the grave marker of her cousin.  Determination set in.  She would find out where and how these men were sneaking into the city, and hoped an opportunity to expose them would present itself.

     Haradodann and Lovarr lifted the body with a graceful ease, showing reverence for their fallen comrade.  
     "Boy," Haradodann snapped, when he noticed the young lad watching them.  "Best keep your eyes to our surroundings.  If we be caught in this stone city we'll grow a might shorter."  That seemed to spur the young boy into action.  He crept off in front of them with a short sword for protection.  It's blade covered in mud to reflect no flash of moonlight.
     Myvar could feel her stomach tighten as she crept after them.  Fear and excitment mingled, making her feel like wretching and laughing at the same time.  She watched as the three intruders stole across the cemetary and reach the eastern wall.  Haradodann motioned and Lovarr and the boy jumped to the top of the wall and lifted the body to them.  In an instant, the two were gone.  Haradodann went to jump up, but then suddenly turned around to peer back.  Myvar could have screamed for it felt as though he looked right at her.  But, slowly her turned back to the wall, and with cat-like skill he lept up and pulled himself over the wall.
   Myvar rushed to where they had been.  She stopped breathing to better listen to what they were doing, but heard nothing.  When would it be safe to follow, she wondered.  Panic gripped her then.  Caught between following and her own safety Myvar fretted over her next move.  She stepped back and forth, hands shaking and looking around for someone to tell her what to do.  There was no one else.  She slumped against the wall and felt like crying.  "Pull yourself together," she whispered harshly to herself.  With an effort, she pushed herself off the wall and looked at it.  She took a deep breath and planted her foot to jump up.  She stepped on something, which threw her off balance and she almost fell to the ground.  Myvar knelt and felt around in the darkness and retrieved what she had stepped upon.
     It was metal, that much she could tell right away.  But it was warm, so one of the intruders had dropped it.  Most likely it fell when they jumped up.  She held it up so the moon light could fall upon and reveal it more.  She flecked mud off and turned it over, unable to define it.  After a few moments, she cursed herself.  The others were getting away.  She put the item into her pocket and climbed up the wall.  On the other side she was greeted with silence.  Fear of a different kind rooted itself, fear of failure.  She quickly looked around and took the most probably avenue of escape; one that lead away from more populated areas of the city.  She clenched her fists and set off.

     The gloom of early morning still hung over the city as Myvar ran down deserted back alleys.  Soon she heard grunts and shuffling of feet.  She stopped before turning a corner and peered around it.  The moon shown down lighting the way ahead in a soft pale colour.  Her heart beat faster as she saw the three wild men and their load scuffled down another alley.  She was about to step around, when Haradodann stuck his head out.  She ducked back and held her breath.  She was sure he looked the other way first and so gave her enough time to duck out of sight.  
     It was minutes before she could bring the courage to look again.  Nothing.  She rushed to the second alley and waited, listening.  Again nothing.  The alley was narrow and dark.  The buildings around it seemed to suck up all light.  She stepped into the darkness and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust.  This was not going to be easy.  She stumbled forward, her hands reaching out could touch both sides.  The rough wooden walls helped with her balance in the blackness.  The sound of her footfalls echoed off the walls.  Myvar felt certain everyone in the city knew where she was.
     She kicked something and fell.  She managed to stifle a scream and gropped into her pocket.  The metal object had dug itself into her hip.  She could feel the warm trickle of blood seeping from the wound.  The wound was only minor, but it hurt far more than she would have liked.  She got up again and began her walk, when suddenly a door open and flooded yellow torch light into the alley.  Blinded, Myvar staggered and would have fallen except for the two pairs of hands that dragged her out of the alley.  She opened her mouth to scream, but a hairy hand covered it and muted any noise from her throat.
     The door closed behind her with a thud and Myvar felt doom creep up from her bowels.  She panicked and began to thrash wildly.  The hands held her firm, and moved her only to dump her onto the stone flooring.  Finally, her she opened her eyes and the bright blurs around her took shape.  Haradodann loomed before her.  His eyes a cold blue.
     "I had almost given up hope that you would arrive," his voice deep.  "Now we can go."

     "Do you know who I am?" Myvar found her voice.
     "You are the daughter of justice," Haradodann replied.  "You are meant to come with us."
     "'You shall seek one, and return with two.  Events will flow, you cannot undo.'  That is what the wise mother said," Lovarr eyes shone with the brilliance of faith.
     "I won't go with you," Myvar found the courage to look Haradodann in the eyes.  "I will..." Darkness.
     Strange visions paraded themselves in her mind.  Blurs and half seen events.  Motions and bumps.  Finally, she came to and found a rather large welt on the left side of her face.  Lovarr apparently had finished discussing the matter and struck her.  It hurt as she gingerly fingered the tender area.  She bit her lower lip to stop from crying.  She was the daughter of the Lord of Justice after all.  She was made of sterner stuff than these savages.  Suddenly, she felt eyes upon her.  Haradodann tossed her a hard piece of bread and a fatty chuck of some kind of meat.
     "You'd best eat.  We have a long way to go."  Myvar devoured them, almost without chewing.  "I've never seen a lowlander eat like that before.  I'm surprised you didn't ask for cutlery."  Lovarr and the boy laughed as they packed up their belongings into a small wagon.  Myvar could hear the buzz of the bloodflies around Vodd's body.
     "You won't get very far," Myvar blurted, keeping note where Lovarr stood.  "It is a long way to your western mountain strongholds and the roads will be searched."
     "If we were heading west, then yes, I would agree.  But we are heading south," Haradodann replied.
     "No," Myvar's eyes opened wide in fear.  "You take me to the slaver port!"  This time she did cry, fear overwhelming her.
     "You lowlanders do not understand us at all.  When we war amongst ourselves and a warrior from another tribe is captured, we do not sell him as property.  He is given a choice.  Join us or die.  If the former, our numbers swell, if the latter, we offer him a feast and he is killed with honour.  His body burned so he may be with the old one."  Haradodann opened his mouth as if to say more, but thought against it.
     "How is it you can speak as educated as you do?" Myvar asked.  The other two barely spoke at all and if they did it was in their own tongue.  Why did they speak the common tongue in the grave yard?  She had so many questions, but fear of Lovarr's fist kept them in check.
     "I was educated amongst your kind.  My father sought peace between our peoples.  But no peace can come of ignorance.  So he sent me.  It was a hard ten years, but when done I returned home.  My report did not give him the peace he wanted.  You lowlanders will push us up to the spines of the white mountains and see us die, even though we..."  Haradodann shook his head.  "You'd best rest.  Our destination lies many, many leagues.  I would not see you dead before we get there," he spat the last words out.

     For several days Myvar kept silent, watching and learning about her captors as they kept on a southerly course.  Lovarr favoured his right leg, and whenever anyone happened to cross their path he would always have is hand on the hilt of his sword.  His eyes gave way his suspicious nature.  Of Haradodann Myvar was less sure.  His beard grew longer and thick with each passing day.  He caught her looking at him several times, and merely nodded at her.  Nothing escaped his notice, or so it seemed.  The boy, she still did not know his name and Haradodann and Lovarr never used anything other than 'boy' to address him, was curious about everything, gawking and staring at anything that drew his attention.
     "This is the first time teh boy has left his home isn't it?" Myvar asked Haradodann.
     "Yes this is true."
     "Why do you call him 'boy'?  Surely, he has a name?" Myvar asked.
     Haradodann regarded her for a moment before answering.  "He is my sister's boy and does not yet have a name.  He hasn't earned it yet."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Our ways seem odd to you, as yours do us.  Before a person can be named, be they male or female, they must have done something exceptional to earn it.  Some people get a name late in life like Lovarr's brother Jacanadir.  His name mans 'father of ten sons.  He was 46 when he was so named.  Some people never get a name.  They are called 'man,' or 'woman' for the rest of their days.  They are called the undistiguished and my sister fears her youngest son will be called so.  She begged me more than any brother could bare to take him with us."  Haradodann explained.  "So he is here now.  And still has yet to distiguish himself.  He is new to this world, and determined and hopefully those two parts will not bake together his death."
     "What deed did you perform to get 'Haradodann?'" Myvar asked.
     "I killed a giant boar with only a dagger," Haradodann replied matter-of-factly.  "My name mean's 'Boar's Bane' in your tongue."  Haradodann regarded Myvar closely as if looking for a sparkle of recognition.  
     "Stupid girl," Lovarr spat, his voice thickly accented.  "Haradodann only eight at the time."  He waited a moment and shook his head.  "We call you lowlander's 'boars.'  You smell like boar, are greedy like boar and even look like boar."
     "Does that mean," Myvar looked back to Haradodann with newly found eyes.
     "Yes," Haradodann replied.  "I am the one who has united the tribes.  I am the one they follow.  Lovarr here is chieftain of his own powerful tribe, the Moon tribe.  His name means 'Heart' for he is fierce in battle and cuts out the hearts of his fallen enemies.  Many a lowlander has found his chest ripped open."  Myvar looked to Lovarr and the man smiled and his eyes blazed.
     "Where are you taking me?" Myvar asked.
     "Thirteen days it has taken you to ask that question," Haradodann replied.  "Are all you lowlander's this timmid?  No, of course not.  We are taking you to the Reigna Odargh.  The spring of life, where all the tribes emerged eons past.  The old one has asked for you.  And we follow the old one's wishes."

     "Hey, what have we here?" The man's voice pulled Myvar back from her reverie.  She stood again at the Step of Justice.  Except now the crowds were gone.  She could not tell how long she stood there in her memories, but being brought back in the now was always disorienting.  "Have you got a tongue?"
     Myvar regarded the man before her.  He wore old boiled leather and a black hooded cloak.  His boots had holes in them and his leggings looked ready to split.  His dagger however, looked clean and sharp.  "I do have a tongue, and it is quite sharp."  She threw back her grey-green cloak, revealing the dark green mail beneath.  Her light green short sword sung sweetly as she drew it forth from its scabbard.  "Would you like to converse, or would you rather flee?"
     The man slowly backed away and then turned and fled.  Myvar watched him disappear into the shadows and then strode over to the precipice.  The waves of the great eastern sea crashed mightily against the rocks below.  From this distance above the waves could scarce be heard.  Myvar looked down.  Haradodann's head tumbled in the waves below somewhere, food for the fish.
    A lot had happened since Haradodann first entered her life.  She took a deep breath and sheathed her sword.  She had tried in vain to get her father to release Haradodann.  Even though her words were true, and she had convinced her father of them, he could not deny his duty.  As loath as he was, Lord Nezen did as he was ordered and a great man had died needlessly.  Myvar turned on her heal and strode away.

     "She follows the old one," the man said.
     "Yes she does.  You're lucky she didn't gut you like a pig right then and there," the other replied.  "You take too many risks."
     "Ha!  You only live once," the man chuckled.
     "As you say my lord, but it is I who would have to explain to your lord father how his son was killed," the other snorted again.
     "Death comes to us all, Daryan.  And a good many it will embrace before we're through."

  Lord Nezen looked up from his plate of chicken and set down the greasy leg he had been holding.  "Daughter," he acknowledged as she entered the dining area.  Myvar strode confidently to the opposite end of the table and sat.  The table was too large for just the two of them, but on such a solemn occasion, the Lord of Justice did not feel like hosting company.
  "Father," Myvar returned coolly.
  A servant rushed in and placed an elegantly filled plate before Myvar and scurried away to fetch her a goblet of mulled wine.  Not a word was said before the servant had presented the beverage and fled in silence.
  Nezen had not taken his eyes off his daughter.  She was a new woman.  Stronger, more confident, and with an edge of danger.  He did not favour how she gained this inner strength, but he could not deny it was more fitting than her character just half a year ago.  The one thing he could not stand though, was her wearing the Old One's colours.  She his daughter, the House of Gutrin, First to the Emperor.  Brandishing arms of the sworn enemy was intolerable.
  Luckily the masses figured it for an affront to the rebel clans, not the empire.
  "You should not be wearing such colours," he growled.
  "You should not be supporting a villian," Myvar replied.
  Nezen swept his plate off the table in anger.  "Saints take you, woman!  You are in no position to preach to me!"
  Myvar dabbed her mouth with a napkin.  The gesture was an eloquent ghost of who she was.  She slammed it into the wood of the table with a concealed knife.  A statement of who she had become.  "Look to thine own moral compass.  Blame not your actions upon me."
  "You dare quote that heretic to me!" shouted Nezen.
  Myvar snapped ferociously.  "Perhaps you'd prefer someone closer to home.  There is no more vile treachery than a dog refusing its master."  The Emperor had used that line to describe the rebels' stubbornness to yield to his authority.  Only at the moment, it more appropriately fit her father's lack of will to stand against the will of the Emperor.
  Lord Nezen's eyes widened at the verbal assault.  He sat down, stunned.  "Leave me," he muttered and looked down to regard his hands.  Before the people, he stood proud and carried his authority in his posture.  Now, at his table, his own conscience coupled with his daughter's fire, had broken him down.  Myvar stared.  Part of her wanted to console her father.  Part of her wanted to hurt him more.  Instead she did as he requested and left the room.

     Nezen sat at the table, unmoving, for a long time.  He did not even notice his servant clearing the table so deep was he in thought.  He knew in his heart Myvar was correct.  The tribal clans and their mountainous realm had never truly been a part of the Empire, but that did not stop the emperor from annexing those lands and making all who reside there his subjects, willing or no.  The 'Righteous Decree' started a war that had lasted for seven years.  Many had died in that time, on both sides.
     The differences in the two sides could not have been more dramatic.  The tribes fought a guerilla style to the empire's disciplined ranks, favoured light armour and speed, while the armoured knights of the empire trampled the earth.  The most important difference, and one that Nezen felt closest and most fiercely, the tribes followed the Old One, while years of immigration had brought many gods to the Empire.  The Old One, to whom his daughter swore allegiance, was once worshoped throughout the land, but no more.
     "Myvar what have you done," Nezen whispered sadly.  There were minor temples to the Old One throughtout the Empire and a larger one in the capital city.  They all opposed the war, crying about the sacrilige done to sacred lands in the mountains.  The emperor shrugged them off as inconsequential.  That was before the raids of the remaining rebels.  "Soon the Emperor will lose his patience."
     "My Lord," a voice called out.  Nezen looked up to see the Emperor's high steward approach in soft leather shoes and elaborate overcoat of the richest silks.  "The Emperor has a decree."  He turned and strode out.  
     A feeling of fear and trepidation filled Nezen's stomach.  He followed after the steward and crossed the court yard, through the inner bailey and up into the grand audiance chamber of the Emperor.  The room could seat 500 at a time.  Of late though, it rarely saw that number.  The Emperor sat perched on his throne.  An elaborate chair made of gold and precious metals, it took 10 strong men to lift it.  The Emperor himself looked as regal as ever.  A rich petticoat of the rarest of silks in the colour of the realm; magenta.  His hair was dark and thick, his goatee of similar colour.  His eyebrows were bushy, but as well groomed as the rest of him.  His high cheekbones and well shaped chin lent credence to his title as the Angel Emperor.
     "Ah, Nezen, my lord of justice.  How good of you to come."  He motioned Nezen to sit down on the table just below the throne.  "I have a decree, which must needs be entered into law immidiately."
     "As you wish my Emperor," Nezen uttered the words in a monotone, not really paying attention.
     "This Old One and his followers aid the rebels who still raid my realm.  The Old One's followers deprive my subjects of their just livelihoods and spit upon our laws and order."  the Emperor paused a moment.  "This will be difficult, but it must be done."  He paused again to judge Nezen closely.  "I, henceforth, decree the Old One to be Illegal in the realm."
     "What?" Nezen snapped his focus to the emperor.  "How can you make a god illegal?"
     "I am the Emperor.  My will is god here!" The Emperor cursed.  "Anyone caught wearing the colours of the Old One, worshoping the Old One or meeting for such shall have their lives forefeit!  I will not have my realm be tainted by this subversive threat."  He motioned to the steward who strode over with the parchment containing the edict.  "Sign and lead the crusade my Lord of Justice."  The steward set the parchment down in front of Nezen and held out the quill...

  Although his mind was in turmoil, racing through hundreds of possible scenarios brought about by this law, he adopted a mask of indifference.  He was, after all, in the presence of the one man who could order his title, family fortune, or his life forfeit for any transgression.  "Of course, my emperor," Nezen replied and idly grasped the quill.  As he put pen to paper, the Emperor smiled in satisfaction.  "There," said Nezen once he had signed the document, "it is done."  He laid the quill on the sheet and slid it back to the stewart.
  "Excellent," commented the emperor.  "You will of course take every measure to enforce this edict."
  "Of course, my emperor," Nezen repeated.
  The Emperor nodded.  "Very well, you may leave us," he said.  As Lord Nezen stood and turned to leave, the emperor added, "Oh, there is one more thing my Lord of Justice."  Nezen swivelled back to face the emperor as he continued, "We watched the execution from the balcony here.  It was a splendid sentiment you spoke at the beheading -- 'Into the dark a traitor's life must go'.  Most ingenious.  Did you write that yourself?"
  "I believe, my emperor," interrupted the stewart, before Nezen could answer, "that was a quote from the late Emperor Hawken, as he executed the villian that killed his first-born."
  "Ah yes, indeed, most appropriate.  My Lord of Justice, your first-born, her name is Myvar I recall."
  "Yes, my emperor," agreed Nezen.
  "We should look after our first-born.  Teach them, guide them," then the emperor locked eyes intently with Nezen before finishing, "keep them from falling into the dark."
  A chill ran through the Lord of Justice's body.  "Of course, my emperor," he said and left.

     Nezen walked out of the inner bailey with no destination in mind.  His thoughts continued to race and every time came to the same conclusion.  As much as he hated it, he had to speak to Myvar, had to warn her.  He knew it would not be easy.  He passed a sentry on the battlements and ordered the outer bailey portculis to be opened.  He strode quickly over the drawbridge separating the Emeperor's palace from the rest of the city.  The sounds of night life surrounded him.  Whores, beggers, merchants, taverns and inns all lent to the cacaphony of sound.
     He paid no attention to it at all, but then suddenly became aware of where his feet were guiding him.  He had made for his daughter's dwelling.  It took him some time to reach it as it lay on the other side of the city, by the Old One Temple, a building he knew he would have to order destroyed in the morning.  He found himself outside her door, hesitant.  He summoned his courage and went to knock.  The door opened before his hand touched the wood.
     "I know," Myvar nodded, sadness in her eyes and an anger too.  She motioned him in.  "Haradodann knew this would come.  I have seen it too."
     "Did you know earlier?" Nezen asked, a bit taken back by her knowledge.
     "Yes, in the waters of the seer."
     "Don't..." Nezen snapped, he was going to say '...give me that rubbish..." but he fell silent.  Instead he said, "Why?"
     "I tried to explain it to you.  Killing Haradodann has sent us into an unavoidable series of events.  We none of us know what will happen, but rest assured, the realm may not be long for this world."  Myvar turned and poured a second cup of tea for her father.  She offered it to him and he accepted.
     "I know now I cannot ask you to cast aside this Old One," he sipped the tea and nodded.  It was a blend of mountain berries and wisdom root.  If only he could gain wisdom from it.  "I will be ordered to..." he paused.
     "Destroy the temple and root out all rebels?" Myvar finished.  "I know."
     "You can't stay here any longer.  You must leave.  Tell as many as you can and go before the sun hits the palace on the morrow."  He set down his cup and put his hands on her shoulders to look her directly into the eyes.  He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came.
     "Would you throw my head into the eastern sea?" Myvar asked calmly.  "Yes, you are your master's dog aren't you."  Myvar shrugged away.  "Leave.  You've a busy schedule to keep tomorrow.  Best not anger the Angel Emperor."  Nezen left, shaken and wondering if he would ever see his daughter again.

     "Did you know she was a relation to the redoubtable Lord of Justice, Daryan?" the young man asked.  Both lurked amoungst the shadows of the alley accross from Myvar's simple abode.  They watched Nezen come and go and there was no mistaking the Lord of Justice.
     "No my lord, I did not.  Does this change things?" the older man asked.
     "God no.  Now we just need to be careful."
     "Careful for you is considered reckless in others," Daryan commented.
     "Wet-nurse," the younger man joked.  He turned serious for a moment.  "I still cannot believe she is the key.  A 20 year old wench."
     "A wench who's learned well the sword trade.  Whatever may be said of them those mountain people know how to fight," the older man offered as he stroked an old scar on his right cheek.  "This will not be easy."
     "If this was going to be easy I wouldn't bother," the younger man chirped.  The arrogance in his voice clear and unmistakable.
     "Whether easy or no, your father wills it."
     "Shhhh, the door opens," the younger whispered quickly.
     Myvar stepped out of her darkened home and peered around.  She looked directly at the where the two men were standing, stopped a moment then she started walking away.
     "Come lets go," the young man ordered.
     "She knows we're here," Daryan grabbed the other's arm.  "She looked into my eyes."
     "You don't beleive those waterseer stories do you?" he snorted a chuckle.  "Let's go before we lose her."  He stalked off after Myvar.  Daryan waited a moment, shaking his head, he followed his young lord.

    

     Daryan soon caught up to his young lord master and together they stalked after Myvar.  A frown deepened on Daryan's face and his stomach knotted slightly with increasing unease.  Several times he opened his mouth to whisper caution to the young lord, but he clamped his lips shut and strode on.  It was not his place to question his lord, merely to follow.  A couple of times they needed to duck back and hide in the shadows as Myvar stopped for apparently no reason.  These wierd actions of hers did little to dispel Daryan's apprehension.  Suddenly, it dawned on him where she might be heading.  "She is going to the nest of the old one worshipers," Daryan whispered as they stood waiting for her to resume her travel.
     "What of it?" the young lord replied, flippant as usual.  "If any get in our way, we'll deal with them."
     "Your lord father admonished any killing.  Killing would bring undue attention upon ourselves, and to him eventually," Daryan cautioned.
     "Wet nurse," the young man replied and Daryan could almost see the haughty grin he wore.  Daryan glanced at the young lord who looked back to Myvar.  "Hey?  Where'd she go?  Damnit!  We lost her and all due to your whining."  The young man was about to burst forth from their position in the shadows when Daryan forced him to the wall.
     "You've much to learn my lord.  I never took my eyes off of her.  Be quiet and watch," Daryan admonished as harshly as he dared.  After what seemed like an age, Myvar stepped back out into the main path and into moon light.
     "That sly b****," the young lord chuckled again.
     "I would do the same if I knew I was being followed.  Besides, I know this part of the city.  That particular alley has no other exit." Daryan watched Myvar.  It seemed to him she looked right at him again.
     "She doesn't know we're here.  And how do you know this part of town?  This is the old one hovel." the young man questioned.
     "A good soldier knows the landscape about him.  I... I explored the city when your father came here." Daryan hoped his young master would buy the lie.
     "A tactical man as ever.  There she goes again."
     Daryan found himself following the young man's lead again.  This time, the unease in his stomach had turned to outright anxiety.  He knew where she was leading them, but he could not tell the pup.  If he did other questions would surely arise.  Questions which would be best left unasked.

     They turned a corner, passed under an arched walkway, and stopped for a moment, listening in the dark.  They could hear Myvar's tread down the narrow dark alley.  The young man started for the ally and Daryan pulled him back.  "I... I don't think we should go that way."
     "What are you so nervous about?  Come on lets go."
     "Gevend, we should be careful here.  The emperor's power is not so strong in this quarter of the city.  Even the city guard fear to tread here after dark, especially..." Daryan fell silent, fearing he'd said too much.
     "Especially what?" Gevend asked.
     "Especially since this is the first dark moon of the year." Daryan replied and paused.  "This is the holiest time for worship of the old one."
     "I do not believe in this old one, or our gods.  And I shant fear following a wench down a darkened alley way." Gevend turned the corner and strode into the dark.
     Daryan drew his sword, cursed silently to himself, and followed after.  They had walked for several moments and suddenly on both sides of the alley way, shutters crashed open and they were flooded with torchlight.  Their vision blurred, Daryan and Gevend covered their eyes.  Nothing was said for a moment and all they heard was the torches hissing and snapping.
     "What cause do you have to follow me?" a woman's voice broke the eerie silence.
    "Whom do I address?" Daryan asked, stalling for time.  His vision slowly recovered.
     "You know perfectly well who I am.  The question is who are you?"
     Daryan saw that Gevend had also drawn his sword, but so had men and women standing in front and behind them.  Strange people in the dark green garb of the old one worshipers.  Daryan looked up at the open windows of the buildings on either side.  Women and men stood with crossbows and long bows notched and ready to loose.  "Damn," Daryan spat as he sheathed his sword.  Gevend however, had a look of fury upon his face.

    Gevend waggled his sword slightly and Daryan could see the young lord tense, ready for combat.
     "You'll have half a dozen arrows in your chest and back before you even reach me," Myvar spoke softly.  Gevend looked up for the first time, then back at Daryan.  He sheathed his sword in disgust.  "Now, who might you be?" Myvar asked again.
     "I am Daryan, House Captain of Lord Pemlion," Daryan answered gruffly.
     "I know who you are," Myvar replied.  She looked back to Gevend.  "This then is either Gevend or Travend.  Which are you, the heir or the second born?"
     "I am Gevend Pemlion," he answered brusquely.
     "You may go," Myvar commanded.  Gevend frowned, but turned to go and Daryan followed behind.  "But not you Daryan.  We've business with you."

     *****

     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.

     “What sort of trickery is this?” Daryan asked suspiciously.
     “No trick,” The Elder replied.  “Boy!  Go to the baggage cart and get my sack.”  A young boy ran off into the bushes.  “She has fallen into a divination daze.  He tried to get her to back into the correct posture, but he lacked the strength.  “Darijann please help me.”  Daryan moved forward and then stopped, suddenly unsure.  “Daryan, help me get her sitting up.”  The two of them brought her upright.  Just then the boy returned with the Elder’s bag.  He reached into the sack and pulled out various smaller bags, each neatly labelled.  He found the one he wanted and opened it.  “Myvar I need you to eat this godsleaf.”  He opened her mouth and stuffed two dried leaves into it.
     Daryan looked at the bowl and saw nothing but water.  He reached for it, but the Elder grabbed his hand.  “Do not disturb the water, as the water goes so does her soul.”  Daryan freed himself from the Elder’s grip and took a step back.  He did not want to stay, but curiosity compelled him to watch.  The Elder stood behind Myvar and helped her to chew the godsleaf.  Her lips turned purple and dark juice ran from the corners of her mouth.  “Stare at the water, not above or below,” the Elder spoke loudly.  Myvar seemed to recover slightly; she mumbled and opened her eyes.  Once they glimpsed the bowl she again let out a shriek, but this time she did not flinch.  
     Her eyes looked bloodshot and raw.  Finally, she slumped down and, breathing heavily, spoke, “I’m back.”  The Elder picked up the bowl and handed it to her.  She gulped the water down, forcing herself to overcome the putrid taste.  Once finished she collapsed, exhausted, but none the worse for ware.
     “Boy,” Elder called and again the small child returned.  “If you do not come quicker I will name you Basandorr.”
     “I’m sorry master,” the boy squeaked in dismay.
     “Nevermind, get Myvar’s things and bring them here.  She will rest here today.”  The boy darted off again.
     “What does ‘Basandorr’ mean?” Daryan asked.
     “Idiot,” the Elder replied.  “I would never name him thus, but sometimes one must spur the young.”
     “Yes,” Daryan laughed, he had done the same and worse to those who fell under his tutelage.  He walked around looking at everything, trying to discern what if anything happened here.  He heard the bubbling spring and stepped toward it.  He cupped his hands and took a deep draught of water.  It was clear and clean and cold.  He turned back to the old man.  He sat cross legged looking at Myvar.  His clouded eyes half open.  “Do you see at all old man?”
     “No and yes,” The Elder replied.  “I am physically blind, but spiritually my vision is perfect.  To the uneducated it would appear that I can see.”
     Something in his voice caused Daryan to glance up at the Elder.  He could not place the feeling that came up, a feeling of familiarity.  Whether it was the phrase or the words or his posture or his voice, The Elder, sparked some kind of recognition in Daryan.  Despite his better judgment he asked, “Elder, do I know you?”

                                                         *****
     Lordess Jjannal Violana smiled wickedly to herself as her palanquin lumbered through the cobblestone streets of Imperial City.  Every now and again she would draw the yellow silk curtains aside and peer at the serfs peddling their goods.  She turned to her companion, a man of considerable attractiveness, and no honour.  “Tell me Jackel, why do you come to me with this proposition?  Surely, there are other more interested parties.”
     “There are always other more interested parties,” Jackel replied and dazzled Violana with a smile.  His blond hair hung loose about his shoulders and smelled of spices from the Sand Islands.  “But a merchant always keeps his options open.”
     “Now you style yourself a merchant,” Violana laughed playfully.  “Have we had change of faith?”
     “Good God no!” Jackel exclaimed emphatically.  “Faith costs too much money!”  They both broke out in laughter as the palanquin trundled through the crowds.  Jackel turned serious, “If you are interested you will find the payoff immeasurable.”
     “Oh I don’t know, I can measure quite a bit,” she glanced down at Jackel’s cod piece and smiled seductively.  “Besides, I am not certain you took into account all, the players shall we say.”
     “Only one matters at this time,” Jackel replied, his face grown cold.  “Pemlion is a danger to us all.”
     “Some might say you are the danger,” Violana replied.  She opened up a fan and began to cool herself.  The day’s heat climaxed as the sun hit its zenith.  
     “Perhaps Lord Violana might be inclined to agree to my idea,” Jackel watched the Lordess closely.  Violana snapped the fan shut and stared at Jackel, anger reddening the colour of her alabaster cheeks.  “I know,” Jackel whispered.  “The Lord has been dead for some time hasn’t he?”  It really was not a question.
     “What of it?” Violana snapped.
     “Oh, you know how it is.  No heirs and does not your husband have a younger brother?  I know he is away at the moment.  Is he not training with the warrior monks of Lorewythe?  It would take a messenger some time to get to him, but it is not impossible.”  Jackel let the threat hang in the air a moment.  “However, I much rather talk about my plans than family trees.”
     “To my residence!” Violana cried out to her palanquin carriers and her honour guard.  “It appears Jackel that we have much to discuss.”

     The trip took a mere 20 minutes, but by that time the Jackel had explained himself and his plan fully.  Violana regarded him the whole while with a cool detachment.  She did not relish being forced into something by blackmail.  She smiled bitterly as Jackel spoke, thinking she had brought this upon herself.  ‘You play with fire and you’ll be burned sooner or later,’ her father always said.  “You’ve thought this through.  And how will the Angel respond?” Violana asked, when they were alone in her solar.
     “He will thank me,” Jackel replied.
     “Don’t be so certain.  Pemlion may be a son of a b****, but he has proved himself of worth to the Angel, certainly during the late war with the Szo.”  Violana always referred to the Emperor as the Angel.  
     “I was not referring to Pemlion,” Jackel replied.
     “Of course you were, don’t bother to deny it.  Do you think the Angel will grant you title?  Perhaps if you got rid of Gyarasos hewould be pleased.”
     “I do not want Gyarasos’s lands.  His people adore him and would not take kindly to my rule,” Jackel replied.
     “And you think Pemlion’s people will treat you better?”
     “Pemlion is feared, not respected.  That is to my advantage.  But it is not lands I want either.  Too much responsibility,” Jackel smiled again.
     “And just exactly what is it you want?”
     “Respect,” Jackel replied, insincerely.  “I am a low born commoner and I know I could never aspire to a great Lordship.  But I can have my fingers in every deal in the Empire.”
     “Do you seriously believe the High Lords would allow you such control?” Violana asked.
     “You are not the only Lord to have secrets.”  Jackel smiled crookedly.
     “What do you know?” Violana asked, leaning forward with more eagerness than she wished to reveal.
     “Now, now.  I would not be where I am if I had revealed everything I knew.  Did I not tell you I studied the physical sciences? No?  Well, I am an expert at leverage.  With the correct implement I can move the world.”

     “Moving the world would be easier than Pemlion; the world does not fight back,” Violana replied as she sipped her tea.  “If you expect me to help you then you must tell me one thing; why do you hate Pemlion?”
     “Doesn’t everyone?” Jackel replied with a chuckle.  Violana did not change her expression.  “He has something of mine and I want it back, but I fear he will not return it to me.  A broken man will do as he is bid.  A begging man would plead.  A bold man would slay his enemy.  I am none of these.  I am liar, a murderer, a blackmailer, and above all else, I am merciless and prone to revenge.”
     “You shan’t be taking the vows of priesthood anytime soon I take it,” Violana replied, full well knowing the Jackel’s reputation.  ‘I will find your secrets Jackel,’ Violana vowed to herself.  “I believe our meeting is at an end.  I trust you will inform me of when I can make my modest contribution to your scheme.”
     “Of course,” Jackel bowed elegantly.  “Until then.”
     Jjannal Violana watched him go and leaned back in her chair.   Ever since her husband, the late Lord Garan Violana, died Jjannal lived in fear.  Fear that someone would find he was dead and not ill as she had been advising.  Without an heir the Lordship would automatically pass to Garan’s younger brother Xorgan.  If Jjannal believed she could get Xorgan to marry her he would have been told long ago.  The problem was Xorgan was pious where Jjannal was not.  Xorgan was a friendly enough man, but not where religion was concerned.
     Jjannal knew she would have to use leverage of her own.  “You’re not the only one with persuasive skills,” she commented to herself.  She finished her tea and moved to her bed chambers.  It was a large room on the top floor, above the stench of Imperial City’s open sewer system.  A cool breeze billowed her curtains as she sat at her desk.  She smiled, “If you can use me to your ends Jackel, it only seems fair I should be able to use you toward mine.”  She began to write, paused a moment, and then continued with renewed vigor.

     Jjannal rang her servant summoning bell and soon her steward arrived.  “Kelgo send this letter to Lord Aonn.  Make sure you deliver it directly to him or his personal steward.  On your return have the cooks roast a boar for our dinner guest.”
     “As you wish my lady,” Kelgo bowed.  “Would my Lady like the fine spirits for the meal?”
     “Yes,” Jjannal smiled.  “The best we have in stock and if those do not suffice send someone to the merchant quarter.  Kelgo, is the Lord’s wife in town?”
     “No.  At present she is at home in Blackmare Keep giving birth to their sixth child I believe,” Kelgo replied.  The Aonn family were accomplished horse breeders and tended to name places of great import within their territory after their equine friends.  Aonn family lands were home to the Shimmerings; a fine blue-black coloured horse of considerable stamina, whose coat seemed to shimmer blue in the sunlight.  Many of the Empire’s knights owned such steeds.  “Will there be anything else?” Jjannal shook her head and again Kelgo bowed then left the room.
     She walked to her wardrobe and opened it.  Jjannal knew she was playing a dangerous game, but she had little choice.  Jackel had so much as threatened her way of life.  He was not a man to be trusted.  She bit her lower lip and smiled.  Her thoughts drifted to imaginings of Jackel in bed.  She shook her head and proceeded to select a gown for the evening.  It had to be something stunning and beautiful and revealing.  She passed her fingers along rows of gowns of all colours and stopped upon a deep blue silk.  She drew it out and looked at it.  The neck line drooped shockingly low, but that would serve her purpose.  She called her hand maids and together she dressed.  By the time they were finished she could smell the roasting boar.
     Down in her dining hall Kelgo had the table arranged and ready.  Jjannal strode toward the spirit table and smiled at Kelgo’s selection.  There were appetizers of various styles and qualities.  The richest and most expensive spices pervaded the room as other dishes began to arrive.  The hall looked fit to host the Emperor.  A bell sounded and Kelgo disappeared to the front entrance.  Jjannal sat comfortably and fingered a platinum chalice.  Soon, Kelgo arrived with Lord Eriil Aonn in tow.
     “My Lord Aonn,” Jjannal smiled brightly and rose to kiss her guest on each cheek.  “How good of you to come at such short notice.”
     “Lordess Violana,” Aonn replied with slight unease.
     “Please have some peppered eel and lemon pig tails,” Jjannal said, ignoring his manner.  “I hear your wife is giving birth to your sixth child.  Is this true?”
     “Aye,” Aonn answered, and stuffed a peppered eel into his mouth.  His eyebrows rose as the flavour hit his mouth.  “These are quite good.”  He helped himself to another and began to relax slightly
     “My, six children.  It must be difficult to raise such a clan,” Jjannal said as she picked up a lemon pig tail and ate it.  “Must be expensive.”  Aonn paused eating and looked at her.  “I know you have had trouble paying the Emperor’s levies again,” Jjannal gambled.  “I know how to alleviate your financial woes.”  She motioned for him to sit down and took a chair herself.  The roast boar was carried in and set off to the side.  Kelgo sliced it and served a sumptuous portion to Aonn.  “I have a proposition for you.”

                                  *****
     Jackel laughed silently to himself as he watched Lord Aonn enter Lordess Violana’s small palace.  He knew she would be up to something and waiting the whole day in shadows had proved his point.  Jackel had an uncanny ability to read people.  His gift enabled him to achieve a certain level of fame in the underworld.  Others, of course, would tend to regard his fame as built upon guile and treachery.  That too, suited Jackel just fine.  There was something to be said for the feared black-marketeer.  Though, there were times he was so certain of knowing what the other person thought that he wondered if there were more to it than merely being able to read body language and facial expressions.  He had never explored this possibility, but sometimes he felt he had a deeper gift.
     All these thoughts were left behind as he strode confidently through Imperial City.  An up and coming black-marketeer was looking to move into some of Jackel’s territory.  A quick visit to his bribed friends in the city guard will do wonders for his competitors.  He stopped a moment, suddenly feeling he was being watched.  He glanced around the street and saw no one, but the feeling intensified.  He decided to make for the trade quarter.  Perhaps he might lose whoever was following.  
     The hustle and bustle of the trade quarter never seemed to die.  Even in the middle of the night there were deals and purchases.  Jackel ducked quickly behind a caravan of horses carrying exotic Ojand Fabrics from the far south.  He ran through a series of stalls and progressed to his favourite vantage point over looking the hub of the milling masses.  He watched for anyone rushing through the crowd.  No one appeared out of the ordinary.  Suddenly, Jackel regretted not bringing a bigger weapon than his dagger, affectionately named ‘Stealth.’
     He strode quickly away from the trade quarter directly for what he called his slum.  Jackel passed into the slum area, nodding to a guard hidden in the shadows.  Here he was king.  If anyone dared follow him here they would be in for trouble.  He rounded a corner and climbed some stairs.  He opened the door to a hidden warning tower.  In case his bribes ever failed Jackel wanted to know the instant the city guard entered his domain.  He watched the entrance and waited patiently.  After a few moments a feeling of entrapment came up from his chest and the door opened behind him.  He spun around, drawing his dagger ready for combat.

     There in front of him stood a boy, no more than 13 years old by the look.  Jackel almost laughed, but saw the shortsword the boy readied in front of him.  "You've made a very big mistake, boy.  Lucky for you it will only cost you one thing.  Unlucky though because it is your life."  Jackel lunged forward, attempting to catch the boy off guard.  The boy merely deflected his attack and nimbly sidestepped him.  They circled around a few moments, the boy keeping a careful distance away.  "Solminak!  Kurg!"  Jackel yelled, calling for his guards.
     "They cannot help you, for they are dead," the boy spoke softly.  "You must come with me."
     "I must come with you?" Jackel laughed deeply and purely.  It had been some time since he last had a fulfilling laugh.  He wiped the tears away from his eyes.  "Boy run home to your Momma."
     "Jakaanar," the boy whispered ever so slightly.
     "What did you just say!" Jackel's mirth suddenly vanished.  "What the hell did you say!"  Jackel took a menacing step forward.
     "Jakaanar," the boy repeated.  "That is what they have been calling you?"
     "Who's they?"
     "They of your sleep."
     "If you don't explain I will gut you like a pig.  Who are you?"
     "My name is Vicandorann.  And They have sent me."
     "Who goddamnit!"
     "They, the Elders.  Jakaanar you must come with me."
     "I don't think so," Jackel smiled, but no happiness came with it.
     "One way or another you will come with me," Vicandorann look changed.  He became all at once, wild and yet controlled at the same time.  "Awake or asleep you will come with me."

     "The hell I will," Jackel spat.  "The last person to try and order me about... was my father... and I killed him... for.. it."  Jackel staggered almost losing his balance.  His vision blurred and he tried to blink it clear.   "You little bastard," Jackel raised his left fist in defiance.  He noticed a slight line of red.  The cut was so minor he did not feel it.  Then he wondered whose hand he was looking at and promptly he collapsed onto the floor; unconscious before he struck.
     Snippets and flickers of consciousness interupted Jackel's dreams.  Sounds of birds or the babble of flowing creeks entered into his slumber visions.  When finally he woke he could not tell where he was, how long he had been a sleep, nor even what time of day it was.  As his eyes focused he found himself in a small covered carriage.  There was no movement, everything was still.  Outside he could hear the crackle of a fire.  
     He reached around, searching for his dagger, but all he could find was a skin of water.  He drank deeply, emptying the container and threw it aside.  There was a loaf of bread, a small chunk of cheese and some well smoked meat.  Each of these he ate quickly.  After a few deep breaths he exited the carriage.  The shafts of early morning sun cut through dense folliage and campfire smoke.  Jackel became aware of eyes watching him.  He glanced around and found the boy with a bundle of wood, which was promptly dropped.  The boy reached for the hilt of his short sword.  "My, what wonderful service I have."
     "Must you be drugged again?" Vicandorann asked with little emotion.
     "Where are we?" Jackel asked as he stook a wobbly step onto the ground.  He stretched and yawned.
     "Not where we should be," was all Vicandorann replied.
     "And where is that pray tell?"

     "With the Elders," Vicandorann replied, slowly picking up the wood again.  He watched Jackel all the while.
     "Well," Jackel chuckled as he breathed in deeply.  "The air certianly smells nicer here than in Imperical City.  I guess a lack of open sewers will do that."  He strode over to the fire, picked up a stick and began poking the embers.  "So Vicandorann is it?  What kind of name is that?"  The boy said nothing.  "I see, not so much the conversationalist."  Jackel looked about him.  They were on a seldom used trail just wide enough for the wagon.  Jackel frowned, "Where are the horses?"  Again the boy said nothing.  "Don't tell me you pulled the wagon all the way here?  For the sake of the Gods, speak boy!"
     "The horse is drinking," Vicandorann replied.  "We will be moving once the sun has set."
     "Right.  To these Elders.  And what will happen when we meet them?  Am I to be a sacrifice to your mighty diety of the squirrels?"
     "The Elders will advise you as to why you are being brought to them.  It is not for me to say," Vicandorann replied.  He dropped the wood and began to build up the fire.  Always he watched Jackel for the slightest hint of attack.  He placed a pot upon the fire and poured water into it from a skin.
     "Why are you boiling the water?" Jackel asked.  He decided the boy was too careful by half to allow himself to be ambushed.  Jackel layed back onto the ground and rested his head on one hand.
     "You people would drink water filled with the piss of your animals.  Boiled water will not make one sick to drink it," the boy replied.
     "I tend not to drink water at all.  Wine is much better for you.  Ah what I would do for a lovely white wine.  You know I..." The boy raised a hand and signaled Jackel to silence.
     Vicandorann cocked his head to hear better.  A moment passed.  "We are discovered.  We must continue on foot.  Gather the basics and we go."
     "Do you expect me to walk?" Jackel bit.  "Me?  I think..."  The whoosh of an arrow stopped his tirade.  He jumped up and dodged other arrows landing around him.  He grabbed a blanket and tore off after Vicandorann.  "Who are they?"  Jackel asked, finding it awfully hard to keep pace with the wiley boy.
     "They are NOT the Elders," Vicandorann replied and increased his speed.

     “So I gather,” Jackel snapped, breathing heavily from exertion.  They plunged deeper into the woods and further away from sounds of pursuit.  Vines and leaves cut into their flesh as they raced through the dense foliage.  Vicandorann kept up the pace.  Jackel lost sight of him and stopped to catch his breath.  “Bastard’ll be the death of me,” Jackel gasped to himself.  He could hear their pursuers shouting to each other.  
     “Come, we are almost safe,” Vicandorann appeared silently in front of Jackel, and then disappeared again.
     “How the hell do you do that?” Jackel barked as he followed the boy.  Jackel looked down at his fine clothing; it hung off his body in tatters.  “I expect a fine change of clothes.”
     “You lowlanders are always expecting,” Vicandorann replied.  He stopped and pointed to a small ravine.  “We follow this for a league and there we can get supplies.”
     “A league eh.  Wonderful,” Jackel hissed.  He had no choice but to follow the boy now.  He did not know where they were and did not know who chased them.  ‘A fine mess,’ Jackel thought to himself.  They stepped down into the ravine, the sides of which alternated between steep rocky sections and sections dominated by small shrubs.  As they approached the bottom the sun in the morning sky disappeared behind the ravine wall.  At least at the bottom it was darker and cooler.  Vicandorann continued, never once looking behind them, while Jackel constantly glanced back expecting to see a horde of archers taking aim.
     “They have lost us,” the boy blurted.
     “I wonder if we have lost us as well,” Jackel replied, mostly to himself.  It struck him as odd that he could not read Vicandorann better.  It troubled him to know there was someone out in the world, over which he had no edge whatsoever.  “Tell me Vicandorann, how is it a boy of your age becomes a hero?”
     “I am no hero,” Vicandorann replied, “Just a will defender of my people.”
     “Modesty; such a wasted virtue.  Done wrong it smacks of smugness, done right it sounds pious.  Either way people want to hit you,” Jackel went on, trying to find sore points on the boy.
     “Yes you lowlanders do nothing for religion until you require something from it.  We understand you better than you think.”
     “Which is why you won the war; you knew us so well,” Jackel laughed.
     “We did not lose the war,” Vicandorann whirled on Jackel.  “We merely realized a greater truth.”
     “That you would all die?” Jackel quipped, still smiling.  “That your dirt scratching and scavenging ways and your Old One could do nothing to protect you from a more cunning foe?”
     “We realized the time has come to…” Vicandorann stopped abruptly.  His eyes frowned as he looked at Jackel.
     “The time has come to… what?” Jackel asked smugly.  He smiled openly, knowing there was a pressure point nearby for the boy and then in time he would find it and use it.  “Is this the way?”  He pointed in the direction they were heading and strode off whistling.

                               *                                 *                                *

    Whistling a little ditty he had heard the previous night at a remote inn, Yorbel Mursh led his mule along the lightly worn trail heading through the eastern woods.  He was several leagues from the Imperial City and going farther.  In his cart was a shipment of pommet fruit from the Gyarasos orchards bound for the border city Hillcrag, which sat on the edge of the great desert.  It was a week's travel, but he knew he could fetch a good price there and repay the loan his family needed to cover this year's taxes.
    His mind wandered as he and his mule clomped along, the only sound was their footsteps and his whistling.  The tune was fairly catchy, some little melody about a prince who dances for his title....  strange story that didn't make much sense to Yorbel.  But the tune was still catchy.
    He was looking forward to resting his feet at the next inn, whenever he reached it.  They had been travelling all day and the sun was setting, which made the woods all the more dark.  He could only imagine what animals might be hiding in the trees.
    With a lurch Yorbel came to a stop.  The mule mindlessly walked into his back before it stopped as well.  Where were all the animals?  He suddenly realised he heard no birds, and hadn't heard any for the past couple hours.
    "Hello?" he shouted to nobody.
    Nobody responded.
    Yorbel felt a great unease in his belly and looked back the way he had come.  It was too far to go back.  He scanned where he was headed and saw nothing in the gathering darkness.
    "Well Jamiah, what do you think?" he asked the mule.  A muted bray was his only answer.  "Ya, I don't like it either."
    It came to him that he had not met any travellers headed towards the Imperial City today.  He would have thought at least one person would pass by him.  Yorbel's unease grew.
    "Blast me for a fool," he growled and began the relentless march towards Hillcrag once again.  He had no choice.  The shipment had to be made so he could collect the coin.  His family was depending on him.
    When the mule would not budge, Yorbel cursed the beast and tried to get it moving.  It brayed in protest, and its eyes started to roll.  "What has gotten into you, Jamiah!?" said Yorbel.  Suddenly Jamiah was covered in blood.  The instant appearance of the red liquid confounded Yorbel.  "Where did that come fr-" he began before collapsing.
    Jamiah the mule jumped and bolted in the opposite direction as best it could towing a cart of pommet fruit.  Yorbel almost laughed at the sight, if he only felt the strength to do so.  As blackness began to creep across his vision, the last thing Yorbel saw was several large sillouhettes stalk past where he laid.  He tried to squint, but he was facing towards the sunset.  The sillouhettes were too large to be human.  All he could make out was one of the things turned its monstrous head to look at him.  It smiled with too many teeth.  Yorbel thought maybe the monster was laughing at Jamiah's escape and wheezed out a chuckle before he expired.

                                *                                        *                                      *

    "It's coming," repeated Myvar.  She sat with a handful of Elders, including the blind Elder that had been with her during the scrying.  Nobody seemed to mind that Daryan was present as well.  He did nothing to attract attention and merely observed quietly.
    "Now that you've rested some, are you able to describe to us what you saw," asked a very tall, thin Elder.
    Myvar nodded.  "I was looking through the eyes of a simple man....  a peasant.  He was leading some kind of Donkey eastward, away from the evening sun.  I felt a presence."
    "The Beast," acknowledged another of the Elders.
    "Yes, the same Beast I felt once before... but this time it was different.  I think the peasant felt it too, but it was too late.  They were upon him."
    Half the elder's jumped up.  "They!?"  The thin Elder held his hands to implore Myvar, "Dear child, don't tell us there was more than one!"
    She looked down at the ground and quietly replied, "There were several."  All the Elders swayed and cried out in dismay.  How could there be more than one Beast?  How could they possibly survive?  As they moaned the blind Elder held out his hand for them to cease.
    He asked one question: "How many?"
    Myvar struggled to remember.  The strain of being in the body of a dying man was too much for her.  Perhaps if she had been training this talent for years, but since it hadn't yet been a year she was still too new at it.  "I....   I can't tell.  At least three.  Maybe more."
    The blind Elder calmly nodded.  "It was foolish of us to assume there would be only one.  The one you recognised was among them?"
    Nodding, Myvar responded slowly, "It....    recognised me."
    The words hung in the air for long moments.  The Elders were to stunned to speak.  Scrying was a rare gift, but they understood it was always transparent to the vessel and those around it.  "How do you know?" asked an Elder with an exceptionally long beard.
    "It looked at me, and smiled," she said.  A shiver ran through her at the thought.  "It saw me.  I'm sure of it."
    Daryan could stand the suspense no longer.  "What is this beast you all are talking about?"
    The blind Elder turned and looked through Daryan.  "The coming storm.  The death dealer.  We thought, from the ancient texts and one of Myvar's first visions, that it was just one.  Now we know there are many.  I hope you've made peace with your brethern in the Imperial City, Daryan, for they will all perish."

     “Yes, the wretched must fall,” Daryan quoted an Old One Proverb.  “Just where are these death dealers coming from?” he asked, still not believing the spectacle before him.  
     “From the east.  Nothing more specific is written as to their exact origin,” replied the blind Elder.  “They are old and powerful.”
     “Demons no doubt,” Daryan snorted.  
     “We have stories we tell the young about these creatures.  Fanciful tales of the heroes of old striking down wild creatures of great strength.  Alas, those are but stories and reality must surely take a different form,” the tall elder said.
     “We have been searching for the…” the blind elder stopped suddenly in mid-sentence and lurched awkwardly into a rigid standing position.  His cloudy white eyes turned pitch black.  He shivered violently and then stopped as quickly as he started.  Slowly his black eyes gazed about him at those gathered there.  His mouth erupted into a vicious grimace.  
     “Haja!  Haja norgakla!” a deep gurgling voice came from his smiling, unmoving mouth.  “Ha ha ha ha ha!”  His eyes turned cloudy white again and the blind Elder collapsed unconscious.  Myvar and the other Elders ran to him, terror on their faces.
     “Get the godsleaf,” the Elder with the long beard roared to an aid.  Within moments the blind Elder’s lips had turned purple from the leaf.  After a few minutes he came to and shivered.  “They are so strong,” the Elder’s voice no louder than a whisper.  “So much hatred in them… so much evil”
     “Daryan please pick him up we must take him to his home,” Myvar implored Daryan.
     “Fine,” Daryan replied curtly.  His feet were sore from the forced march up into the mountains.  He picked up the blind Elder, surprised at how light the old man weighed.  He followed Myvar around the stone buildings down a well trodden path.  The winds blew through his leather tunic and britches.  He was more accustomed to the warm climes in the lowlands, but he dared not show any weakness here.  He looked down at the Elder’s face and saw him looking back up at him.
     “Darijann.  Justice without honour is no different than evil without remorse.  Honour tempers justice with humanity,” the blind Elder whispered.
     “I have it!” Daryan replied.  “You came through Pemlion lands 30 years ago.  Yes, I remember you now.”  Daryan thought back those many years when a monk had visited the Pemlion Keep.  The soldiers mocked his ways and his wisdom, but Daryan always remembered the monks words about justice and honour.  "You... you were checking up on me?" Daryan asked tentatively.  The blind Elder smiled and fell asleep.

     “Here,” Myvar called and Daryan brought the blind Elder into a small stone building.  A fire had burnt down to embers and the soft glow revealed little of the interior, but it was nothing unexpected for a wise man’s home.  The furnishings were spartan, except for an elaborate shelf with many books and parchments.  “Set him here,” Myvar pointed to a cot with a straw mattress.
     “Will he live?” Daryan asked as he gently placed the elderly man upon the cot.
     “I believe so,” Myvar replied after she had placed a large woollen blanket on the blind Elder.  “Though for a man his age a dominating scrying may take a lot out of him.”
     “What happened?” Daryan asked.
     “He was dominated by…” she turned away, unwilling to let Daryan see her tears.  “By the beast.”
     “The beast again eh?  You lot sure keep a bluff alive,” Daryan joked.
     “This is no joke!  Haga norgakla means ‘death to all,” Myvar snapped, spinning around to face Daryan.  Her face showed a myriad of emotions, fear, worry, and the, almost ever present, anger.  “You foolish boar!” Myvar cursed.  “You have your eyes, but you refuse to see.  We are foolish to believe you could…”  Her voice trailed off and she stormed off.
     Daryan looked at her as she left and felt a pang of regret.  He did not need to goad her like that.  He sat down on the bench, and slowly, took the blind Elder’s hand.  How long he sat there he could not tell, but soon the embers were dead and the room pitch black.  
     “You still fight the truth,” the blind Elder spoke softly.  
     Daryan knew the man was staring at him.  He looked toward the old man’s voice, but saw nothing but blackness.  “I suppose.”
     “Ever cautious,” the blind Elder chuckled.  “I know you feel torn between your life in the lowlands and your heritage.  You must understand for us, there is no denying your blood.  A forest may be made up of many trees, and you may take a seed away and plant it somewhere else, but it will still be of the forest.”
     “I am a wayward seed then?” Daryan asked, though not cruelly.
     “A figure of speech,” the blind Elder replied.
     “No, it is not,” Daryan retorted, suddenly understanding something.  “How many of your seeds have been planted within the Empire?”
     “A great many in a great many lands,” the blind Elder answered.  “Your Emperor has the wrong view of things.  He sees the Old One Worshipers as a threat to his sovereignty.  This is wrong, if anything, we are defenders of his sovereignty.  His, and great many other empires, kingdoms, cities.  We have been preparing for this day for many, many years.”

  "Now, please, I need rest," said the blind Elder as he waved feebly towards the door.  "I will be fine."
  Daryan eased toward the door since he could not see in the blackness of the room.  With arms outstretched he finally reached the entrance and opened it.  Dull evening light splashed into the room and Daryan turned to regard the old man.  The Elder had curled up and faced the wall, shaking slightly either from cold or memory of his being possessed.  The attachment Daryan felt towards him was unnerving.  Shaking his head, Daryan exited the humble home.
  How did he know the old man?  The thought plagued Daryan as he wandered the area.  It was less than a village he walked through.  There were a few stone houses scattered here and there without much apparent regard for location.  He was usually far more observant of his surroundings, but this little adventure had kept him off balance.
  Daryan found himself back by the spring.  The water glinted from the light of the first evening stars.  Looking for answers, he hunkered down next to the pool and looked at his own reflection.  "You are not a seed," he admonished his wavy image.  "You've lived in the city your whole life, and probably saw this old man during your time as border guard."  The rippling water almost made his reflection appear to nod agreement.  "You need to leave this god forsaken place and get back to where you belong," he advised the image.  Realising this was probably his best chance to escape, he stood and began to take his bearings.  Once he determined east, he set off in that direction.
  "As I suspected," growled a voice in the darkness.
  Daryan stopped and instinctively dropped to a defensive stance.  "Myvar?"
  Myvar, who had been sitting on the lowest branch of a nearby tree, gracefully slid to stand on the ground.  "Here I was, mulling over my thoughts that maybe I had judged you too quickly.  And yet, what should I see?  You have no loyalty to your blood."
  In spite of himself, Daryan smiled.  It was a dangerous smile.  "My blood?  You should talk, young one.  Your father would hardly approve of the company you keep."
  "My father," Myvar argued, "chose his path.  He does not choose mine!"
  Daryan resumed walking and added, "Then follow your own example and do not tell me what to do little girl."
  Far faster than he could have anticipated, Daryan was tackled by a furious Myvar.  "Would you be tackled by a little girl?" she grunted.  Daryan kicked her away with practiced skill.  She rolled sideways and was able to grapple with him.  As she tried to pull him to the ground she berated him, "You MUST stay."
  "I must do nothing, girl," he struggled.  "Now get off me!"  Daryan exerted his full strength to push Myvar off him.  She fell backwards and landed hard on her back and elbows.
  For a moment, the two remained still.  Then Myvar spoke in a quiet voice, "You are the counter to his evil."
  Daryan spread his arms in a questioning motion.  "What?  Is this about your beast?  I have no intention of facing any murderous beasts beyond my own lord back in the city."
  "Not him," she said, shaking her head.  "Jakaanar."
  Daryan stood in place.  Was that name supposed to mean something?  This woman had bought into their legends completely, and seemed to think he was some figure from prophecy.  Counter evil?  Daryan had done enough of his own evil to know he was no counter.  He hesitated before deciding his next action.  "Dear lass, I am not the man you're looking for," he said and reached out his hand to help her up.
  Clasping his offerred hand in her own, Myvar rose to her feet and stood close to Daryan.  "You must be," she whispered.  "I can see it in your eyes."
  "No," he replied.
  "Yes," she nodded, and drew closer, hand still wrapped in his.
  "I--" he stopped and they kissed.  Her lips were soft against his and slightly moist.  The delicate warmth flooded through his body and he wanted more.  Eagerly they continued.  Clothes ended up on the ground and Daryan could not recollect how they had ended up in the spring, but he did not question it.  Time seemed to race, and slow simultaneously.  It was intoxicating.
  Hours later Daryan gained his senses thanks to the cold dew forming on his naked body.  Next to him lay the contently sleeping figure of Myvar.  Rushes of pleasant memories from their encounter filled his mind as his eyes traced along her moonlit form.  He rested his head back on the ground, closed his eyes and sighed grudgingly.  Daryan had to leave.  He was sure he was not this counter for evil.  This wasn't his battle.  For all he knew, none of what they had told him was real.  He had to go before they found another way to keep him here.
  Silently he dressed and disappeared into the night.  He knew Myvar would be enraged, but there was nothing he could do about it.  He stopped.  There was one thing he could do.  A little thing.  He crept back and covered her body with his cloak.  For a moment he watched as she instinctively pulled it over her shoulder, and then he turned and left.

    Late that morning Myvar returned to the village to find the Blind Elder sitting in his favourite chair out front his stone hut.  As she approached he greeted her pleasantly, "Good morning, Myvar.  You do love sleeping under the stars."
    "Better than castle walls," she responded.  "Elder, do you know where Daryan is?"
    The Elder shook his head.  "He is not here, if that is what you are asking."
    "Then he truly did leave," she said to herself mostly.
    "Leave?" repeated the Elder.  "Then you must find him!  Our Jakanaar comes."
    Myvar blinked out of her own thoughts.  "Jakanaar....   I don't understand why we need him."
    The old man smiled, "You always did have trouble with that part of the prophecy.  Like any good stew, we need to balance the sweet with the tart."
    "Jakanaar is no tart!" she retorted.  "He's bile in your stew!"
    "Even bile has medicinal properties," calmly replied the Elder.
    Myvar grimaced at the thought.  "Perhaps we were wrong about this part of the prophecy as well," she countered.
    "Perhaps," was all the old man said.
    After a long pause, Myvar changed topics.  "Elder, how did the Beast know to possess you?  How could it possess anyone?  Scrying just lets you view through other's eyes."
    The Elder's demeanor turned sour.  "That was no mere scrying.  And that was not the Beast."
    "Not the Beast?!  Then who?" she asked.
    "It's master."

                                                      *****
     
     “Oh 60, what a number,” Professor Mim was saying.  “My Lord of Justice did you know the number 60 is an important number for the Old One Worshipers?  It is divisible by one, two, three, four, five and six.  One signifies the Old One him or herself.  Two signifies balance, good and evil, right and wrong, man and woman etc.  Three represents the three tenets: Honour the land, honour thy brothers and sisters and honour yourself and in that order too.  Four represents… now let me see four represents… oh yes…”
     “Are you quite finished?” Lord of Justice Nezen Gutrin snapped.   They had been combing the rubble of the Old One Temple for a few days, and his patience was at its limit.
     “Well there’s the four pillars of thought and then the… oh I see,” Mim replied finally catching on to Nezen Gutrin’s real meaning.  He paused and looked about the ruins.  The pair of them stood in the middle of a mass of scorched marble and charred wood.  Mim frowned and pointed at the ruins of each support column, counting them as he went.  Normally in an Old One Temple of this size 60 columns would support the building, but he kept getting 59.  He scrambled over to the area where the missing column should have been, or at least its remains.  There he found the rubble was not heaped up like elsewhere, but appeared to be lower, as if in a depression of some sort.  “Curious.”
     “What did you say?” Gutrin asked.
     “My Lord it appears we may have found something,” Mim replied.  He gingerly stepped into the depression and his sandaled foot sunk a few inches.  He put more weight on his foot and suddenly he found half his leg sunk into a widening hole, “ahhh!”
     “What have you done?” Gutrin strode over to Mim.  He grabbed the frantic  professor by the collar and yanked him out of the hole.  Gutrin looked down at the hole.  “Is this what caused the explosion?”
     “Doubtful.  From what you described the accelerant would have needed to be all over the inside, not just in one area.  No, this is something else.”  Mim crawled to the hole and poked at the sides.  More rubble fell into the darkness, increasing the size of the opening.
     “Travend!” Gurtin yelled angrily.  “Bring some torches!”
     “You don’t seriously mean to go down there, do you?” Mim gulped nervously.
     For a moment Gutrin felt like pushing the professor headlong into the hole.  For a wise, learned man Mim talked incessantly over the most minute of details.  It drove Gutrin mad.  “I do.  You can stay here and play with your fires.  Or better yet.  Figure out just what the hell happened here!”  Travend arrived with the torches, and a couple of swords.  Gutrin looked at the boy and nodded approval.  He stepped toward the hole and dropped one of the lit torches into it.  The three of them watched its light dwindle as it fell.  The hole was rather deep and to one side a crude ladder was imbedded into the stone.  Gutrin took his sword and poked at the sides of the hole to reveal the top of the ladder.
     “My Lord,” Travend yelled pointing down the hole.  “The other torch is out.”

     “Most likely the dirt has smothered it,” Lord of Justice Gutrin replied.  He looked down into the seemingly endless hole and felt an emptiness creep over him.   It was an experience he did not relish since the last time he had felt it came when Lord Jecend Pemlion brought his wife's deceit to the table.  Gutrin shook his head.  He strained to focus his thoughts from the past to the present.  He feared the unknown of the hole, but he needed to know what was down below.  ‘Perhaps,’ he thought ‘I can use the extortionist's whelp to my advantage.’
     "Travend", he ordered "Give a torch to Professor Mim and start down the ladder."  Travend passed one torch to Professor Mim and held the second one in his hand as he descended down the rickety ladder.  As daylight and ash filled air gave way to the cool misty dampness of the stone walls, Lord Nezen Gutrin disappeared from Travend and Mim's view.  All around them, walls were scribed in a text that was partially covered in dripping crimson moss.
     "Ahhh," Travend hollered as his head was trampled and then entangled in Mim’s robes.  Travend thrashed about trying to free himself from the cloth.  The torches came dangerously close to their clothing as Mim frantically swung about desperately trying to regain his footing.
     "Sorry," whimpered Mim, afraid of falling to his death.  He again stepped on Travend’s head instead of the rung.  Travend shouted in anger, released his torch and thrust Mim's foot back onto the rung.   The young lord continued down at a quickened pace. "Oh, thank you...ah," Mim gasped as he clung to the rungs.  His torch lit up the text on the wall next to him.  Suddenly, the fear of falling evaporated as he leaned closer to the writing.  "I don't recognize this language," he muttered.  "It is not the syntax or character set of the Old One language."
     Mim rubbed some of the dirt and grime away.  "Perhaps it is an early dialect of Aphelion or Kaing.  Travend do you see here how the letters are grouped ‘Bthatl vizqs Xiptec’?  The tl and qs are found in both languages but rarely found elsewhere. hmm."   Professor Mim realized he was still 20 feet above the floor of the hole.  He descended further down the ladder.  "Here is that unusual Xi grouping again X-i-p-t-e-c, perhaps it of Odargh...or Dolingur. Travend, look here...there is another Xiptec Coquez Jadqsi, were you taught any of the ancient dialects?"
     "I know what I need to know, Professor,” Travend yelled from the bottom of the hole.  “We better keep moving or it will be late evening before we make it back to the surface and I have obligations to attend to,” Travend muttered, annoyed.  He wanted to take a quick look around and report back to Lord Gutrin.  Travend thought to himself that he needed to make a good impression on Lord Nezen Gutrin to win his confidence and secure his future wife. The descent however had made his soul uneasy.
     "Do you see here how 'Bthatl hentrallas Xiptec, Pemiovia hflatus', it seems like Kaing… battle entered... something perhaps a name, another name and fallen, flight or failure.  Most interesting indeed, Professor Jagvir would be most excited," Mim rambled.
     Sweat rolled down Travend's back and his head started to pound from the endless chatter that echoed down the shaft.  He hoped Mim would tire and cease to talk.
     "Here it is again Xiptec, Xiptec Rlquez, hmmm perhaps it is a name…” Mim continued absently.
     An hour had past by the time Professor Mim reached the bottom of the ladder and joined Travend.  They began to explore the area around them and passed through a long dank corridor carved into the cavern walls.  As the scent of death crept in, Mim finally ceased his endless rambling.  The ground crunched as they pressed scattered bones into the stone beneath their feet.  Along the corridor small blood stained sacrificial altars appeared in set-in alcoves.  Remnants of cloth and bones were scattered everywhere. They reached a set of huge doors probably the entrance of a cathedral chapel-like chamber. Mim raised his torch to look at the writing above the door. "Hlaht  Xiptec, Xiptec Coquez."

*                                *                                 *                                 *

For six days the cloaked man walked out from the Empirial City with the sun endlessly pelting down on his black robes.  The robes, saturated with sweat, dripped down on his face and he lapped furiously at the streams of salty droplets.  The salt quickened his saliva.  He was almost there.  He could smell the sickened sweetness..his saliva flowed out and down his chin in anticipation.

Ahead of him, a swarm of flies danced across the streams of blood on a blindly sauntering mule's back.  It meandered aimlessly towing a rotten load of pommet fruit.  Drunk on the pungent ale like stench of the rotten fruit, the mule did not notice the cloaked man approach.

His toothless mouth opened as his tongue stroked the blood streams on the mule's haunches. Ingesting the maggots and warm blood, he had not felt such sheer joy in a meal since he feasted on the sweetness of Lord Nezen's wife, Brid Gutrin.

*****

     The damp corridor was awash in torch-light.  The city guard under Captain Heglian patrolled the area and stood guard on the surface.  Lord Gutrin ordered that they follow Professor Mim’s directions to the letter.  He watched as Mim directed the guards to move debris and human remains.  A sigh escaped his lips and he strode up to the great doors, which had not been opened.  Gutrin looked at the intricate carving.  Something there made his heart sicken as if a cold hand clutched it and began to squeeze.
     “Excuse me My Lord,” Mim’s voice was ecstatic with glee.  “Had I realized the importance of this site, I think I would not have come down until the entire garrison of the city guard was here first.”
     “What is it?” Gutrin snapped, not bothering to look at the professor.
     “Oh well, it appears from what I can understand, that something has escaped,” Mim chattered.  “You see, the Old One Worshipers did not do these sacrifices.  The Old One does not require sacrifices.  No… these were done by someone or some thing else entirely.”
     “What escaped?” Gutrin asked turning to face Mim.
     “Xiptec.”
     “I suggest you explain fully,” Gutrin hissed.
     “This Xiptec is old.  It isn’t the Old One but it is old.  As far as I can decipher he or it or she had been imprisoned here.  And… now I understand…” Mim paused nodding to himself.  “The explosion of the temple was not to destroy Imperial City, it was to imprison Xiptec.  Bury him alive.  You see, the Old One Worshipers, for what ever reason, did not wish Xiptec to be freed or fall into Imperial hands.”
     “Who is this Xiptec exactly?” Gutrin asked pointedly.
     “I don’t know.  The sections of the walls that describe him or her fully have been chiselled off, and recently too.”
     “Mim, I want a full report of everything you find down here.  The City Guard is here at your disposal and…”
     “I think I should like a break to bathe and…” Mim interrupted.
     “You are now employed by his Imperial Highness; you no longer have a choice.  I suggest you get everything done quickly.”  Gutrin looked about and saw Travend moving some rocks.  The boy saw his gaze and Gutrin waved him over.  “Travend, you shall be the liaison between the good professor here and myself.  I want daily reports of progress and if anything of great import is found I am to be informed immediately.  Is this understood?”
     “Yes My Lord,” Travend replied dutifully.
     “My Lord, you will not be staying?” Mim asked hesitantly.
     “I must report all of this to the Emperor,” Gutrin replied.  He then stepped closer to the professor and in a hushed, but biting tone added, “And he will certainly take a keen interest in you and your work.  For your sake you’d best not fail.”

                                              *****

     Lord Pemlion chuckled, amused by the news he had just heard.  “Jackel is missing.  What a stroke of unfortunate luck for him.”
     “What shall we do with her?” Deevian asked quietly.
     “Her,” Pemlion mused.  He stood up and stretched as he walked toward the liquor table.  He poured himself some exquisite white wine and did not offer Deevian any.  “I think for now we should just keep her where she is.”
     “I would tend to agree my Lord.  Alive we have more options than if she were killed,” Deevian spoke.  One needed as many options as possible when dealing with Jackel.  Deevian knew Pemlion had a certain dislike for the black marketer.  It was not quite fear, but it was not quite indifference either.  It verged on a slight phobia.  Though where this phobia stemmed from Deevian could only guess.  “Perhaps, I should investigate as to where Jackel has gone?”
     “Yes,” Pemlion replied.  “I am sure he has not gone far.  Flip over any rotting board and there’s always a chance he could be under it.”  Pemlion strode back to the desk and sat on the chair.  “You said a few of his men were found dead?
     “That is the word from the underworld,” Deevian replied.  “Perhaps there was a coup of some sort.”
     “Doubtful.  There is no one else that could achieve such a feat.  No, the underworld of Imperial City is controlled by one man.  Jackel,” Pemlion spat.  “Best figure out what happened to him.  This could be ruse of a sort to get us to relax.”  Pemlion leaned back in his chair, fingering the rim of his goblet.  “What news of Lord Llania?”
     “He left for Snowlion Keep a week ago,” Deevian replied.  “I hear reports of unrest amongst his serfs caused by this inane decree to kill all old one worshipers.”
     “This ‘inane decree,’ as you so aptly put it, will be the catalyst I am looking for.”  Pemlion leaned forward and smiled openly.  “What contacts do you have in Snowlion Keep?”
     “A few,” Deevian answered, a slight frown furrowed his brow.  He always became slightly unnerved whenever Pemlion smiled as he had just done.
     “Any who might like to lead a revolt or at least instigate one?”
     “There are two such who love to cause havoc, though for a price.”
     “Good.  I want them to raise as much havoc as 10 platinum griffins will allow.”
     “10 griffins?  My Lord, perhaps 1 griffin will be enough.  10 griffins are 1000 gold stallions and enough to buy a small castle!” Deevian could not hide his surprise.
     “I realize how many gold stallions 1 platinum griffin can buy.  I want this done.  Now!”  Pemlion ordered.  “I expect the usual precautions.  Purchase used and untraceable horses and hire roughnecks with no link to me.  I do not need these funds traced back to me.  Once in Altarina province tell your contacts an Old One worshiper wishes to strike at the heart of the Empire.  Give them half now, and half again later, once they have successfully raised a revolt.”
     “As you wish,” Deevian replied.  He bowed and exited the room.  10 griffins will be in his possession, but somehow, he mused, only 5 will make it to their destination.  On his way out of the room he passed Gevend, Pemlion’s eldest son.  “My Lord,” Deevian bowed, ever so slightly.
     “Is my father available?” Gevend asked.
     “He is in his chambers, if that is what you mean,” Deevian replied, then walked away.
     Gevend clenched his jaw in preparation for the meeting with his father.  Jecend Pemlion was a demanding parent and Gevend knew he had disappointed him in the past.  He took a deep breath and strode, as confidently as he could muster, into his father’s private chamber.

*****
Gutrin made his way up the rickety ladder; nodded at Captain Helgian as he swiftly passed him; and strode through the streets toward the Empirial Hall, where the Emperor would be there conducting his judicial duties.

     "*sigh*, My son would have been a couple years older than Travend", he muttered to himself, "if he had not been still born"  He remembered fondly the excitement he and his new wife Brid had felt over the coming arrival of their son.  How beautiful she looked, exotic yet earthy in her eastern looks. Her lucious black hair cascading down her broad shoulders onto her swollen bossom.  "My dearest Brid", he gasped as his chest tighten and his eyes moistened. He sees her pain stricken face, as Gashara, the midwife and Gamul, the sage, remove a small motionless buddle from the bed chamber. For the first time he remember seeing her great reverence for the Tribal Healers and the Cult of the Old One wane in sorrow.

Gutrin felt his body being pushed abruptly against the market stalls as the crowd of evening shoppers encircled him.  The Lord of Justice straightened and poised. His stern glare separated the bustling souls. As he hassened forward, he noted in an alley way that the clairvoyant Gashara was entering the executioner's abode.

He soothed himself, "At least, I still have Myvar, spirited like my sweet Brid", as he stepped up the stairs into the Empirial Hall.  The guards opened the door as he approached.  Inside the Empiral Hall sat the Emperor with two women: Lordess Violana and the Renagde Kalli from the northern lands.