CHAPTER VI: For The Sun God

This chapter is narrated by Luhoul, a Ssrathi Snakepriest.

In Kapaxotl, the streets were paved with blood.

There were rocks under the blood, volcanic cobblestones that my ancestors laid for the glory of the Sun God, oh so long ago, but so much blood has been shed in this city for this city and its rulers, that the blood will never wash off. It will always be there, a maroon veneer of brutality coating the greatness of our past.

Our past was a time of heroes, of kings and explorers who bent the jungle itself to their will, and communed with the Sun God, seeking his counsel, seeking his wisdom. My own ancestor, a Luhoul of thousands of years ago, was among the founding priests of our beautiful religion. He sought to bring His light and His warmth to all, to the dinosaurs and the chameleons as well as the Ssrathi. To all of Keshan.

But those times are all past now, and the lineage of the Luhoul Snakepriests has faded into a dim and indistinct shadow of what it was then. We built cities together, the ancient Ssrathi. Cities to glorify the Sun God, and ourselves; now, we cannot build so much as a hut without coming to blows over it.

When the Empire came to our shores, we saw it as a new beginning. We rejoiced, we celebrated. War broke out, and still we rejoiced. The weak were being weeded out, the dissenters, the heretics. We, the Snakepriests, we believed in change, in adapting to our surroundings. How else does one become stronger, yes?

So we let the Emperor kill the weaklings as he hacked and slashed his way through Keshan to Kalpaxotl, and when he finally arrived at the door of the Seers, they wisely capitulated. Their surrender would once have brought an end to the war, but things have changed. Rebel holdouts remain everywhere, and they must be cleansed.

It is something I believe; it is something I long for. Unity through war. Peace through death. The future comes on wings of slaughter and sacrifice. The disloyal elements need to be purged, but still. I feel unease, sometimes. I feel a lack of clarity, and an occasional, desperate longing for the war to end. The rebels do not all get along, and sometimes they fight each other; it seems Ssrathi simply cannot go without killing other Ssrathi.

My Serpent Lord and I ride through the blood-stained streets on the backs of lizards, and the populace watches us with awe. He is a fearsome sight, Grendel, Knight of the White Wyrm. Through murder, he brings unity to our people. They are right to fear us. Ostensibly, we are here simply to gather supplies and manpower for Grendel’s excursion to the West, but in reality, we are here to remind our people who they fight for, and who they must answer to if they will not fight.

The Nagai are also with us: Grendel’s guardian, Jexdar, and his whore, Yinfur. That they dared violate the sanctity of the scrying pool in New Selentia that night vexed me terribly, but he is my Serpent Lord. He may scorn every tradition I believe in, but he is still our savior, our best hope. Perhaps the fact that things have sunk so low that this heretic, this mercenary is the best hope of the Ssrathi is some sort of terrible omen, but I don’t really believe in omens.

***

That night I slept in the simple abode provided to me by the Religious Sect. There was little in it save for a small altar for praying and a freshly laid nest to curl up in.

I had never carried a timepiece, but from the position of the moon above the roofless structure, I surmised it was a full hour or more before sunrise when I was awakened by a skittish rapping on my door. I called upon the Sun God to infuse my body with warmth, and sat up as fast as my still-cool blood would allow me.

“What is it?” I called from the nest.

“Massster! It isss a matter of grave urgency! May I enter?” said a curiously high-pitched voice.

“No,” I responded. “Who are you?”

“I am but a lowly worker… I tressspass on the sssacred sssoil of your sssect only to better ssserve you, I ssswear it!”

“You are a Chameleon,” I said, malice creeping into my voice. “You are aware that by your trespass, you forfeit your right to live?”

“Yesss, massster,” squeaked the Chameleon.

I waited for an elaboration, but got nothing. A fearless one, this one. For a member of the Worker Sect, that is. I arose with a sigh, and walked over to the door, unbolting it. The Chameleon cowered by the wall opposite the door, his fear causing his hide to ripple with dark color. I was half-afraid he would shed his tail and run away.

“Control your impulses, worker. You need not fear me,” I said evenly.

“I’m… sssorry, massster. I can’t help it,” he stammered, but after a moment, his scales resumed their more uniform dark green hue.

“Now, are you going to tell me what is so important it couldn’t wait until sunrise?”

“We, ah, my nessst-brother and I were excavating in Lord Grendel’s Sssun Temple, trying to clear away the rubble under the eassst balconiesss, and we found… sssomething.”

“I see. Why did you not bring this to Lord Grendel? If you are brave enough to come to me, certainly it occurred to you to find him somewhere within his own temple.”

“I tried, massster, but he wasss… indisssposssed. Enclosssed with hisss Naga.”

Or Nagai, I thought to myself. So, while he was busy fornicating, I had to attend to the worries of his workers.

“Could you be more specific about what it is you found?” I queried the Chameleon.

“Here?” he said, looking around furtively. I inclined my head, regarding the worker curiously.

“I suppose if you think it warrants barging into a Religious Sect in the middle of the night, we’d best wait until we were under a roof,” I admitted, glancing up at the moon. The Chameleon gestured towards the sect’s entrance, and I followed him out. “For the Sun God,” I mumbled to myself, retrieving my sunstaff.

***

The Chameleon led me to Grendel’s ziggurat-like Sun Temple, located only a few huts from the Religious Sect. The Grendel bloodline’s Sun Temple was in an older but less prestigious part of Kalpaxotl, and his troops had encountered little difficulty in securing places to stay in the surrounding huts. The first tint of dawn crept into the sky as we walked.

Couatl’s Warmth radiated from the temple in waves of near-narcotic intensity, and I let them invigorate me. The entrance was guarded by a pair of Snakemen who barred our way with their double-bladed axes. I bared my throat while the Chameleon cowered behind me. The Snakemen’s tongues flicked out, smelling us.

“Who ssseeks to enter?” one of the Snakemen demanded.

“I am Luhoul, of the Religious Sect, emissary of the Seers and counsel to the Serpent Lord. You will admit me.”

“You ssserve Grendel?” he asked, skeptical.

“I serve no one but the Sun God, but I assist Lord Grendel in all matters concerning his… zeal and spirituality.” The Snakemen looked at each other before turning back to me.

“The Serpent Lord isss… busssy, and hisss current activitiesss do not require… religious counsssel,” the guard said, and the two warriors both sissed with laughter before lead guard continued. “We already told thisss one that,” he said, indicating the Chameleon.

“I do not seek an audience with Lord Grendel, warrior. It seems the Chameleons working to repair the damage done to the east balconies are refusing to work, having fallen prey to a bad omen. I am here to bless them and motivate them,” I explained calmly, absently toying with my staff as I spoke.

“Sssuch sssuperssstitious creaturesss,” the Snakeman chided. “You mussst make them work fassster, priessst. If Grendel learnsss of thisss delay, he will be furiousss.”

“Quite,” I said. “Permit me to enter, and I will do just that.” The Snakeman considered this for a moment, before relenting and stepping aside. His fellow warrior did likewise.

“I appreciate your dissscretion, massster. I think you will sssee that thisss matter isss more than sssensssitive enough to warrant sssuch measures,” the Chameleon wheedled as soon as we were out of earshot and walking through the torch-lit halls of the Sun Temple.

“You can appreciate me all you like when I have gone back to sleep,” I bit back at the worker. “Just show me what you found, and I’ll be the judge of the rest.” In response, the Chameleon averted his gaze and scampered down the hall slightly faster.

He led me through a stone archway into a vestibule that must at one point have allowed access to the eastern hall of the temple, but had crumbled in some long-forgotten war. Now that Grendel’s family name was in resurgence, there was finally motivation and manpower to fully restore his temple, and Chameleons had been working on the repairs day and night since we arrived.

A support had been erected to brace the doorway out of the vestibule, which led to a wide, low corridor. The corridor was more or less half-collapsed, with rubble strewn everywhere. The outer wall was completely obscured by huge blocks of volcanic rock. The Chameleon and I picked our way through the rubble, and I noticed several tools lying about on the floor among the rocks, seemingly abandoned in a hurry.

At the end of the corridor was a stairwell that led down. I stared at it a moment, blinking. We were still on ground level, of that much I was certain. Like most Ssrathi, I had a healthy and primal fear of the underground, and it was unusual, though certainly not unheard of, for Ssrathi structures to extend below the ground.

“Come, thisss way!” the Chameleon jabbered excitedly and grabbed a torch off a wall fixture. I drew myself up to my full height, and followed him to the stairwell.

The stairwell was mostly collapsed, and the Chameleon and I were forced to jump between sections of the stone stairs. They were of an unusually ornate and presumably ancient style of construction, essentially square pillars that jutted out from the walls in descending spiral order. As we descended what must have been at least three stories down, I noticed an odd, musty odor, and fast, chittering voices echoing up from below.

At the bottom of the stairwell was a hastily constructed mining lift for ferrying rubble up, and a makeshift camp for the Chameleon workers, with tools, dried meat and impromptu nests arranged around a weakly glowing fire.

My Chameleon guide led me through another low, square archway and into a foyer adjacent to the last landing of the stairwell. There were about seven or eight Chameleons jabbering to each other in the high-pitched chirping croaks of their language. I cleared my throat and spoke.

“Avert your eyes and be fearful; your better is amongst you.” The Chameleons immediately fell silent and bowed their heads. “I presume the find is this way?” I asked my guide, indicating a doorway to my right. There was another to my left, but it was completely blocked by rubble.

“Yesss, yesss, come quickly, massster,” the guide chirped.

“I will go in first, thank you,” I said. The Chameleon obediently passed me his torch, and I stepped through the doorway.

A huge collapse of rubble had rendered a good two-thirds of the large room impassable. The room was surprisingly bright, and the light was certainly not coming from my torch. It seemed that the rubble had fallen from a hole in the roof of the room, which, amazingly, was letting sunlight in. A sharply defined beam of dull, cold light shone directly down on the peak of the rubble mound, illuminating lazily drifting dust and casting a diffuse glow throughout the room.

“There ssseemsss to have been an air duct leading to the sssurface, massster,” the Chameleon explained as I climbed the rubble mound. “But what kind of army could have causssed this kind of damage, I could not sssay.”

“Dragons, I’ll wager, or maybe catapults,” I said, reaching the sunbeam and closing my eyes as I basked in the dawn light. Not exactly direct sunlight, but pleasant nonetheless. “Don’t tell me you brought me all the way down here to show me this?” I asked and opened my eyes.

“No, no, massster, thisss! Come, quick!” the Chameleon squealed, as if suddenly reminded of why we were here. He scampered around the rubble to the opposite side of the room, and I strode down the mound to where he was heading.

“Here!” the Chameleon said, pointing, but the far wall was not well enough lit by the sunlight or my torch. I picked my way down through the rocks, until finally, the torch pushed the darkness away.

The remains of a stone altar were built into the wall, complete with a miniature scrying pool and gargoyle-like statue of Couatl leering out of an alcove above. On either side of the alcove were archless doorways leading to narrow, tunnel-like corridors that led into pitch darkness.

But it was what lay in front of the altar that completely arrested my attention.

Two collections of bones that were unquestionably near-complete Ssrathi skeletons lay on the floor, one slumped partway over the altar, and the other splayed across the floor, less than a foot from the altar’s base. Both of them had various pieces of incredibly ornate jewelry arrayed around them, including rings still on finger bones and bracelets and anklets still on forearms and around shinbones. Both had large, vicious-looking swords still in their hand, or, in the case of the one on the altar, the sword and all the bones of the hand lay in a neat pile where they had no doubt fallen when the flesh and ligaments holding the hand together had finally disintegrated.

The other skeleton, which was closer to me and further from the wall, had something on its head, a crown of some sort. I brought my torch closer, the flickering flame giving the grim death’s head the momentary appearance of life. I recognized the crown instantly.

“In Couatl’s holy name,” I muttered. There was a chitter behind me, and it took me a moment to realize that the Chameleon was talking to me.

“What was that?” I asked, eyes still fixed on the crown. Could it be…?

“Pretty amazing, yesss massster?” The Chameleon said.

“Yes… yes, absolutely,” I said distractedly, mind racing.

“Want to sssee sssomething even more incredible?”

I turned around and gave him what I surmise must have been a look of supreme disbelief.

“More incredible?”

“Oh, yesss, yesss, come, quick,” he said, and scurried into one of the two doorways on either side of the altar. I walked behind him into the tunnel, taking care not to step on the second skeleton. I suddenly wondered if it was wise to leave the crown there in plain sight, but decided it was safe, if only for a few moments.

The tunnel curved gently, and its shape suggested the inside of a snake. It was short, and after only a few seconds, we emerged into spectacular splendor.

It was incredible. The gold was piled so high that the tall room seemed to go on forever. The torch reflected the surface of what must have been dozens of statues, swords, amulets, pendants and orbs, and coins that must have numbered in the thousands.

There were long, sweeping mounds of treasure stretching from wall to stone wall, and massive, monolithic statues of Snakemen adorned the walls, ferocious-looking idols with stone fangs bared. There were goblets, rubies, amethysts, jades, ceremonial swords and ornamental axes, all of them amazingly of Ssrathi origin; there was not a single piece of foreign treasure visible anywhere.

“Amazing, yesss?” the Chameleon said from behind me.

“Yes, quite… quite.”

My mind raced furiously. There must be a sign here somewhere, a symbol…

…yes. There. Carved into a pendant draped over a fabulously ornate throne. A vicious, hellish glyph of contradicting curves and lines; simple, yet unmistakable. Incredible. After all these years…

I froze. The crown on the Ssrathi’s head…

I ran back into the room with the skeletons and the altar, which I now realized was a tomb. The skeleton with the crown, it must be him…

No. That’s impossible.

And yet, there they were: the unmistakable rudimentary frill horns, just above and behind the cheekbones. Only one bloodline in Keshan had those horns.

And he wears the crown.

There was but one thing to do. For the good of all Ssrathi. For the Sun God.

I experimentally tried the doorway to the right of the altar, the one we hadn’t gone through earlier; as I surmised, it, too, led to the treasure vault. I turned to face the Chameleon, who had been at my heels the whole time.

“Worker,” I said, trying to affect an air of elation. “You and your nest-brothers have stumbled upon an amazing find, one sure to be written into all books of Ssrathi history. You have done your people a great service today, and to reward you all, I want you to bring all your brothers in here, and you may take as much gold as you can carry.”

“To keep?” the stunned Chameleon squealed, unable to believe his eardrums.

“To keep,” I said, nodding.

The Chameleon bounded out of the room, jibbering and chittering. I stayed in the vault, and began chanting quietly, preparing to summon.

Sure enough, he returned moments later with the other eight Chameleons, who greedily assaulted the treasure with hide sacks, throwing what they could into them.

I finished the incantation.

I opened my mouth, and Couatl’s anger spewed forth from it in the form of a venomous cloud, green and noxious as death itself.

The two Chameleons nearest to me were instantly affected, the poison burning through the scales on the backs of their heads, peeling and shriveling their flesh into desiccated strips. They clawed at their eye sockets as their contents melted.

Three more Chameleons were within five feet of me. They had time to turn in the direction of their brothers, but one breath of the poison cloud induced sharp, violent coughs that brought up wet gobs of bloody mucus. One of them lived long enough to cough most of his lungs into his hands.

I raised my staff and ignited a ball of fire from its end with a thought. The fireball lanced out at one of the four remaining Chameleons and caught him full on in the face. His head was reduced to a blackened, smoking ruin, the skull itself melting and refusing into a warped nightmare version of itself.

Three remained. One came at me from the right with one of the swords in the tomb; a brave one. I deflected his simple blow with my staff, and caught him with a backhand lash of a talon. He went flying into a heap of treasure.

I turned to my left just in time to catch one of the other two trying to flee through a doorway. I brought up my staff, and as he ran past me, jabbed it into the side of his head, hard, and was rewarded with a sharp crack of vertebrae snapping. He crumpled, head twisted at an angle that was not survivable.

The last one fought back, his claws gaining purchase on the staff and pushing, but I was much too strong. He backpedaled, tripping over a goblet and onto the treasure. I swung the staff, but he lashed out, knocking it from my grip.

There was a mad scramble as we scuffled. Finally, I got a firm grip on his head, pulling it toward me as he screamed, and then smashing it back against the hard pile of gold he lay on. His limbs flew out desperately; I smashed his head against the gold again, again and again, until finally, he lay still.

The room was silent again.

***

I hastily covered the skeletons by the altar with rocks from the rubble, and ascended the stairwell in darkness. Once I reached the top, it was simply a question of precision: I aimed my staff at a specific place in the still-weak roof over the stairwell, and fired.

The fireball had the desired effect; the roof collapsed completely, its pieces obliterating most of what little there was left of the steps. The rocks cracked against each other with deafening force, shaking the ground under my feet.

When the collapse had subsided, I peeked over the edge of the ruined stairwell. At the bottom lay not only the roof, but almost every single one of the ornate, rectangular steps, their awkward size and angle contributing heavily to the blockage, which I assumed was complete.

Predictably, the guards came running.

“What wasss that noissse, Sssnakepriessst?” one of them called from the other end of the long, low corridor.

“There has been… a terrible accident! A cave-in! It seems all the Chameleons were killed!” I exclaimed breathily.

“A cave-in?” the guard said as they approached me cautiously. “And they are all dead?”

“So it would seem,” I replied. The guards reached the edge of the stairwell and looked down.

“You are unhurt, priessst?” the guard said.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then what isss the harm? They were only Chameleonsss, after all. Ssservesss them right for ssslacking off,” the guard said, and turned around. His fellow warrior accompanied him as they marched back toward the entrance of the Sun Temple.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

***

There was no investigation. I made my report to the Seers that same day, leaving nothing out, and they congratulated me: my actions were unassailable, given what was at stake. They assured me that a cadre of select, trusted Snakepriests would personally enter the tomb via the air vent I had seen, remove the gold and destroy the skeletons.

The next day, Grendel, Jexdar, Yinfur and I rode to Sekaxetl on the western shore, and sailed across the ruby with a small army of Snakemen and Dinosaurs, tracking the Barbarian weapon we’d found in New Selentia.

A day’s bartering and negotiating with the Daros tribesmen told us that the weapon had been given to the rebel Zandorn by a pair of Wood Elves, Tirana and Telless, and they had since sailed to the Isle Of Dawn, by way of the Dragon’s Maze.

Reasoning that the wood elves would not have bothered with the treacherous maze unless they were in a hurry, we set sail immediately for the Isle of Dawn, assuming time was of the essence. Dawnside was, for the most part, pastoral rolling hills covered by verdant grasses, with majestic purple mountains always visible in one direction or another; I hated it, and longed for the jungle.

We were well received by the Knights of Guardia upon our arrival at the island, staunch allies of the Emperor that they were. They led us to Draxtrul, one of Lord Antharg’s priests who had smuggled himself onto the island along with a small contingent of Plague creatures and weaponsmiths. He had made the weapon.

As worrying as it was to find that the enemies of the Emperor were unifying in their desperation, the immediate problem seemed easily solved: locally recruited Minotaur trackers informed us that Draxtrul, Tirana and Telless had erected a small village just northeast of the Gap of Palmyr. We took four Knights with us.

***

The battle was pure chaos.

We happened upon a Wood Elf patrol just north of the Gap; Woodriders and Elven Hunters, for the most part. There was a flurry of screamed challenges, followed by the inevitable arrows. The Knights chased the Elves back to what I assumed were the outskirts of the Plaguelord/Wood Elf camp, judging by the quaint, ornate towers that were suddenly pummeling us with arrows and bolts of magic.

We fell back to the foothills of a mountain, and had the peasants we’d taken with us get to work on some defensive fixtures; we’d barely erected them in time when the plague beasts descended upon us.

Huge Hydras, every head tearing into a different one of our Swordsmen, and those horrible floating eyes, hovering over the battlefield spewing magic from their pupils, entrail-like tentacles dripping green plague on us from above. Horrible, mindless Ghouls came at us in droves, swinging primitive clubs and heaving disease onto everything in sight. I found some high ground on a slope leading to the local gold mine and begun blasting the creatures with fire.

Grendel was magnificent. He plowed fearlessly through the lot of them, his sword decapitating a Ghoul with every swing, it seemed. A Pyrohydra reared one of its heads, ready to immolate us all with a single breath, but Grendel bounded up, over one of the Knights and directly at the creature’s neck. A single blow severed that particular head, and a single deep thrust between its ribs left it chortling, dying.

The Knights led the countercharge once the Hydras were dead, with Grendel and the Nagai bringing up the rear. I was to stay behind and guard the camp, as was customary. I watched as the others rode off, leaving dead Ghouls and carnage in their wake.

And I turned to find the most surprising, yet most familiar face before me.

“What are you doing here?” I balked.

“The Ssrathi are a despicable growth on the surface of Etheria, and their time is coming soon. They must all die, so my people can be free. Justice is coming, and your death will be the first of millions.”

The pain came from below, the side of my gut. My hide was sliced open from the hip to the lowest rib on my left side. My knees buckled from the pain, and I instinctively reached for the wound, only to find my innards were spilling out from the deep, wide wound.

I looked up, seeking something from my killer.

Then came the blow to my neck, and I could seek no more from anything.

CHAPTER V: A River Once Ran Through It

This chapter is narrated by Lord Somnour, a Paladin serving the Selentine Emperor.

“Your proposal is... acceptable,” the Lord of Famine hissed, the massive bulk of his snakelike body and eighteen legs shifting on his throne. He bristled with hair, his loathsome, sneering void of a face projecting such intense hatred that I had to suppress a shudder.

“I hate to be pedantic, O High One, but technically, it’s the Emperor’s proposal,” I said, my boots kicking lightly at the sand on the massive chamber’s floor. “And, I mean, it’s not really a proposal, is it? It’s an offer, an offer of assistance to cement an alliance which is as beneficial to the Swarm as it is to the Empire.”

Melkor’s throne room was a huge underground hall with two rows of columns lining both of the long walls, and every square inch of the walls and the columns were covered in indecipherable hieroglyphs. The only light came through several randomly placed openings in the ceiling, seemingly formed when pieces of the ceiling had simply fallen out and not been repaired. The chamber was oppressively hot and dry. I had brought with me a cup of ice water, but the ice had melted remarkably quickly, and the cup now held nothing but preternaturally stale, warm water with a generous helping of sand floating about in it. Convalia and Gronkara stood on either side of me and slightly behind me, clearly in awe of the immortal being.

“All proposals to me are offers; all offers you make are proposals. And when I speak of ‘you,’ mortal, I speak of all mortals,” Melkor said, yellow eyes narrowed. “Now go, and do your betters’ bidding. And take your slaves with you.”

***

The surface of the Realm of Famine was no more habitable than the throne room below it, but it did have the added bonus of not having to be in the presence of that hideous old beast. Convalia, Gronkara and I were walking (or, in their case, slithering) through the bustling hive of activity known as the Western Mounds. The Mounds were essentially thousands upon thousands of nests for Melkor’s insectoid horde of servants, who were known as the Swarm.

The nests were huge pylons of hardened mud and sand, stretching dozens of feet toward the cloudless sky above the desert, with six-foot-long giant ants scurrying between them. Massive wasps buzzed above the upper levels of stone hatcheries and hives, carrying honey and larva, and repugnant Harpies sat perched on top of statues and dunekeeps, eyeing us hungrily. It was all overseen by Scorpionmen, eight-legged arachnoids with disturbingly human-like torsos who patrolled the nests. Their heads were desiccated skulls, grinning eerily at the three of us as we walked back to our camp.

What in blazes was Melkor getting at with that ‘slaves’ thing? Was he trying to drive a wedge between us and the Ssrathi? And if so, wouldn’t there be a better way to do it than to demean two Nagai in person? Or was he plotting something more elaborate, more sinister?

He’s the Lord of Famine; he’s always plotting something, I realized. I tried to think what, but the Nagai’s constant sissing was distracting me. Convalia and Gronkara had been hissing at each other non-stop since we left the throne room, and I had finally had enough.

“What in the Lion’s name are the two of you going on about?”

“Sorry, Lord Somnour. We have never been in the presence of a Great One before. It is... exhilarating,” Gronkara explained apologetically.

“Great One?” I said and snorted. “There’s nothing ‘great’ about sitting around under a sand dune and ordering undead bugs to do all your work for you. Which brings me to another point: why are we being given this assignment, and not a Scorpionpriest, or one of Melkor’s generals? I’m starting to think that Melkor only wants Imperials doing this to prove he’s better than us, that fighting the Fey is beneath him.”

“That seems rather petty for one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” Convalia said, tilting her head.

“And some apocalypse that was,” I said contemptuously.

“What do you mean, Lord Somnour?” Gronkara asked.

“Well, we’re all still here, aren’t we?”

“Perhaps the apocalypse the Horsemen seek to bring about is a gradual one, a slow one,” Convalia said. “You forget that they are immortal; a thousand years is but the blink of an eye to them.”

I stopped and turned around to face the Nagai.

“And what about the Fey? How does it serve the needs of an immortal to have us chase some Fey git through the most inhospitable mountains in Etheria?”

“I do not know, but he is the Patient One, the Cautious One,” Convalia said simply. “He has plans, and we are not privy to them; I believe it would be folly for us to think we can decipher them.”

***

The mountains of Northern Diraq were about as bleak a place as the Emperor could possibly send anyone, I found myself thinking as we approached the village. Oh well. Less than a week’s journey from a burning desert to a freezing mountain; say what you will about serving the Emperor, at least it wasn’t boring.

Darkness was falling rapidly on the mountain, and our horses were nearing exhaustion from trundling through the blizzard. The village, small and pathetic as it was, was the first we’d seen of civilization since the K'Ogari trade camp we’d left three days ago. The relative shelter of the low wooden buildings was enough for me to undo my scarf and single out the building which would most likely serve our needs.

“That should be the inn,” I yelled over the blizzard and pointed. Convalia weakly raised her head and gave what I perceived to be a nod, although it was hard to tell, swaddled as she was with hides. The cold was hard on the reptiles.

We guided the horses into the stables next door to the inn, where I paid the hostler.

“I trust this will be enough to ensure the horses will be fed enough for another day’s march tomorrow, and that our belongings will be left in peace,” I said as I hung my greatcoat near the hearth in the corner of the barn. When I got no reply, I turned to the hostler. He was staring past me at something “Are you listening, boy?”

“Hmn? Yes! Yes, of course, my Lord. I’l make sure no one touches anything,” he blurted out, pocketing the coins. I followed his line of sight; he was staring at the Nagai as they disrobed. I sighed, and walked over to them.

“Listen,” I said to them quietly. “I think it would be best if you stayed here with the horses while I negotiate for rooms and hire a tracker. Your kind is... rarely seen this far north. I’d hate for the Fey to know that we’re coming.”

“Understood, my Lord. I fear they would not enjoy watching us eat, anyway,” Convalia said, and looking past her, noticed that Gronkara was unloading a wrapped and conspicuously human-body-shaped package from the last horse.

“Agreed,” I said and swallowed.

***

The inn was as most inns were: oppressively warm, decidedly foul-smelling and packed with unsavory characters of various races. After roughly an hour of inquiry, bribery and slowly drinking the utterly vile locally-brewed ale the Elven innkeeper served me, I also came to the decision that this particular inn came with its own special undercurrent of racial tension, restrained violence and a complete lack of respect for personal space.

“Stinking Human,” an Orc muttered drunkenly into his mug as we both stood by the bar.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked calmly, not even bothering to face the brute.

“You heard me, pinky. I dunno where you got that Orcish sword, but it sure as shit-stained shackles weren’t no gift,” the Orc said, and I could smell his breath as he turned to me. ‘Miasmic’ was a mild word I’d use to describe it; that or ‘leprous.’

“Mm? And how are you so sure I didn’t buy it from one of your brothers? A fair exchange? Not all Orcs are idiotic bigots like you, you know.” I looked him straight in the eye, brow raised in condescension.

“Why, you stinking-“ the Orc growled, lunging, but that was as far as he got. He collapsed onto the floor, face smacking loudly into a puddle of what I hoped for his sake was water. We both looked over his shoulder to ascertain what he’d tripped over (though I didn’t put it past the fellow to have slipped in his own urine), and found a sturdy-looking Dwarf with a white-flecked blond beard standing over the Orc. In his hands was an equally sturdy-looking axe, the hilt of which was inclined laterally away from the fellow, and had obviously caused the Orc’s tumble.

“If I were ye, I’d not be shillin’ out the word ‘stinkin’ too liberally, if ye catch my drift, ‘cause the rest of us are certainly catchin’ a bit too much a yer drift,” the Dwarf said calmly. The inn had fallen silent. I saw the innkeeper surreptitiously unsheathe the dagger in his belt, but I caught his eye and shook my head; reluctantly, he holstered the weapon, but kept his hand on the hilt.

The Orc roared, scrambling to his feet, but instantly found his nose less than an inch from the Dwarf’s axe blade. He froze for a moment. I drew my sword halfway out of its scabbard in such a way as to make the hiss of the Orcish ore on the leather particularly audible, and this seemed to bring him out of it. He looked back at me, and then down at the Dwarf and his axe. He straightened his shoulders, trying to regain some of his dignity, and strode toward the door.

“That’s right,” the Dwarf said, watching the Orc closely as he gathered his things and left. The din of conversation cautiously raised itself to its former level.

“I thank you, O Dwarf. May I repay the favor with an ale?” I said, holstering my sword.

“Anything deserving of repayment with the bilge they serve here would have to include severe head and bowel trauma, Major Somnour, but ye’d do well to at least try to remember an old comrade, and maybe buy him some Dawnside whiskey, if the wages of sin can buy us anything prewar,” the Dwarf said, thumbs in belt. I scanned his face carefully, wracking my brain for a good ten seconds before it dawned on me.

“The last stand at Kree’Af’Ak,” I said. The Dwarf nodded sagely in reply. “Perhaps we’d better get ourselves a booth.”

“Perhaps,” the Dwarf said, eyes locked with mine.

***

“So, they made you a Lord,” said Dhrurakh the Dwarf Lord. We sat at a booth, a large, circular wooden table between us. On the table was a single candle, a single whiskey bottle and two beautifully cast iron cups that Dhrurakh never went anywhere without, apparently.

“Yes, but I own no land or castle. A lord in the Imperial Knights, and an Initiate of the First Circle,” I offered. Dhurakh chuckled at that.

“Ach, the Circle, eh? Are ye a spellcaster now?”

“I’ve always had a bit of wizard’s blood in me. I’ve heard it said that my mother may have been one of Taran-Ish’s illegitimate daughters.”

“Hah! The High Priest of the Sunken City! Bet Old Snakeboot’s courtiers aren’t too pleased with that!”

I smirked as I sipped my whiskey before replying.

“No, they’re not, and how dare you speak of the Lord Emperor in such a way,” I said calmly. “If he is a boot, then he is made of the finest Diraqine leather.” Dhrurakh roared with laughter, drawing stares and smiles. “Tell me Dhrurakh; how did you get out of Kree’Af’Ak alive? The Emperor must have hired every Gnoll and Dark Elf from Khazdhul to the Ruby to kill the last of your people in the West.”

“Aye,” Dhurakh said, a wistful gleam coming into his eye as he sipped his whiskey. “After the Betrayal, and the Final Siege, word spread fast that the Emperor was alive, and furious. I figured, since we’d just given them a damn good thrashing, I’d stand a better chance among the Dark Dwarves than I did south o’ the Sandy City.”

“So?” I asked when Dhrurakh did not continue.

“So, I snuck into one o’ the dungeons and broke out a Dark Dwarf we’d captured in the battle, rescued him like, and convinced him we’d have to work together to escape.”

I grinned, fairly certain I knew what was coming.

“We high-tailed it out o’ Diraq, sure we’d half the Imperial Guard after us. I left the Dark Dwarf for dead in the Twilight Woods, and used his armor to sneak into Khazdhul. I knew the Emperor was too smart to try to attack the city directly, and that once he’d simmered down a bit, he’d realize that killing every Dwarf in Etheria was not in his best interest,” he mumbled, eyes still distant. He sipped his whiskey again. “I got myself hired as a tracker when an Orc band started raiding the mines south o’ Khazdhul. My identity was revealed, but the Dark Dwarves let me go, thankful I’d helped them kill the Orcs.”

“That is quite a tale,” I said. “Do you think any others survived?”

“Dwarf Lords? I doubt it, at least not in the West. I’m told the East still holds, but... I fear I am the last Dwarf Lord west of the ocean.”

“And no-one suspects?”

“Here?” Dhrurakh asked, incredulous. “In this muck?” He gestured towards the rabble seated around us. “I doubt any o’ these bogsuckers would know a Dwarf Lord from a dead dog, much less any other Dwarf.”

“So here you are,” I said, watching Dhrurakh carefully, trying to estimate where his loyalties lay. Would he seek to right his grievances by betraying me, stabbing in the back at an oppurtune moment?

“So here I am,” he repeated, looking me in the eye. I made a decision.

“Are you still working as a tracker?”

“Mostly, aye, though occasional mercenary work does come my way.”

“Care to make enough money to sail back east and still have enough left over to buy your own citadel?”

“Working for Old Snakeboot?” Dhurakh’s voice was relatively level, but there was a dark, dangerous undercurrent to his tone.

“Yes... and no. Yes, you’d be working for me, and yes, I work for the Emperor, but think of what you could do with the money back east. You could hire dozens of mercenaries, or bribe some Gildine Knights to look the other way while you slip through the forest into Enmouth. I’d even suggest hiring more engineers to help with that tunnel under Elenia that I know for a fact your people are digging, but I think that money would be better spent on a plan the Emperor doesn’t already know about, don’t you?”

There was a long moment of silence between us. I downed my whiskey, uncorked the bottle and refilled our cups. I raised my cup, and waited expectantly.

Dhrurakh raised his cup to eye level, but not towards mine.

“If we do this,” he said warily. “We do it my way. There’ll be no Imperial troops with us, no court lackeys, wizards, generals or anyone who might be able to recognize me.”

“Of course,” I said. “I suspected that overt Imperial action in the mountains would raise undue attention anyway, as well as causing supply problems, so I’ve opted for a more... subtle touch.”

“Explain,” Dhrurakh demanded.

“You know what the most amazing thing about the Swarm is?” I asked idly. “All you need to take with you is one egg. One! And provided the queen receives enough nutrients...” I parted my hands, mimicking an explosion. “...and boom. In a few days, you have an army. It is a mystery why the Slender One is so renowned for his patience; he could probably take over Etheria in a matter of months, if he wanted.” Dhrurakh shuddered, absently toying with his still-raised whiskey.

“The Swarm,” he said. “Old Snakeboot’s really gone and stepped in it this time. He’s really gone and...”

“...and soiled his snakeboots?” I quipped when Dhrurakh trailed off. The Dwarf’s reply was halfway between a snicker and a snort. “Now, are we going to do this or not? My arm is getting tired.”

Dhrurakh frowned abjectly, but touched his cup to mine and drank the contents in one gulp.

“Alright,” he said as I drank, finishing my cup. “Well, are you going to tell me who’s so foolish as to have incurred the wrath of both the Emperor and the Sand King?”

“He’s a Fey,” I said, refilling the cups. “A Paladin, knighted by the Forestmaster himself. He’s been harassing the Slender One’s northern keeps for months. Normally, neither Melkor nor the Emperor would pay much attention to the Fey, but this one’s ventured pretty far out of the Woods, and we can’t have him causing trouble and getting away with it. Not here. Not now. Sets a dangerous example to the locals.”

“Is that the official explanation, or did ye just cook that one up on the spot fer me?” Dhrurakh asked matter-of-factly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, you’re obviously doing this as a favor to the horrible old spider in the desert. The Emperor couldn’t care less about some border dispute up in the mountains. Which leaves me to wonder; why would Melkor want a Fey Paladin dead?”

I gave the old Dwarf no answer.

“See, I don’t think you know, either,” he continued, stroking his beard. “But ye’re a patriot, like I am, and ye’re going to kill him without ever asking why, so what I want to know is whether ye’re stupid enough to believe this is about some piddling abductions, or whether ye think I’m stupid enough to believe that.”

“Abductions?” I asked, my head snapping up. “What abductions?”

“I thought ye said that this Fey had been abducting people,” Dhrurakh said, voice still calm, but there was a slight panic behind his eyes.

“No, I just said Melkor’s keeps were being raided. I never said what was being taken,” I said evenly.

“Are ye sure ye didnay?”

“Quite. See, I don’t know what the Fey’s been taking; I merely assumed it was resources. This is the first I hear of any abductions.” There was another long silence.

“Bloody whiskey,” the Dwarf said. “I never could keep my mouth shut after a tipple.”

We held each other’s gaze for a good long while before we burst out laughing, and I refilled our glasses.

“You mad old git,” I said. “You haven’t changed a bit since the Stand.”

“And neither have you, ye slippery wee snake,” Dhrurakh spat, and roared with laughter.

“So, tell me about these abductions, then.”

“Well, what I’ve heard is this,” Dhrurakh began, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Apparently, some mercenaries heading north for work got lost. Took the wrong road, and ended up on Keepers’s Bluff, and had to spend the night in one of the old dragon caves.”

“Go on.”

“Now, when the old merc woke up, there were Spriggans crossing the frozen river in the valley beneath the bluff. Spriggans with prisoners in tow.”

“What kind of prisoners?”

“The kind with too many legs, and pincers instead of hands.”

“Scorpionmen!?”

“So it would seem,” Dhrurakh said, leaning back and raising his eyebrows. “The Spriggans bore the sigil of a Fey named Tarragon.”

“You know of him? Tarragon, I mean?”

“Aye; I’ve heard of him, never met ‘im,” Dhrurakh said and took a drink. “A Paladin; a capitulator and a pragmatist, for a Fey. Tends to take a long view of things, or so I’m told.”

“Not the type to go rogue, then?”

“Not at all.”

“And the Forestmaster’s not on the warpath, is he?”

“No,” Dhrurakh chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s much too smart to fight the Empire by his lonesome, and much too principled to ask for help.” Dhrurakh “You think Tarragon’s yer man? Or should I say ‘your Fey?’”

“Almost certainly; there can’t be more than one Fey Paladin running around here raiding Swarm nests.”

“And what the blazes do you think he’s doing taking Scorpionmen prisoner?”

“Well,” I said and sighed. “We’ll have to ask him that when we find him, won’t we?”

***

It was morning and I deeply regretted drinking at least half of the whiskey I’d had the night before. Irritatingly, Dhrurakh appeared none the worse for the wear as we packed our horses; the famous Dwarven constitution was not a mere myth, it seemed.

“Lord Somnour, is it wise to trust this Dwarf?” Convalia asked me, keeping her voice low so Dhrurakh wouldn’t hear.

“When you’re on the winning side, you don’t have to be wise,” I retorted. “And if you question my judgement once more, you will learn how well wisdom will serve you on the Keshan front. I hear the rebel tribes are constantly competing to devise the most horrifying punishment for captured collaborators.” Convalia spoke no more of the matter after that.

Dhrurakh led us miles into the mountains. The cold wasn’t so bad during the daytime as we ventured further west than I’d ever been. On dusk of the third night, I was sitting by our campfire consulting my maps when Dhrurakh came out of his tent and laughed at me.

“What is it? What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Go on and toss those into the fire, young lord. They’ll do more good as kindling, trust me.” I sighed and rolled them up, but not before seriously considering doing as he said.

“Has any of this been mapped by anyone?” I asked, exasperated.

“Aye, but not by Men.”

“By Dwarves?”

“Some of it, aye, but most of it by the Fey. Legend holds they ruled the West from the Wastes all the way to Daros, and further west than even your friend, the Lord of Husks.”

“Then what chance have we of finding Tarragon if his people know every crack and crevice of these mountains?” I griped, frustrated.

“Fear not, young lord. He won’t venture far north of the snowline; he’ll be around here somewhere.”

“How do you know this?” Gronkara asked.

“They’re Fey, not Ice Elves. They get just as cold as we do, and have you tried stuffing an Oakman into a greatcoat?”

“Surprised we haven’t run into them, then,” I remarked, gazing distractedly into the fire.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that, young lord,” Dhurakh said. When no elaboration was forthcoming, I looked up and found him peering up into one of the mountains west of us through a short telescope.

“We are being watched,” Convalia said, rearing into an attack stance, her claws at the ready. Her sister Naga followed suit.

“Easy, snakewoman, easy,” Dhurakh said gesturing for calm with his free hand. The Nagai relaxed, if only slightly.

“How can you see anything through that?” I asked, using my hand to shield my eyes from the fiercely burning sunset.

“Here,” Dhurakh said, handing me the telescope. I gave him a dubious glance before raising it to my eye, and found, much to my amazement, that the view through the telescope was as if it were noon on a clear day. Experimentally, I tried training the telescope directly at the sun; it was as if it was invisible. It simply wasn’t there. “Rune magic,” Dhurakh said assuredly.

“What am I looking for?” I asked once I’d regained my composure.

“See those ledges just above the treeline? About a span right and a half-span down from where you’re looking?”

I adjusted the telescope just in time to catch an odd, jerking movement of something maroon against the greens, greys and whites of the treeline. I was about to lose my patience with Dhurakh when a rapid fluttering and flapping brought a familiar sight above the trees: a Faerie Dragon. It flapped its wings a few times to gain altitude, then sped off into the sun.

“So they know we’re here,” I said.

“Can we track it?” Gronkara asked.

“On foot? No, but it’s only a matter of time now. They’ll come for us. All we have to do is give them the oppurtunity, and they’ll come to us,” Dhrurakh said calmly.

“And then we take them?” Gronkara asked gleefully.

“And then we take them,” I said, nodding. “And then we take them.”

***

It had been more than a week since we’d left the village, and our supplies were running low. On our ninth morning, we spotted a somber column of smoke in the sky to our north. We set out in its direction and, after an hour’s hike, came across what appeared to be the remnants of a Fey camp that had been sloppily deserted not long ago.

“I don’t get it,” I asked no-one in particular as I examined the camp for clues. “If they know where we are, and they know we’re tracking them, why camp so close to us and bolt when we approach?”

“I don’t know,” I was dismayed to hear Dhrurakh say as he squinted up at the mountains around us, axe at the ready. “Perhaps they weren’t ready for us? Some sort of mistake?”

“Unlikely,” Gronkara said, drawing blank stares from the rest of us. “If these Fey truly have been raiding Swarm nests, they would be ready for anything, including Melkor’s retribution.”

“...which we sort-of are, come to think of it,” I conceded.

“Hrn? What’s that, young lord?” Dhrurakh asked, turning to me.

“Melkor’s retribution,” I explained. “We are, I mean. They have to have been expecting us all along, or at least prepared for us, or someone like us-“

“Shht!” Convalia hissed. “What is that?”

And as I listened, there was a faint sound all around us, a whispery rustling...

“Ambush!” Dhrurakh yelled. I drew my sword and shrugged off my coat. Something like a dozen burly Minotaurs (Minotaurs?) were suddenly all around us brandishing labryses, and we whirled into combat.

One of them came at me, low and hunched, his labrys in his right hand. He snuffled, breath fogging in the near-frost. I heard Dhrurakh roar to my left, but couldn’t spare a glance as the Minotaur lunged, swing drawing across where my chest would have been had I not backpedaled. I brought the Orc sword up with a backhand slash, catching the Minotaur in his side; he howled, mortally wounded, and fell into a heap.

Another was at his heels, drawing his labrys back and preparing to hurl it at me with a crazed gleam in his eye when a massive axe swung into his chest from below, striking him in the sternum. His ribcage gave out with a sickening crunch, and he chortled out his last breath, labrys still in hand.

I looked down to find Dhrurakh standing there, absolutely drenched in blood. Behind him lay two disemboweled Minotaurs.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, already looking away from him and dropping into a combat stance, ready for the next opponent. He came, and Dhrurakh and I were back to back as the Minotaurs came at us again.

One of them charged me, swinging his labrys wildly. I countered with a high guard, hooking under the curve of the labrys and drawing the half-bull close enough for a kick to the groin. He lost his grip on his labrys, and I whirled through a complete left turn, taking the top of his skull off with my blow, horns and all. Brains and skull fragment speckled the snow to my left. I heard a wet thump and a satisfied grunt from Dhrurakh behind me, and the Nagai joined us, hissing gently as they drew up to my sides, forming a square as the Minotaurs encircled us completely.

“I am Somnour, a Knight Lord of the Emperor Morgan Blake!” I yelled as the Minotaurs circled us warily. I noticed a few Gnolls had joined them, as well as a Basilisk handler, who towed behind him two of the mighty lizards in a leash. “We are here by Imperial order, and our business does not concern you!”

“You kill our warriors! Blood for blood!” one of them, a shaman by the looks of him, yelled back.

“Ah... yes. That was... unfortunate. But, you see, they did attack us first, you daft clod!” I called.

“You truly are a master of diplomacy worthy of your title, young lord,” Dhrurakh said.

“No matter. We bring down wrath of Sartek on you; he will be judge of us all,” the shaman railed, shaking his staff at us.

“But I am a Knight Lord of the Selentine Empire! I have already earned the favor of Sartek, as dictated by the Drove of Chieftains in their accord with our benevolent Emperor!”

“And these bulls are the kings of these mountains,” said a new voice. The speaker came into the clearing, a bare-chested, axe-wielding Minotaur with two huge Minotaur kings with him. “And I am Akhlith, their chieftain, and we have not answered to Drove of Chieftains in a dragon’s age.” I lost my patience at that point.

“But we’re on the same bloody side!” I screamed in frustration, picturing the Fey riding further away by the minute.

“I dinna think they care, young lord,” Dhrurakh said, and, true enough, the Minotaurs came at us again. Within an hour, they were all dead.

***

“I just saw someone go in there!” I called to Dhrurakh two days later, bringing my horse to a halt. The meat and water we’d taken from the dead Minotaurs had restored us after the fight, and we had ridden further northeast down the trail that led away from the mountains. As our altitude decreased, as did our need for coats; I now wore a light cloak over my tunic, and the Nagai were nude again.

“Into the mausoleum?” Dhrurakh asked in disbelief, stopping his own horse. The black stone edifice was set forbiddingly into the foothills of the mountain to the right of the trail, the impossibly smooth and yet wicked-looking stonecraft obviously the handiwork of Dark Dwarves.

“The Fey?” Gronkara asked hungrily, her horse sidling up to mine. How she controlled that thing without the use of legs would be forever beyond me.

“Well... he was wearing a dark cloak, so no, probably not,” I said, and the disappointment was palpable.

“Is it worth caring about?” Dhrurakh asked. “Every moment we delay, the Fey draw closer to the Twilight Woods. If we lose them in there...”

“...they’re gone for good, yes, I know, I know, but I just...” I got off my horse and dusted myself off. “I’m just curious, and I mean, whoever’s in there might have seen the Fey go by, yes? Gotten an idea of how many of them there are? That’s information we could use.”

“Fat lot o’ good it’ll do if whoever’s in there lops yer head off soon as ye’ve taken the first step in,” Dhrurakh countered. “You’re paying me to track and kill Fey, not trespass in spooky-lookin’ tombs. I’m stayin’ here.”

“Right,” I said, more to myself than to the Dwarf. “Right.” I donned my helmet and drew my sword. I grabbed a stick of firewood from the pack on one of the horse saddles, and gestured to Convalia. She clicked her claws together and hissed, and a small volley of blue flame leaped from her hands and onto the stick. Once the impromptu torch was properly lit, I waved it to and fro a couple of times, and when it did not extinguish, gave it a satisfied nod and marched through the mausoleum’s open doorway with a confidence I did not feel.

The inside of the mausoleum was dark, predictably enough, and the blue flame from my torch cast eerie shadows as I walked.

The doorway took me straight into a narrow corridor, hewn with the same impossible accuracy and smoothness as the arch over the entryway. The corridor ended after about ten feet, upon which I was surprised to find myself in a large cave, far too wide for the torch to light. Reasoning that any pretense at stealth would pointless, I decided to test the cave’s extent by way of the volume of my echo.

“Hullo!” I called out. A thin ghost of my voice reverberated uniformly, and I realized that it wasn’t a cave; it was a chamber, a crypt of some sort.

“Hello?”

I jumped slightly as a voice called back from the darkness, gravelly, but not threatening.

I swallowed.

“Erm... hello?” I said, inching further into the blackness, gripping my sword tightly.

“Yes, I already said hello, now, what is it?” said the voice.

“Er... are you... a ghost?” I asked, taking another step forward.

“No,” said the disembodied voice.

And then, it was disembodied no more. Into the blue light wafted a pale, dessicated face, a horrid, pallid death’s-head-mask that appeared, somehow, to be clinging to a life that was not its own. The eyes were yellowed, lidless; the lips, or what remained of them, set into a permanent grimace, a disgusted frown glaring at me in the dark.

“Good Gods,” I muttered.

“Nor am I that,” the skull said. “I am a Liche.” I exhaled deeply, and forced my breathing back into control. It was around then that I noticed the smell wafting from the awful visage.

“I kind of wish you were a ghost. I’m told ghosts don’t smell as bad.”

“Bah! You’ll learn respect one day, you insolent whelp. Now, what are you doing in my tomb?”

“Well, first off, this isn’t really a tomb, is it? More of a mausoleum, if you ask me. Were you, ah, the one buried here, or did this belong to the body you stole?”

“I have stolen nothing!”

I raised my eyebrow.

“Besides, it’s not like he was using the damn thing,” the Liche admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

“Someone important, was he?”

“I presume so. I know there’s some treasure around here somewhere; I came in looking for a dagger or something to stab you with when I saw you coming down the road.”

“Charming,” I said, glancing around to confirm his statement, but saw no treasure in the blackness. “Listen, you wouldn’t happen to have tried to stab some other people around here too, have you?”

“Like who?” the Liche demanded.

“Like a short fellow, probably with antlers on his helmet. He would’ve had some others with him too, some Spriggans, Sylphs or Sprites and the like.”

“Sounds like a right berk,” the Liche grumbled. I let out a bemused chuckle, not sure what to make of this conversation.

“Yes... I imagine he is, though I’ve never met the fellow. But have you seen him?”

“There were some Fey passing through here the other day, but I didn’t see them,” said the Liche. “Don’t know if it was your man or not.”

“Then how do you know they were Fey?”

“Their singing,” the Liche said. “Oh, it was awful! The worst kind of caterwauling this side of...”

“Of?”

“Of everything!”

“Oh-kay... listen, seeing as how you dislike them so much, and seeing as how you’re an expert on, you know...”

“Death?”

“...yes, death, why don’t you come with me and hunt this fellow? We’re trying to catch him before he reaches the Twilight Woods, and I’m somewhat shorthanded at the moment. I understand that in order to be able to do what you do, you know, possess dead bodies and the like, you need to be able to reanimate corpses... is that true?” The Liche seemed to consider this.

“Yes,” he answered. “Only their bones, infused with whatever simple urges I bestow on them.” I shuddered to think what ‘urges’ this hellish being might think it appropriate to give another walking corpse.

“Well, soldiers don’t need much more than simple urges, do they? Someone who can raise skeletons would be very handy indeed right now.” I chewed my lip and gave him a look I knew to be very inspirational and convincing; I’d practiced it in my looking glass.

“Very well,” the Liche said after a while.

“Good,” I said. “I am Lord Somnour of the Imperial Knights. What can I call you?”

“A Liche.”

“Erm... okay. But what if I meet another Liche? It could get confusing, having to call both of you ‘Liche.’” The Liche gave me a look of something halfway between skepticism and offense.

“Hruldorn,” he said at last.

“Hruldorn. Great. Thank you. Now, can we get out of this cave, please? It’s spooky and it smells.”

***

But the smell did not go away once we left the cave, and I realized that the stench was indeed wafting off the undead wizard. We rode for another two days with that awful smell following us. Then, on the morning of the third day:

“IMPERIALS!”

The shout came from a bluff overlooking the trail, which I had come to realize was in fact a dry riverbed. We all looked up, and behold, there was the Fey Paladin, antlered helmet and all, sitting on his horse, a beautiful grey mare.

Convalia and Gronkara instantly sprang into action, conjuring balls of blue fire that shot out their outstretched hands at the Fey. Amazingly, he did not flinch, and the fireballs dissipated at a foot’s distance from him, dissolving into concave shells of energy that seemed to form a half-sphere around the fairy.

“A protective charm, or maybe even an incantation,” I said over my shoulder when the crackle of magic had died down. “You forget, he is a Paladin; he’ll know a few spells.” I turned up to face him. “Tarragon, I presume?” I called.

“Presume all you like, Imperial, but you will soon be on Fey land, and we both know you won’t last a day,” he called down. Though resonant, his voice was whisper-thin, like a silk scarf on a spiderweb, and a curious half-grin never left his face as he spoke. “They’ll never find any of you, or even know what happened to you. You’ll just... disappear.” He gestured grandiosely with a gloved hand.

“I am Somnour, a Knight Lord of the Empire. What makes you so sure we’re following you? This is a well-travelled path.”

“A lord you may well be, but I have known many knights, and you are no knight,” not even bothering to address my admittedly rather ridiculous claim that we weren’t tracking him.

“I’m certainly more of a knight than any of the feeble creatures you have following you, and those Minotaurs you oh-so-cunningly led us to,” I retorted. “And I know we’re gaining on you. Otherwise, why stop to chat? You know you can’t make it to the woods before we catch you, and you can’t win a straight fight against us.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’d have killed us yourself in the mountains, rather than letting those Minotaurs do your dirty work for you.”

“Perhaps I was just gauging you, testing your mettle.”

“Then you’d have stayed to watch, and you didn’t, did he, Dhrurakh?”

“No, sir. I would have seen him or his Fairy Dragons,” Dhrurakh said from behind me, loud enough for Tarragon to hear, before quietly adding: “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use my name before we’re sure we can kill him.”

“Sorry,” I said over my shoulder before turning back to Tarragon. “In any case, we killed the Minotaurs, just like we’ll kill you. That spell doesn’t protect you from my sword, or Dhru- I mean, the Dwarf’s axe,” I hastily corrected myself. Behind me, Dhrurakh sighed. “But it doesn’t have to end like that, does it? You could always just surrender. Or is that maybe the reason we’re here talking to each other? Are you giving up?”

“Dream on,” Tarragon said, chuckling, but it seemed forced. Damn it. He had been about to surrender, but now that I’d said it, he was too proud to admit it. Me and my big mouth.

“Then what are we doing here? If you could kill us, you’d have done it by now.”

“Honestly? I’m just curious,” he said, and it seemed he was telling the truth, at least partially. “Curious about why a Dwarf, a Liche and an Imperial lord are all the way out here doing the bidding of the King of Nothing.”

“Well, the Dwarf’s here for money, the Liche is here because he hates you, and I’m here because the Emperor and Melkor are trying to keep the peace here, a peace you supposedly ‘peaceful’ people keep buggering up by raiding our camps.” I realized that something was off about his question; it was what he hadn’t said that sparked my curiosity. “I notice you’re not interested in what the Nagai are doing here.”

“Oh, I know exactly what they’re doing here,” he said, his mellifluous tones dipping into a cynical, sarcastic sneer.

“And what is that?” I asked, furrowing my brow and preparing myself for more lies.

“They, too, serve the Slender One. Take heed, Imperial. The Nagai and the Lord of Husks are in cahoots, and will bring about your destruction and your Emperor’s death.”

“Lies,” Convalia hissed. I took a moment to process what I’d just heard.

“Even if this were true, why tell us?” I called to Tarragon. “Doesn’t it suit your needs just fine if we all go screaming to our deaths?”

There was a long pause.

“This used to be a river,” Tarragon said blankly.

“What?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“This,” Tarragon said, gesturing at the trail. “It used to be a river, when my grandfather was my age. It flowed all the way from the Fleece Mountains, through the Twilight Woods and into the Velvet Sea. It was beautiful, my grandfather said. My mother grew flowers outside our hut, flowers from seeds my grandfather collected here, these strange, vivid flowers that looked like nothing else, but my grandfather said they were nowhere near as beautiful as the ones that used to grow by this river. There were Faerie Rings everywhere here, Sylphs darting from bank to bank as the Pixies fished.” Tarragon had been off somewhere in his memories, his eyes distant as he spoke, but he now fixed them directly on me. “There were Unicorn groves here.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

“Why do you think they call him ‘the Lord of Famine?’” Tarragon asked back, leaning forward on his saddle. “It wasn’t until after the Sundering that the desert became a desert. It used to be forests, beautiful, verdant, green forests from Daros to Diraq. And now...” He fixed me with a peculiar stare, sad and resigned. “This used to be a river.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’d rather die by our hand than his?” I asked.

“That’s the gist of it, yes. If I’m going to live under a tyrant’s yoke, I’d rather it be a tyrant who isn’t slowly trying to poison the entire world; I’m sorry if that seems overly picky of me,” he quipped, haughty as ever. “But you’re right about one thing: it doesn’t have to end like that,” Tarragon said, straightening his back. The mare snorted.

“And how would you have it end?”

“Come with me.”

It was my turn to snort.

“I’m serious,” Tarragon continued. “Find a moment. Kill the Nagai and the Liche, and pay off the Dwarf. Together, we can stop this madness. To ally with the Black One is to ally with destruction and death. Join us and fight. You know I’m right.”

“When you’re on the winning side,” I said slowly, smiling. “You don’t have to be right.”

There was a long, cold silence.

“Very well, Imperial. We’ll meet in combat, I assume,” Tarragon said haughtily.

“Count on it,” I said, nodding slowly.

He rode off, and as I sat there on my horse, I realized what that sad little stare meant: he knew we were going to kill him. This was where he would die, and he knew it.

***

We tracked Tarragon to a Dreamkeep to the south of the riverbed, then retreated back north to make our own camp. We hatched the egg using the sugary mixture Melkor had provided us with, and the lone giant ant built a small city on a gently rolling hill near the dry riverbed; it took him less than a day.

Well, it was more of a collection of huge mounds of mud than a city, and the ant had help: he laid dozens of his own eggs, all of which hatched into ants. Before dying within hours of being born, some of those ants laid other eggs that hatched into Scarabs, huge beetles that spat fire from their mandibles. Another ant built a tomb into which the dead ants were placed, and eventually they returned from the dead as Husks, eerie undead soldiers that obeyed our every command, their voices hoarse barks that rang harshly across the plain.

“I hope ye know what ye’re doin’, young lord,” Dhrurakh told me the day after we’d spoken with Tarragon. We were watching the Husks assembling in perfect formation under Convalia’s instruction. The Nagai seemed to revel in the thrill of command, of seeing their every order turned into action.

“I’ll admit, there are a lot of strange bedfellows to grow accustomed to in this new empire,” I admitted. “You, ah, don’t think it’s true, do you? What Tarragon said about the Nagai and Melkor? About them plotting against the Empire?”

“I think your Emperor would be a fool not to assume there are those who would plot against him, and anyone who knows anything about anything will tell you that if ever there were plotters and schemers, it’s Melkor and the other two,” Dhrurakh said, stroking his beard.

“The other Horsemen,” I said, thinking about Antharg, thwarted and defeated in his jungle fortress, and Bane, held in check by the High Elves in the north. “But what of the Nagai? Do you seriously think that Melkor would ally with them, of all creatures?”

“It’s not out of the question. I’d tell you to watch your back around them two, but you probably already knew that,” he said, nodding towards Convalia and Gronkara as they inspected the defenses.

“Quite,” I said, and pondered.

“Erm, young lord,” Dhrurakh said, interrupting my reverie before it even began. “May I ask you: what exactly is this deal the Emperor made with the Black One?”

I gave the Dwarf a long, hard stare.

“That’s a lot you’re asking, but I think I’ll indulge you, just this once, if only because I fear you’d probably ask me to double your pay if I didn’t tell you,” I said, and the Dwarf chuckled.

“I was rather banking on ye saying no so I could demand that very thing,” Dhrurakh said.

“Well, anyway, it works like this: Melkor stops harassing our borders, leaving the K’Ogari, the Diraqine and the Darosi tribes alone so we can all concentrate on the Fey and the Dark Dwarves. He doesn’t have to offer military aid, but simply not having to worry about him makes our lives in the west a lot easier and more gratifying,” I explained as Dhrurakh nodded. “Also, I imagine Melkor’s probably quite pleased that he doesn’t have to worry about us,” I added.

“What should he be worried about? That the Emperor will send in his legions to rob him of all that sand?” Dhrurakh quipped. I realized I didn’t know the answer to that, and it made me uneasy. What does an immortal warlord need? “Seriously, though what does the Unstarveable get out of all this?” Dhrurakh asked, his question echoing my thought.

“I don’t know,” I muttered, staring out at the Husks and the Scarabs as they began marching south towards the Dreamkeep. “Well, let’s put our game faces on; it’s starting.” I put my helmet on, and Dhrurakh did the same.

***

The battle lasted a single, short, furious hour. Dhrurakh and I were knee-deep in Fey blood as the Scarabs set fire to the Oakmen and the Husks slashed their way through the Spriggans, with the Nagai leading the way. The Liche was completely useless in the end, not casting so much as a single spell, though he would later claim to have been the one who set fire to the Dreamhold, although I’m fairly certain it was the Scarabs.

We killed them all, and in the end, Tarragon kneeled before me as the Dreamhold burned, his hands and feet bound. Half of his face had been burned off by a Scarab, and the singed, cauterized flesh made my stomach churn. Dhrurakh raised his axe.

“Wait,” Tarragon said. “I haven’t told you what I did with the prisoners.”

“What prisoners, and why should I care?” I asked, ready for this to be over.

“The Scorpionpriests,” Tarragon said breathily.

Of course. The prisoners. The Nagai had been so anxious to go to war that I’d completely forgotten the supposed abductions Tarragon had been performing.

“They know everything!” Tarragon wheedled, panicked. “They’ll confirm every word of what I said! Just go look in the Dreamhold! They’re bound, but the fire will burn through their ropes any moment!”

“Won’t that kill them?” I asked.

“They live in a burning desert! They cast fire spells! They’re sure to survive, just... just go and look, curse you! It’s right over there!”

I glanced over at the castle. Night was falling, and we had attacked from the northwest; the sky was already a deep, dark blue behind the burning Dreamhold.

I looked over at Dhrurakh, who shrugged.

“Watch him,” I ordered Dhrurakh, and marched towards the Dreamhold gate.

“You’ll see, just you you see!” Tarragon yelled from behind me. “The Nagai and the Swarm are working together to kill us all! Every race in Etheria needs to unite inuarghwarabalgagl-“

At first I thought Dhrurakh had gagged him, but when I turned around, I found Convalia practically on top of the Fey, her vicious, curved fangs buried in his neck and one of her clawed hands gripping his face. Blood flew everywhere, from his nose, mouth and punctured arteries, splattering on Convalia’s hide, the grass on the ground and all over Dhrurakh’s surprised face.

There was a sickening crunch as she bit through his adam’s apple, the muscles and veins of his throat laid bare as she tore through the skin, and, to my amazement, her claws actually peeled off the better part of his face, his cheek splitting and his eyeball bursting as she raked her way upwards towards his hairline.

“Good Gods,” I said.

A harsh, bubbling whisper of air marked Tarragon’s last breath as it wheezed its way up from his lungs and out of the hole in his neck, and his remaining eye rolled back into his head. Convalia released him, and he collapsed onto his back, dead.

“I... hhhbeg hyour pardon, Lord Sssomnour, but... thisss is a take-no-prisonersss operation, isss it not?” Convalia hissed, and stared straight into my eyes, only to look past me and over my shoulder a moment later. I followed her line of sight, and wasn’t terribly surprised to see Gronkara emerging from the Dreamkeep, her fangs and claws dripping with an ichor I had never seen before, though I would bet ten years pay against toenail clippings that it was Scorpionman blood.

***

I ordered the Nagai to scout the surrounding countryside, hunting down the stragglers through the night as they fled northeast. A quick poke around in the rubble of the Dreamkeep the next morning revealed the blackened corpses of three Scorpionmen; priests, judging by the elaborate headgear two of them still had on. There was no way of telling how they’d died.

Dhrurakh and I did manage to capture two Spriggans alive. We did not have to torture them long before they confirmed Tarragon’s story, but this told us nothing.

Upon Melkor’s instructions, we left the Swarm hive to its own devices when leaving. I sent the Nagai to Kree’Af’Ak, telling them I’d meet them there in a few days. Dhrurakh, Hruldorn and I rode east, out of the Ab’Il Mountains and back into Northern Diraq. There was a storm brewing there, as always; distant thunder rumbled from the dark clouds in the north as the three of us sat on our horses, atop a ledge that offered a spectacular view of the desert.

“So, what’s the plan?” Dhrurakh said.

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” I said. “After what we saw at the battle, I would think it unwise to travel anywhere near the Realm Of Famine, but I want to take my report to the Emperor as soon as I can.”

“I hear ye,” Dhrurakh said. “I’m somewhat reluctant to go south myself, now that the Nagai know of me. I take it ye plan to ride to Ehlariel, and sail to Enmouth from there?”

“That is the general idea, yes. Why, interested in coming along?” I asked, eyebrow raised.

“Provided the Empire pays my travel expenses,” Dhrurakh said. “I’ve heard there are Gnolls in the north who make the best damn ale this side of Khaz-Tarn, if ye’re willing to pay for it.”

“I think the citizens of Enmouth would gladly contribute some of their tax money to getting you a swig or two of that,” I said, nodding. “What about you, Liche?”

“Will there be much death?” Hruldorn asked.

“Oh, I assure you of that,” I said, staring into the storm.