Breginthresh 9 / Keremius 36, 1003:

...His frame stood over 20' in height, but he hunched his shoulders.

The others in his unit all feared him. In battle, nothing could break his fuligin-hide, and no one hit harder. He had the head of a giant and the fangs of a dragon hanging off his Pit-monster steed to prove how strong he was. These were trophies won with ease. Har'cuttaran had been a great soldier for the King.

His grandfather was a slave. Taken from his home in the mountains of Mati by Krev slavers, his grandfather, Miucut, had been a shepherd and alderman. When the slavers came, he had been searching for a lost member of his herd who had strayed too far from the gentle slopes. He had fallen, been knocked unconscious, and awoken chained together with a dozen others of his kind. He had been dragged by massive ogres and minotaurs with whips that could bite through even the old maggadh's hide. He had been taken to a ship, sailed around the world, and finally, sold to the fuligin-skinned iguanaman who represented Harkanian interests in Krevzuk. He had then been taken to the Kingdom, and there, he had been infused with fuligin-serum.

He was not expected to survive the process. He did, and so they thought him strong enough to breed with another who had survived the process. Another maggadh, an old breeding slave whose name no one remembered. She died giving birth to Har'cuttaran's father, the first generation of Har'maggadhs, of fuligin-infused maggadhs. Har'cuttaran's mother and father were also nameless; those kept for breeding were never considered much more than recepticles. If they had been warriors, they would have earned a name, like Har'cuttaran had. Har'cuttaran only knew what his grandfather's name was because the old bastard still lived to tell him. The shepherd was tough, and cunning, and he still dreamed of freedom.

Har'cuttaran was free. He was the King's warrior. He had the head of a giant, taken with a clean stroke of his axe, and the fangs of a dragon, looted from the beast's corpse after Har'cuttaran had beaten its skull in. And now, he was a messenger to the King, bearing news of the fall at the Worm-Scar. It was an honor.

He walked into the King's tent and bowed. His hunched shoulders nearly touched the ground as he waited to be addressed by the King's councillors. After a moment, he was told to rise, and he did, looking the generals in the eye before looking down humbly, away from the King's countenance. He silently held up the scroll given to him by Duke B'hullcharn. To Har'cuttaran's surprise, the King himself stood to take the scroll.

Harkan the Black. His body was broad and muscular, bulging even where no human muscles should have existed. He rippled, as if something under his blacker than black skin was trying to escape. His face was lined with a thick, neatly trimmed beard of the same hue, and his eyes were as deep and dark as The Pit. When he stood, he was only 12' tall, but he seemed much larger, even to someone as big as Har'cuttaran. He seemed to have a density.

He reached out, took the scroll roughly, and read silently. A moment later, still without speaking, he crushed the scroll to dust in a single hand, then lashed out. Har'cuttaran's head remained low the entire time, did not register the approach of the fist. His head, a massive, armored skull, crumpled like the scroll. Everything went dark, and Miucut's grandson died, a proud warrior of the King...

...The cheering had died down.

Ghef'fhardim sipped water from a small cup as Maradir read the new reports: Victories. Unequivocal victories.

Every front was advancing steadily, destroying fortifications and enemy encampments, routing both Grey and Fuligin forces. It was a gratifying shift, and Ghef'fhardim made a note to thank the judges later for their advice. For now, he turned to his advisers, "I assume you are going to caution me."

The old fey shook his head, "On the contrary, now is the time for boldness."

Ghef'fhardim smiled, "Morale has never been higher. We've got momentum. And there's reason to believe the enemy is afraid for once. A strong push now could get us to The Pit in less than a week."

Maradir nodded, "I will prepare the orders..."

...Elpidian stared at the map. He grimaced. "Well?"

The priest shook his head. "Their faith has returned."

Elpidian sighed. "Open your mouth to tell me one more thing I already know."

The priest quickly clamped his mouth shut.

Elpidian faced him fully. "And your faith?"

"Also returned, Sir."

Elpidian gestured to him with an open hand. "And do we have a shortage of priests?"

The priest sweated. "Well sir, it's just that--"

"--you assumed they were useless and used them in bait gambits early in the conflict."

The priest sweated harder.

With a gesture, the priest dropped dead. Elpidian turned back to the map. "Their line is faltering. What they make up in faith we can cripple in logistics. Shore up our defenses here, here, and here, that will stagger their lines even more. Abandon this part of the line and let the Laird of Inverray punch through, then we can strand him. Fade back from the Survivalsmith and the Logos at all costs. Draw them in. Lead them on like this until we can get more priests here."

The generals all sounded off affirmative.

"Well we /could/ do that."

Elpidian sighed. "You have something to say, Illyanovich?"

"With your permission, sir." Gustav stepped forward, pointing at the map. "The Survivalsmith is that crazy, no doubt about it. The Logos, /psshh/. I couldn't even guess. The Laird of Inverray's not even close. Now if you try this gambit with him, he'll hold back, and he'll help out these two units--" He pointed to the two on either side of him. "That's <insert two legendary generals here>. They aren't stupid either. If he hangs back, they will, and then, most of their front line falls back into alignment and we're fucked like yesterday's socks. Now on the /other/ hand, we do have something they forgot about."

Elpidian watched him, deadpan. "Yes?"

"See, their faith returned, which means ours did too. Now, we don't have any priests, but we do have quite a stable of faith-based undead."

Elpidian watched him.

"Solless," Gustav went on. "The Knights of Kael Ras. They came in spite of the fuligin, and have been waiting for their chance. They know no fear, no mercy, no trepidation whatsoever about their own existence. Now, suppose we line them up here and here--" He pointed to the lines in front of the units flanking Gerrick, "--and have them harry those armies, /dividing/ the Laird's advancing army, and we push a wedge through? Go ahead and try to stagger their line at the other points, but put this gambit front and center."

One of the other generals shook his head. "It's too early for the Knights of Kael Ras. We're saving them for later."

"It's /exactly/ the right time." Gustav pointed to the map. "We have to use them before the enemy get their priests up front anyway, they'll be useless later on."

"They'll be a surprise later on!"

Gustav sighed. "Look. Do you /really/ want a bunch of undead special forces hanging around camp when they're bored and are out of cares to give? Think hard about that."

Elpidian stared at the map.

He slapped it with his crop. "Do it. Gustav, I give you the Knights of Kael Ras. Make your plan successful. You have your chance."

Gustav grinned.

...This had not been part of the plan. Wei could hear the reports coming in, see the looks of mounting concern and worry on the commander's faces -and the abject fear on those of the messengers - and he could tolerate it no longer. He would not be party to a loss here. He would survive, find somewhere to hide, and start anew once all was over.

So it was that the Agikaani emissary turned tail and fled like a frightened cur, hoping against hope that he might at least make it out of the camp before his absence was noted by any...

...Bramiel looks across the battlefield with gray, soulless eyes.

He is not angry at the intrusion of holy energy on the battlefield. He is not aggrieved by the fall of the Bulyemeh at the hands of the contradictory prophet of feast and famine, hunter and prey, virtue and piteousness. And despite the best efforts of the mad fey with the gnarled spear – he could not remember her name, and would only give her one in the cold embrace of his tattered wings, if he could even be bothered – the angel remains as whole and perfect as his exalted form permits.

He turns, fleshless nose in the scouring winds, at a scent at once familiar and bracingly new. Blood on the sand, so close to –

The Red Master. It is his and yet not his – kin, but free of the taint of the wretched Silver Mother. Blood mixed with the tears of comrades – oh, this one is loved, is he?

Bramiel descends on the mourning Maraddonians, who flee from his growing shadow, leaving the codean’s body still propped against a black rock.

His name was Natesh Ressek, Peer of the Sworn Equals – one of hundreds who have taken the title over the centuries, but whose leadership, dedication, and example belied the very notion of an order without rank or honors.

Bramiel, of course, does not particularly care.

If the Red Master’s family had a patron angel, Bramiel thinks to himself, perhaps it might have been had this name.

The shell that was Natesh opens his eyes. They glint like obsidian.

The angel’s wings unfurl, their work completed.

“Rise, Achariel.”

The scion stands...

...In the dark interior of the cavern, the prisoner sat limp and fully awake. The prisoner had struggled against the restraints, but it had been for naught. The void-soaked straps were now blood and void soaked, the prisoner's wrists, ankles, and collar-bone rubbed raw in resistance. The prisoner could feel the void soaking in through the wounds. Further resistance would only hasten the end, increase void flowing through the bloodstream, bringing death sooner. He wanted to live, he would live. The battle was now being fought in his blood: the gifts of life fighting the void poisons. So the prisoner waited and tried to relax, trying to give his body's natural defenses the benefit of favorable terrain. He focused on the knife near the foot of his bed, wishing he could will it into his hand.

The air of the cavern suddenly grew stale, with an after-hint of some scent the prisoner could not place. He looked over in the gloom, towards the diminished space of the cavern door. The Nullman. The prisoner felt his heart quicken, and willed it still again-- stress would only speed his death. "Well, you got me. Now what?"

The Nullman said something about their time being limited.

The prisoner laughed. "You bet your time is limited. My brother and sisters will come looking for me. But what they'll do is nothing compared to what my /parents/ will do to you when they find you."

The Nullman indicated his confusion, then seemed to grasp the meaning. It assured the prisoner that precautions had been taken, and that the prisoner would not be found until it was too late.

The prisoner leaned back, looking away from the Nullman. "I heard about the rout in the Worm Scar. Two of your lieutenants were talking about it. Our forces will be here soon. There's no way you're going to keep my family from finding me."

The Nullman acknowledged the truth of the statement. It explained that the prisoner could return to his family on his own time, if he wished. It begged the prisoner to wait while it explained though. It explained at length about pain, the agony of existence. About how it wished that it could end everything. The Nullman wished the burden of existence could be lifted from its shoulders. It wished it could give the gift of non-existence to the prisoner. It begged the prisoner's forgiveness.

The prisoner laughed. "You're asking me to forgive you for letting me live?"

The disturbance passed close to the prisoner, reaching towards him. It explained that the Power eroded things outside in, until just the core remained. The Nullman explained that all that was left to it was the identity of advisor, so it would advise while it could. It explained that unlike the rest of them, the prisoner wanted to live, to exist. When the prisoner bore the burden, that was what would remain. The Nullman chided the prisoner for the folly, but said the prisoner's folly would help lead others to a better fate.

The prisoner went still.

The knife-- the prisoner had lost track of it-- the Nullman must have picked it up. The Nullman (he could see him clearly now) reached for his restraints, cutting him free.

The prisoner expressed confusion, testing his injuries.

The Nullman begged him to leave, to hide, before they found what the Nullman had done. The Nullman explained that it served the one it had just freed, he who was Nameless Manifest, he who made the Nullman. The Nullman gave the Nameless Manifest the knife, and further armed him with instructions on how to find friends and allies in the court of Void. The Nullman begged the Manifest to kill it with the knife, to bring the agony of its existence to an end. It begged the Nameless Manifest to make more Nullmen, to spread his seed of non-existence.

Confused, the injured Nameless Manifest ran.

The Nullman sighed, looking at the Manifest run. The Manifest would not unravel like the rest of them. It pitied the Manifest and his desire to exist. Wretched creature.

The Nullman looked down at itself. It could feel the cusp of non-existence rushing towards it. Soon it would be no more, freed from this prison of causality. As it passed its forces, it had no forces. As it passed the mouth of its cave stronghold, there was no cave stronghold. The Nullman walked slowly to the front lines, the radiation of its unraveling touching all those around it. Now, only a promise to the Void Courts remained. It would deliver the message.

Harkan never had a Nameless Vizier, only a Nullman ally. Soon, Harkan would not even have that...

... It was surprisingly difficult to find a rat in Harkanheim. Or maybe it shouldn't have been surprising. After all, no one had gone to the trouble of breeding fuligin-resistant rats, or infusing them. After some discussion of summoning one from elsewhere, it was decided that it would be better to create one from scratch rather than risk the anti-teleportation matrix. A Theuwissian mage was found and the task was carried out.

Rosamonde strangled the rat herself in an ogre-hide glove. "Hollow Jack, by our ancient covenant, I call upon you. The time has come for you to repay your debt to me." He appeared as a cloud of noxious vapors. You are bold, to summon me here, gray elf.

"You would be right to fear The Pit, Father of Vermin."

That isn't what I meant ... but no matter. The mantle of undeath has claimed you, and the prejudices you held in life have been inverted. Isn't that right?

"I still despise you."

The cloud flinched, smirking. But you recognize my utility.

"You are proud, self-interested, and cruel, as you always were."

Enough flattery. What is it you wish?

"Our intelligence reports that the enemy is vulnerable. Their supply lines are running thin, their food supplies are starting to spoil befire they reach the front, and they can't breathe properly through their masks."

The vulnerability is in their immune systems, is that it?

"Give us a plague that will allow us to capitalize on it."

Easily done. Bring me a morsel of food, in which to incubate it.

"Will this do?" She offered a shiny red apple she had taken, even though she no longer had any appetite.

Perfectly. A thin tendril of green smoke billowed forth. At its touch, the skin of the apple dessicated and cracked, flaking away, leaving the white meat visible. The fruit browned with unnatural speed before becoming a repulsive shade of green. Rosamonde gripped it lightly, squeezing a out few drops of brown liquid. Roll it in the sands.

Rosamonde followed instructions, and the apple stained Pit-black.

"In the water supply?"

Eat it, drink the fluid, admire the scent. None of your people will be affected. It will sweep across their entire army before any symptoms present. If your enemies are as weak as you say, their bodies will self-destruct trying to fight off the infection. The ones in the fuligin desert, anyway.

"How does it work?"

It's just an influenza virus, but fuligin-infused. This is the only environment on Shem where it can propagate.

Rosamonde smiled thoughtfully. "Their masks keep the grains of sand out, but they won't keep out a virus."

No. Are we done here?

"Yes. Go away."

The fetid cloud dispersed quickly. Rosamonde drew her hood, hid her powerful aura of msawhat, and ventured into the alliance camp ...

...There had to be something she could do. Shara was, by and large, not a combatant, but she was chafing at the idea of spending the battle mostly on the sidelines. Sure, support was needed and necessary, but there had to be /something/ she could do to strike back at the enemy as others were. She stepped forward, in front of the unit she currently moved with, and set her jaw at the massed enemy before her.

A full battalion, easily over five hundred strong, waited ahead, its soldiers prepared to kill, hate for the allied forces mounting. She narrowed her eyes, stretching out with the Heart, and felt no shame for what they had done, what they planned to do. No shame and only the will to destroy. She was not about to let that happen.

With a force of will Shara drew on the Heart, her body glowing silver as she suddenly sprinted forward ahead of her unit. It was dangerous, suicidal even, but the sudden shock of a single warrior, unarmored save for a lionskin cloak, bought her enough time to dart through the first few ranks. And then the Heart exacted its punishment.

Silver light flashed across the battalion, screams and shrieks of pain surrounding her as the light seared through the enemy forces. Where once had stood 500 men, now only 50 could even keep their feet and that barely. The rest were burned, some beyond recognition and all beyond the ability to ever fight again...

...There are moments in every story that the audience is expected to fill in. None but the most audacious stream-of-consciousness narratives ever dare to claim atomic detail – no white space, no ellipsis, no “and there was much rejoicing.”

Most beings steeped in poioumenon to one degree or another can see that way with effort, even write or sing it, but it is exhausting, dreadfully inefficient, and nearly never fashionable. Thus the early death of Lachnanne’s six-day operatic cycle ‘176 Bites of Muesli’. (To her credit, the Molar’s lament in ‘Bite 35’ may be the most heartbreakingly beautiful melody in Shem’s history, made even more tragic by the fact that it was never performed, let alone rehearsed. A fragment may remain in the Merukisi nursery rhyme ‘A Hand, A Hat’, but if more than one scholar on Shem ever learns as much, the claims will be dismissed as a case of pure coincidence.)

War rages within Prax as the Hunt tears through the fuligin field, truly Hunting for the first time in months upon months. All pretense of subtlety has fallen away. The evil are vile, and the good more righteous than they have any right to be.

Think of a tree at dawn, at noon, at dusk. To the ant, it towers forever. To the child, its lengthening twilight shadows threaten to conjure early nightmares. To the lover, it is mere punctuation next to the sunset. It is many colors at many times. So too is the Hunt many things at many times, and its Master even more.

Infinite perspectives beget infinite interpretations, and Prax surrenders as never before to what must happen on these blasphemous sands. He is the burning red fox hunting a rabbit the color of the space between stars. The Hunt is heart, lungs, and bones, each inscribed with prayers to gods yet unborn to give life to the brass bull Phalaris surrounding them. So the brazen tomb breaks to silver in the noonday sun, and new life brings death without reproach. So a child of peace grows to war in a long, long shadow.

Prax relaxes his gaze, unpinning himself from the song of Shem, letting the story do what it must.

“It’s like this more often than you’d think,” Deiridh Sli says. “It’s not all hand-holding and promises of something better. Sometimes you just watch, and having an audience at the end is more than enough.”

“I followed Mudpie,” Prax says, “right up until the gray curtain. I wasn’t the best audience member, if I remember correctly. There was a lot of shouting.”

“Sometimes I do too. Being in a trance doesn’t preclude screaming.”

Prax smiles as the roots of a tree woven from corn silk and vulture tendon thrash across the battlefield. Stray souls are guided on by kind, unseen hands, and Sli sighs. There is never enough time.

But it is a long day and a longer night, and in the story of the fuligin fields, there are more than enough moments to for the audience to fill in.

Not the least of which involves hearing the strains of a long-forgotten melody for a singing tooth, profoundly affecting against all odds...

...The day had been horrific. The skirmishes had taken their toll on everyone. Blocked from moving forward, they had to make camp early. Assassins, fuligin beasts, magical attacks, and snipers did their damage, until everyone hunkered down in abject terror.

Night was the worst time out here. Even Tam Lin's fae senses could not penetrate the inky black on black. The light from the campfires and lanterns only went so far out, and the blacker than black sands made it look like you were out in the Universe, surrounded by nothing.

But even that illusion was not comforting--you could feel the fuligin, its gnawing teeth eating at your flesh, breath, and soul. And worse, the enemy now waged a terror warfare. Their drums beat, their beasts roared, their prisoners screamed.

Tam Lin walked along the perimeter. To his left, the feeble but warm glow of the campfires, and to his right, a thick, pregnant expanse of black nothing full of danger and stretching for miles. Being that close to it made his hair stand on end. His life expectancy now was seconds. He did not linger in the fire light.

When he was satisfied, he went back to his tent.

Gerrick and the Troublemakers sat around a fire. Gerrick passed him an open bottle of Glen Ray.

"Eases the nerves."

Any other day, Tam Lin might have been offended to be drinking after another. Out here, he'd drink whiskey from a rusty fey-burning iron trough if it lived up to the promise of "eases the nerves." He took a swig.

"This the family brew?" he handed it off to Haystack.

"Aye. That recipe has been in the family for generations."

"So has the still," Raven said. "That cranky rattly old bitch is older than Gerrick."

"Be nice," Haystack said, "That bitch makes your whiskey." He shrugged. "course, the copper boiler's been replaced a few times."

"And the piping," Trace added, with a salute of one of her daggers.

Raven squinted. "Has the condenser ever been replaced?"

Gerrick huffed. "Did it maself before we left. And once a year fer the last six centuries. They dinnae make 'em like they used to."

"What about the guages?" asked another.

"Had 'em changed out three years ago," Haystack answered. "Same with the spigots, mount, gaskets, handles, and suspension."

Raven looked at him in disbelief. "Are we still usin' the same bucket?"

"Got a hole in it last year." He passed the bottle to Raven.

"Well shit." Raven took a swig and passed the bottle back to Gerrick. "Nevermind. The still's the newest thing in Inverray."

Tam Lin looked to Gerrick. "What's it like? Inverray I mean."

Gerrick smiled wistfully. "It's like home."

"Rains alot," Trace vouched. "I miss the rain."

"I miss the music," Haystack added. "You should go, mate. Hear the pipe and drum corps. They say when the pipes and drums get goin', you can hear 'em all the way to Ballymoran on a clear day. I ain' never been any other place that wasn't Taggarus that didn't feel so much like...well...home."

"Yeah." Raven looked down. "I miss the Moran Haddie chowder. It's like a fish soup my mom used to make."

Tam Lin eyed the holy symbols on Gerrick's tartan. "Is that the Hearthmother's blessing I'm hearing?"

"Aye." Gerrick grinned. "I want Inverray tae be a home for all I invite in." He gestured. "Ye should come visit."

Tam Lin started to answer, but stopped himself. "I...have duties to the May Queen."

Gerrick nodded. "Just keep us in mind." He handed off the bottle.

Tam Lin took it, and raised it. "To all our homes, then."

"To all our homes."

He was about to drink when the messenger arrived--the commissar of the tenth division--all young, inexperienced, a group of brave volunteers who had chosen this endless expanse of the arsehole of Hell as their first battle. He huffed, out of breath, and nearly tripped over himself before Haystack caught him and held him up.

"Sir, they're panicking. We've lost six. They ran into the night to try to escape."

Gerrick stood up.

"A dozen more tried to charge them. We...we...we hear their screams on the wind..."

"Shyte." Gerrick pointed. "Raven, hold it down here. Tam Lin, with me."

By the time they arrived, every man in the freshman camp was up, armed, armored, and trembling. The air filled with the deafening chittering of insects.

"Oh my god, they're everywhere."

"We are going to die tonight!"

"Wrong!" Gerrick walked among them with a purposeful stride. He met their gaze with hard, ancient eyes, one at a time. "I'm nae that merciful. I'm gonna make ye /live./"

The men looked at him in uncertain horror. One of them raised a hand. "General Mac Boon--"

"Laird." Gerrick turned to face him. "I have generals prayin' tae be led by me in Innesmoor."

"Sir, they've surrounded us."

"An' why hannae they attacked yet?"

The man fumbled for an answer.

"Because they have tae weaken ye first. If they attacked now, they might lose. Which means?" He pointed to Tam Lin.

Tam Lin took his cue. "They won't attack if we stay strong."

Gerrick pointed to him definitively. "That's ma lad." He paced. "They're tryin' tae scare ye, lads."

"Well they're doing a good job." The other men laughed nervously.

Gerrick closed his eyes, spreading his arms wide. "Listen to them. Children of the damned. What music they make." He opened his eyes. "Fetch the drum corps."

The man looked uncertain.

"Do it. Muster 'em here."

From the dark came a bloodcurdling scream, and demonic laughter. the men flinched.

Gerrick called back, "PRUNE JUICE'LL CURE THAT!"

Some of the men laughed.

"I willnae lie to ye, lads. They're gonna attack. But we'll repel 'em. Stand strong with me."

A young one nodded. "Well...you did stand in front of us way back there."

"Aye." Gerrick grinned. "And I would again." The drum corps assembled. "I want a good solid beat! BAM BAM BAM BAM! Dinnae be timid with it, drum like ye're tryin' tae impress a girl! One! Two! One two three four--"

The drummers hammered their implements.

Gerrick opened his mouth and sang rich and deep. "/Donald went up the hill hard and hungry, Donald came down the hill wild and angry, donald will clear the gawk's nest cleverly, here's to the king and to Donald Mc Gillivray--" He signalled the drummers.

BAM BAM BAM BAM!

Tam Lin picked up the next stanza with him. "--Come like a weighbauk, Donald Mc Gillivray, Come like a weighbauk, Donald Mc Gillivray, balance them hard and balance them cleverly, off with the counterfeit Donald Mc Gillivray!"

BAM BAM BAM BAM!

Some of men from the Freehold began to sing. "Donald's run up the hill, but his tether man, as he were wood or stinged with a--"

And that was when the attack came. Gerrick swung with his Hammer. Tam Lin cut loose, and the men, no longer afraid, surged to action. Flares lit the night sky, and blood, both black and red, soaked the ground.

Demons. The demons were the worst. They wouldn't last long; fuligin sands would rip them to shreds eventually. But they lasted long enough. Of Tam Lin's weapons, only the Sword of Frustration clove them. Thankfully, they were not beings attuned to the Sword's evil. Their foul magic repelled all but the most legendarily strong. Tam Lin knew what was at stake--his life, his soul, his very existance. Their reach was better, their magic more powerful, their powers more unreal, their bodies harder, their speed more preternatural.

And yet he looked them in the eye, swing after swing, stroke after stroke, and every pair of eyes showed him his doom in the next second. Still he pressed forward, the only words on his mind being "I'm going to end out here." there was nothing else.

And that moment came, but it was denied. A demon's stroke was blocked by Gerrick's Hammer, which sent the motherless entity back to the Hells with one blow.

He didn't need to say it. Tam Lin remembered his voice. /"I'm nae that merciful. I'm gonna make ye live..."/

... blessings are not all that differerent from curses. That was the logic that led to Lucas Tove being called away from skirmishing with the Grey Army to deal with the lake of undeath-blessed quicksand at the head of the column.

Quicksand by itself isn't much of a threat. The alliance had run into it once or twice before on this adventure. The procedure is simple: stop moving and wait for someone to pull you out.

The first problem with the blessed quicksand was that it was full of corporeal undead who would pull victims down before a rope or pole could be used to pull the victim out. The other problem was that the blessing had animated the quicksand; it seemed to be a form of spectral undead, shifting and shuffling from one area to another, co-locating with the desert sands or moving them aside to take their place. It was a quicksand that didn't wait, but hunted. And its camoflauge was excellent.

An evil blessing isn't a curse, it's still a blessing. Undeath "curses" are usually merely unwanted blessings. The difference is mostly the source of power, though. The structure, on the other hand, is similar: emotion, intention, power, scope, attachment, conditions.

So the curse-weaver ended up being a decent choice to diagnose and solve the problem, even if by accident. He talked with the scouts and established its properties. He had a chat with desert, jungle, and submarine hunters and established the metaphor of a symbiotic predator. He enlisted a mage from Dabusen sufficiently skilled in raesian magic to locate the "host", which turned out to be a chir batti with a talent for Drosdenian magic. He got a void grenade from a vewelian.

He had a variety of ways of dealing with undead. His ailsilver gladius, his faith in and bestowments from the Gatekeeper, the Ring of 1000 Deaths, several of the thousand curses he had bent to his will. The problem was the sand. Being blessed by undeath, it was capable of absorbing most powers that would harm undead. And it was underneath the fuligin sand, so faith would not penetrate it. So he decided that he would go inside.

The shamblers couldn't move very well being buried in quicksand, and the chir batti was busy controlling the sand. None of them could touch him while he wore the Ring of 1000 Deaths. The main risk was in panicking and swallowing sand, suffocating, or getting strangled by the shamblers, at which point a victim would join them. Lucas couldn't die, so none of this worried him. Still, he didn't look forward to being buried alive again, so he went down with a rope.

Ten seconds after diving in (it was more of a crawl, really) and the shamblers were grasping at him. They knew to pull people down and try to turn them undead, but being pulled down was what Lucas wanted, and he couldn't be turned undead while he had his Ring on. After pulling him down about ten feet, they seemed to lose interest and started "swimming" up to find more victims.

Thirty seconds. He'd held his breath for four minutes once, but he knew that after two he'd start to slip, and by 3 minutes he'd be as good as useless. He tried to swim some more, but only sank further. He shortly found that there was more resistance under his feet - it was the bottom of the grey quicksand and the top of the "regular" fuligin sand. It was rough, but now he could walk. 45 seconds.

He felt the sand start to move. He was no mage, but he'd learned the difference between magical and natural movement, even in the dark, by nothing more than touch, it was pretty clear that the area was rotating. He pressed on toward for the center of the rotation. 60 seconds.

The sand stopped and started moving two more times while he walked through the muck. Each time, it became clearer where the master of the quicksand was standing. 90 seconds.

The chir batti tried to possess him. It was a logical thing to do, but the Ring protected him, so it failed. He feinted with his gladius, slashing at eye level, and then followed up by shoving the void grenade into the monster's space around waist height. It got about a foot away, far enough that Lucas and it would take the blast equally. Nearly two minutes.

Lucas didn't rely on conventional magic for much of anything, so mostly he paid for setting off the grenade like that in bruises. The quicksand stopped moving. There was a risk of the chir batti recovering, though, so he pressed forward. The monster was howling in rage, so it was easy to find. He slashed at it in slow motion again, missed, and then his next thrust nicked it; it slowed just enough for his coup de grace. He grabbed (or co-located) it with his gauntleted hand, flexing his fingers to expose the surface of the Ring. A moment's concentration and it was gone, sent by divine power. He tugged hard on the rope twice and let the soldiers on the surface pull him up ...

...Earta had been a rich, powerful man once upon a time, an owner of property and men, a powerful force in his native forests of Shar. His avarice had driven him, certainly, but most of his pleasure came from the feeling of control. Among the deer folk of Shar, he was considered a dangerous but respectable man, a symbol of what one could achieve. He had 30 points on his massive antlers, which he believed derived not from age but dominance.

And so it was that he sought greater and greater forms of power. He should have known, of course, that the old crone was not what she seemed, but he wanted mystic abilities to add to his list of forms of control. So it was that, of course, he was bitten, transformed, into a vampire. For a year or so, he shunned his new "life," but soon enough, he realized it was exactly what he had been wanting. He sought out information, lore, on how to make this form work for him. He grew in strength, until he was a kukudhi, a vampire-lord, and he warped the town around himself into a realm of undeath and corruption. For a hundred years, Lord Earta Alkan was on the rise.

And then came the "heroes," the "liberators," and the "undead slayers." He enslaved most of them, but it became clear that his position was untenable in its form. He began to seek new ways to protect his realm, and that's where the Un-Falcon had come in. The Jewel had been exquisite, a bright grey hue, clearly of dark properties, and it only cost Earta a thousand slaves.

And then he had put it on.

The Jewel had not, of course, been the fabled Jewel of Nine Lies, but a new Gift from a new God, fittingly the same that patroned Earta's new form. The Jewel of Lassitude. It instantly sapped Earta of energy, leaving him a bare husk, open to assault and defeat. His small fiefdom crumbled around him as he remained in his locked chamber, and soon, a decade or so later, he was forgotten. His form remained locked away, dust, until the servants of the Dealmaker returned. Carefully gathered, the remains of Earta and his Jewel were taken off again, sold to a new contractee.

The fuligin-infused slave trader long had wanted a vampire-slave, and this made the perfect chance.

Five hundred years later, Earta rode atop a Pit-monster of incredible stature, serving in Harkan's army as liaison between fuligin and grey. Upon his breast hung the Jewel of Lassitude, corrupted into fuligin blasphemy, turned inward on itself and reformed into a vessel of faith-destroying might. Lord Earta rode at the head of a new legion, a foul host that combined the powers of both armies, and his ambitions were to rise even higher still.

Again, this was his undoing. Seeing the danger in his position, Elpidian tasked him with facing the full force of Dhun's mightiest knights. Before the fall of the Worms, of course, this meant heavy losses for Dhun, but it was only a matter of time before they found some way, Elpidian knew, to take down this upstart vampire. The crushing sweep of the Paladins of the Swanmother over the Grey Host had to be stopped, after all, and who better than grey infused with fuligin?

Elpidian watched from afar, carefully observing the manner in which the knights kept their formations around the allied Worm, letting its aura of Law empower their faith. He observed Earta's admittedly cunning tactics, drawing them away from the Worm, butchering them, turning them into new servants. He observed the fuligin ballista bolts he employed seeking to take out the Worm (the Dhunic forces anticipated this effectively, shielding the Worm with mystic arts). He observed the knight known as Sir Aberforth scream in agony as the poisoned javelin of a skeletal warrior pierced his side, and then observed his suicidal charge at Earta. He saw as the man's sacrifice gave his faith an impossible boost, allowing him to emolate the fuligin-infused kukudhi.

Elpidian sent a silent command to his own agents, seeking to let the trap close properly.

And then they did it. The Dhunic knight Sir Cameron recovered the Jewel and instantly fell to its power. Then Sir Eldric, then Sir Yancey. Seven knights fell before someone finally figured out how to capture the Jewel safely. Enough. Seven out of thirty-five Paladins weakened to the point of uselessness...

...The storm.

Mudpie felt free.

Powerful.

Unstoppable.

The voice of a World coursed through him like energy. From the fire at the center of the planet She pronounced judgment through him. With the fury of a wounded world, wind swirled around his center for a mile in every direction, and sand--not the fuligin dust, but honest-to-the-gods /SAND/--whipped like shattered razor blades among his enemies and like a cooling kiss to his allies.

The Hunt caught up to Prax.

"Sir...where is Mudpie?"

Prax pointed to a storm in the distance. "There is no Mudpie."

The Hunt watched in horror.

"Wait, is that..."

"Sand." Prax strode forward. "Shem has discovered a moment of lucidity in the midst of her thousand-year nightmare, and she is lashing out. Hell hath no fury...as this place confesses."

Her fury consumed Mudpie, Her boundless rage, fear, sorrow, horror, Her trauma, Her /vengeance,/ powered him with reckless abandon. He used it to incinerate undead as they fled from him, melt the black blasphemy out of the fuligin sands and turn them to plates of volcanic glass and then shred them to sand again, leaving white sands like the Windkin deserts behind him. Through him, Shem roared like thunder.

A fuligin creature the size of an elephant and covered head to toe in fuligin armor tried to charge in pulling a chariot with a fuligin giant. Her winds picked it up, beast, chariot, and rider, and pounded it against the sand with animalistic fury until nothing remained.

There were no enemies in sight.

Mudpie collapsed, wheezing, out of energy, onto a bed of white desert sand. He shuddered uncontrollably, and sobbed.

Prax ran up to him. "Mudpie?"

Mudpie coughed, rubbing the white sand onto his skin, feeling its purity. "She's wounded."

"I know, Friend. That's why we're here."

"I felt it, Prax. I've never felt so..." He coughed hard, sending plumes of clean sand into the air. He wanted desperately to taste it. "I felt the pain. I remembered...She remembered Starfall. I felt Her memory of it." Mudpie struggled up, but fell flat. The world fell away from him.

Prax sighed. "He needs energy. Take him with us. We still have our part to do. He will rejoin us when he can."

"Yes, Red Master..."

...The fight wasn't going well. Deyn's company was being hard-pressed by a group of fuligin forces, the Stonedelver Consequent being pushed back slowly but steadily. He couldn't let that happen; they had to keep advancing. As it was, however, without something to even the odds and give them a better footing his company would be doomed.

Turning to the abilities of his race, Deyn focused on one in particular. He reached out for the aether inherent in the earth, drew on its power, and fed it steadily into the ground at the enemy's feet even as he signalled his own forces to retreat out of range. It would take a few moments, as the earth was not something that was easily changed, but even in the desert and on the sand an earthquake was a deadly thing.

Especially when it caused a fissure to open and half an enemy company to fall in...

...The May Queen kneels.

“Broken. Broken. Broken,” the Red Hunt fey says, the left side of his face shot through with iron shrapnel. Though explosives are rare on both sides on account of the shifting dunes, Craobh Ghrian bore the brunt of a well-aimed grenade throw.

Ghrian turns to the kneeling monarch, his remaining eye long past tears. “Broken. Broken. We must run. We must –”

A lieutenant in the May Queen’s entourage steps forward, interrupting. "Forgive me, your grace, but it is no mercy to leave him alive. His soul will find its way back to the Red Master; there is no turning without an unseelie hand on the blade. And we are all he has.”

The May Queen stares at the lieutenant for a moment. She will never pay him heed again. She speaks softly to Craobh.

“In this cup, fear has no purchase. It is the river of the Sanctuary itself, kindness to the lost and poison in the veins of Nightmare. These waters are sweeter than any you have ever known in waking or Dream.”

Craobh shivers. “We must run. We must –”

“You must drink.”

Craobh Ghrian drinks and finds his feet, wincing. No longer shrinking into himself with fear, he stands impossibly tall, extending an uninjured hand to help her up. “Thank you, your grace. I will not forget your kindness.”

She folds her arms in mock offense, grinning. “I should think not. Tell your Red Master that he is welcome to share a drink with me any time he requires.”

Craobh bows. “I will...”

Fysirym 2 / Breginthresh 16, 1003:

...His touch cleansed the wound instantly.

Thannas Asharai, Thannas Faebrenner, the Silver Fisher King, Messiah of Silver, burned away the fuligin-taint in the dying pachydermian's wound. He would not survive, but his soul would be unburdened. He was not even awake to feel it. Around him, medics attended fixable cases.

Thannas paused, considering the power he bore. He could command a miracle to happen, but rarely could he command the shape of the miracle. When he would heal the elven sickness among the Ailaneans, it would sometimes purge the curse entirely, and other times merely delay it. He could not, no matter how he tried, force the entire curse to leave the entire race. Theoretically, his power was greater than the Divine, but something within him held him back, and he knew not what. Theoretically, he had the power to cleanse the world of The Pit, but every time he directed a miracle in that direction, something else happened. A burst of light to save some forces, an angelic host appearing, a mass resurrection. He could not control it.

He prayed, every hour, to the Silver Mother for guidance. Sometimes, when she answered directly, he heard the tears of pain in her voice.

He paused to invoke a miracle upon a woman whose face was cleaved in twain. It reformed, restored her to her natural form, and to life. She stood, bowed with tears in her eyes, and began to beg of him to show her the way. Inwardly, Thannas panicked. He had no guidance for these strangers. She was not even elven, and if she were, he would not dare to lead her. He was merely a man; she was a mother and sister and aunt and caretaker, a matron, a woman. She was his better in all ways, and she knelt before him asking for guidiance. He sought words, managed to urge her to help with the wounded.

He turned to a weeping soldier standing over a dying one. He touched the weeper, and for a moment, gave him peace. His brother, dying there, shared a moment of warmth and unity with his living relative, and the two knew they would meet again in the next life. The weeper looked to Thannas for more help as the man in his arms died, and Thannas turned away, saying only, "Go and heal."

A knight of Dhun whose body was drained by a Gift restored; a sorcerer of the vala'bran whose magic was lost to an unknown void attack; an ogrish mercenary without a left arm--who never had a left arm, according to his own memories--finding she suddenly has one; a centaur with two broken legs regaining them; a coward redeemed; a faithless man finding the Divine; a faithful woman finding strength without the Divine; a hundred hopeless cases of the new plague restored to health; a thousand men, women, and even children given reason to fight. Elysian light never left Thannas's fingertips that day.

By the time the sun was setting, Thannas still had hundreds more to see to. He did not rest, some thought, but this was not entirely true. He did not want to rest; he knew what sleep would bring.

By dawn, he had addressed the needs of four thousand in a single 24-hour span. He had seen babies born, angels carrying bodies, and nightmares fade. He had seen the undead restored to life, the fuligin restored to faith. He had seen void undone and magic flourishing, and vice versa. He had seen peace come to warriors and strength come to healers. He had seen survival.

"You need to rest," Lamaera told him. Concerned laced her voice, but truly, she felt awe.

Thannas looked to her, and in his eyes, she saw fear. "How many days have I been awake?"

"Ten," she said. "Mystic arts can only do so much. You must sleep."

He sighed, "I will try."

He let her guide him to the small tent he called his own. He did not remember setting it up; he asssumed someone else had done it. He walked in, then simply lie on the blanket prepared for him. He closed his eyes, and the voices hit him before he could clench tight his body, before he could prepare.

"Let me be strong for my father..." "...may mother be safe..." "...just let me survive..." "...give my blade a keen edge..." "...if you can hear this..." "...let her wait for me..." "...let him die cleanly..." "...please..." "...kill me..." "...save me..." "...give me strength..." "...my children safe..." "...my father safe..." "...my mother alive..." "...my sight returned..." "...my arm returned..." "...why am I here?" "...where am I?" "...who am I?" "...how did I get here?" "...bless them all..." "...let it be fuligin and not grey..." "...let it be grey and not fuligin..." "...let it be swift..." "...let her hold out just a little longer..." "...a guiding light..." "...any light at all..." "...tell me the truth..." "...let her rot in Hells..." "...show me how to kill it..." "...why is it so strong?" "...I want to go home..." "...I wish I were never born..." "...I can never be myself again..." "...let me run again..." "...let me see the sea once more..." "...never seen the sands again..." "...the worms are so beautiful..." "...I need to ride..." "...I am useless here..." "...if he would just look at me..." "...if he had never been born..." "...if I could lift this rock..." "...air is running out..." "...sun is so hot..." "...he just stands above, saying nothing..." "...eight arms all bringing power..." "...riding in red..." " ...my magic could be of some use..." "...don't let this be the flux..." "..." "...don't let me embarrass..." "...take back one mistake..." "...send food and water..." "...armor me against..." "...swiftness and keenness of eye..." "...her good graces..." "...his favor..." "...it's too tight..." "...lose it..." "...lost it..." "...if I ever had it..." "...good fortune..." "...make my fortune..." "...if she is pregnant..." "...if he is the father..." "...if I survive..." "...just let me survive..." "..."

...It has been two days since Alexei Baltatzis had dissapeared on the march. Two days and finally Commander Harami was having to face reality. The man he'd known through thick and thin for four years was lost in the dunes and would never rejoin the Red Cloaks. He'd been suffering from a wound in the arm when he dissapeared. While the field medic had done his best it was only a patch until they could get him to a proper field hospital at their rendevous two nights ago. His arm had still been bleeding slowly and by now if the thirst hadn't killed him, the blood loss and sun would have. But Pajah couldn't reconcile this in himself. "We don't leave our comrades behind." a small voice within him said over and over. He could barely look at the faces of his men as he finished his orders to continue the march and call back their last seekers. All he could see was accusation and distrust in their eyes. That's all he saw when he faced himself in the glass that night in his tent...

...It should have been noticed days ago, if not weeks. That was what irritated Sorosiphia so much about it. There was a clear pattern there in the way one of the enemy companies operated. A sudden strike at Allied forces, only to fall back the exact same distance and pause once pursuit had slackened. Every time that company moved into a defeat it was the same retreat strategy. Well, she would put a stop to that.

Gathering a company of her own the Pallanian Elf Consequent quickly set her plan into motion. When the enemy company charged, Phia took her forces to the site where, once they were again repelled, they would retreat to regroup. There wasn't long to wait; an hour, perhaps thirty minutes more, and they could hear the approaching forces. Phia held the ambush until the enemy were halted, some already investigating their wounds, and then she sprung her trap.

It worked incredibly well. Already tired and taken unawares, the enemy company was devastated by the attack, Sorosiphia's forces all but annihilating them and sending what few survivors remained fleeing for their very lives...

...Although foreshadowing plays a clear role in many stories, poioumenon is not prophecy. As narrative flows through the world unbidden, it is witness to things as they happen, or as they might have happened. Unleashed, it is theme and momentum –events as they could happen, as they should, as they must.

But some characters are beyond the reach of even the most accomplished storyweavers, and may only appear as their time comes.

The Sworn Equal bows deeply, sympathy and mourning playing across his face. “There is no way you could have known, Red Master.”

Prax waves his hands as if to dispel formality. “Please, friend Peer. Prax will do.”

“In which case, by all means, call me Feidhr.”

Prax visibly relaxes. “Feidhr, then – how did I not know?”

“Not know what, sir?” Feidhr replies.

“Not know – not know any of this. I could tell you how many birthdays you’ve missed since this blasted war started, and which ones hurt the most. I could write a play about the lost loves of half of my army in my sleep, and another about those they’ve yet to find. Yet I have a cousin not one hundredth of my age, and I don’t know about him until some twisted angel gets a hold of him?”

Feidhr shrugs. “Natesh never wanted stories told about him. ‘Even a good story diminishes its subject,’ he’d say. ‘Eyes front. Live now.’ He made it a point to discourage legends among the Sworn Equals. Made the new Peers feel right at home from day one.”

“But you still know where he came from. You still know he was my uncle Raju’s son.”

The Sworn Equal raises his hands. “Made me promise not to tell a soul, on pain of – well, not death. On pain of guilt, I guess. Most people can’t get that kind of thing out of ya, but Natesh could. Wouldn’t be fair otherwise.”

Prax nods. “I’ve read about codeans. They’re fair by nature, right?”

“If you say so,” Feidhr replies. “Hell of a fighter. Hell of a teacher. Hell of a commander, if you want to get right down to it – as contrary as that is to the oath we take, that’s the truth. Always out in front, too. Made him a prime target for basically everything the Enemy could throw at us.”

“And now that gray angel has him,” Prax intones.

“Yes. But I'm confused, Prax.”

"Oh?"

"Your people wander for centuries, no? You do not harp on family, I am told."

"We also don't eat meat or fight, but here I am with blood in my eyes, wondering whether I shouldn't have asked Mudpie to cook more snake jerky before we set out. I am the Master of the Red Hunt, Feidhr. I am not my people. And I do not know who it is I have lost."

More confused than anything else, Prax wanders through as many invocations as he can remember. They ring hollow in his memory and his ears.

“Life follows in its course. It is the universe’s nature to awaken, so too to sleep. To everything there is a season. Life’s shit and then you d–”

He stops, having solved a very old mystery. “A fallen tree leaves root and seed,” Prax says. “You know, a kitsune told me that once. One night, some years into my practice and pilgrimage, I dreamt of the end. It was no Nightmare – it didn’t know me yet, and in the lifetime I spent in there, there was nothing to run from. It was all plans come to nothing, all blood turned to dust, all stories forgotten. I dreamt the end and mourned the world.

“So I confided in Murasikiiro before it faded. Guy was a consummate asshole, wouldn’t shut up if you begged him – and I begged him, believe me. So I lay the whole dream out, thinking he’ll cut right through it with some nonsense of a story, that it’ll turn to ash and I’ll be free to start trying to heal the sick again. I ask him for the only help he seems capable of, and this asshole of a fox turns around and starts talking like my father – my father, of all people, quoting some Silver mystic or another.

Prax starts to gesture, diagramming the sentence, smiling helpfully. “Tree. Leaves. Root. Seed. It’s a joke.”

“It’s a terrible joke,” Feidhr counters.

“The worst! And the fact that I didn’t get it, and he KNEW I didn’t get it, is another joke entirely. We’re still not laughing, fox-face! We’re still not –” and Prax bursts into laughter that quickly fades. He stares at the shifting black sands.

“I’m sorry, honored Peer. Feidhr, I mean. At least his soul made it out of this place.”

“Small miracles.”

“Small miracles,” Prax agrees...

... the Irriton Complex had sent a few hundred drones to join the allience, and one of them was in the Commander's tent. "We are leaving this war," it said. "We regret that we are not able to fight more, but circumstances do not allow."

"May I ask what those circumstances are?" Ghef'hardim asked, annoyed.

"No."

"Is there anything we can do to persuade you to stay?"

"Kill the val'abran. Or arrange their deaths. After the war, perhaps. This would persuade us."

"I guess this is goodbye, then."

"Or just the Valhonian Consequent. She is a danger to all. You must recognize this. At least banish her from Shem."

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes. We started pulling our forces out before this conversation started. We have left behind a weapon of great power."

"What kind of weapon?"

"An irriton cascade bomb, 100 terajoules, full organic penetration, equipped with a Vewelian delivery system."

"And where did you leave it?"

"It is in your tent. This drone is the delivery system."

Ghef'hardim stared. Maradir, who had been listening, stared. Maradir spoke next.

"You built a bomb into one of your people? Into ... you're nothing but a bomb?"

"A delivery system. And what better delivery system could there be? It can navigate any terrain, use any form of transport, adapt to any situation. Hide in plain sight. Use weapons to defend itself. Debate. Negotiate. Enlist others to its aid. Truly think."

The generals were quiet for a moment. Then, Maradir turned to Ghef'hardim, and said, "We're ... going to have to use this, aren't we?"

Ghef'hardim sighed. "Stay a hundred meters from any of our people. Don't detonate, and don't get captured."

The bomb nodded, and did as it was told ...

...The guards outside the tent barred Angela's way. She gave them a look, and they parted their spears. She pushed open the flaps and strode in.

Ghef'fhardim looked up. "General Murray?"

"Would you care to explain why my messages to my armies are being intercepted?"

Ghef'fhardim's face took on a serious cast and he set his pen down. "Your messages are being intercepted? By whom?"

"By guards, couriers, officers, commissars, and even servants. It seems an order has gone out that I am to be detained from command. Did you sign such an order?"

"I most assuredly did not."

Angela snarled. "Who else had the authority."

"No one." Ghef'fhardim sat back in his chair. "We have a spy. Go to your armies personally and regain command, correct any damage that has been done. I will find a way to have your attacker rooted out. I can't take time to do it myself." He held up a stack of reports.

"Thank you, Sir." She saluted, and turned to leave.

"Da. Thank the gods you are here." Vasili fell into step next to her. "It did not seem like your style to order us to bunch up like this where we can be surrounded and isolated. I have had the williams since we recieved that order."

"Willies. Show me the order."

Vasili handed her a rolled up parchment.

Angela studied it. "Unbelievable." She handed it back. "That's my hand, forged with perfection. Show me every order you've received for the last three days."

"They are in my tent. Do I sense that someone is about to get their horse kicked?"

"Ass. You need to stop trying to use foreign idioms."

Vasili grinned and shrugged. "Eyyyy! It is what the younger mercenaries are saying these days!"

Angela sifted through the orders. "Here. This is the last one from me. It was two days ago." She tucked them all together. "You've been following forged orders."

"Well that explains the order to go two miles out of our way to dig out the Wildcat unit instead of taking the fortified outpost like I wanted to."

"Like /I/ wanted you to." She dropped the orders on the folding table. "How many did we lose taking the outpost?"

"About twice as many as we would have if we had surprised them."

Angela sighed. "How many Wildcats did you save?"

Vasili shrugged, his face deadpan. "None. The nightmarchers took them one and all."

"Well played." She sat back. "Not enough to make you question, just enough to wear us down a little."

"No disrespect, Silver Bear, but I do not think that was an enemy plan."

Angela arched one eyebrow. "Oh?"

"If either of us controlled such a master spy, why would we settle for so little. I could think of half a dozen such orders off the top of my head, and so could you, that would do the same thing but with more damage to us."

Angela stared into the distance. "Yes. I could."

Vasili counted on his fingers. "Wait where you are to let reinforcements catch up. Bypass the outpost entirely. There is a spy in your midst, root him out--"

"There's a valuable prisoner among the enemy, capture them all alive and unharmed. Move to this location and wait."

"--and your weapons are useless against this unit, you'll have to steal theirs."

"And dozens of others." Angela squinted at him. "Their spymaster would have to be impossibly incompetent."

"And since we know that to be untrue..."

"It's not them." Angela stood up. "It's someone inside."

A messenger ducked into the tent. "Sir--Oh!" He grinned. "Silver Bear! Ha! I was just bringing Vasili your new order. It just arrived."

Angela smiled. "Looks like I got here ahead of it. Let me review it in light of new information before I issue it."

"As you wish." He handed it to her and ducked out.

Angela read the order. "Hm. It seems now you are to move to assist the Arvan-City Militia."

Vasili scoffed. "Alright, if that one had arrived without you, I would have /known/ something was wrong."

Angela wadded it up. "Stay on course. Ignore all written orders until you see me again. I think I know what's going on."

"May I ask?"

She stood up. "It's one of our generals who is more concerned with preserving life than with winning the war. She thinks she found a way around me."

Vasili laughed. "It would seem then that her moose is cooked."

Angela sighed. "Goose. Just do me a favor and never tell me anything about blowing someone's mind."

Vasili made a yuck face. "Ewwww."

Angela chuckled as she left.

Angela threw open the flap of Lilybell's tent. "You. Stand to."

"I will not." She looked up from a map and half-a-dozen Fae leaders.

Angela leaned over the map, right into Lilybell's face. "What the hells did you think you were playing at."

"I was saving lives. The nightmarchers were going to--"

"THE NIGHTMARCHERS SUCCEEDED!" Angela began to pace. "The Wildcats are GONE, TO A MAN! And you cost my men a hundred more deaths than needed to be!"

Lilybell shot to her feet. "You are unfit for command!"

Angela blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"This is not some training exercise, the dead out there don't come back!"

"Yes, that's usually how it works. Welcome to Shem."

"You're playing with their lives!"

Angela strode over to her. "I am not playing with anything. There is /one/ goal here." She held up one finger. "ONE. We march into that pit, drag an undead Arbiter out by his shriveled balls and put him the Hell out of our misery! /Nothing/ else matters! Not me, not you, not the Wildcats, not our lives, not our souls, not even our godsdamned /names!/"

"You don't get to make that decision for the rest of us anymore!"

Angela laughed. "How do you reason that? I stopped your little bout of tomfuckery."

"With the orders." Lilybell grinned.

Angela eyed her sternly and turned to face her, looming to her full height.

Lilybell blushed, but did not change expressions. "The orders have already gone out. Everyone in this little operation already knows you've been banished."

Angela blinked.

Go to Ghef'fhardim? He had his hands full. And she had no time to disentangle this. The damage was perfect. A lie could get halfway around the world before the truth could even wake up. The war effort was damaged. That alone hurt more than anything. There was no undoing this.

But there was a way to get the results she wanted.

Angela shrugged. "Okay."

Lilybell blinked. "Okay?"

"Yeah. We'll be off the field and gone in a day. You better find a way to fill that gap in the line, and come up with what you're going to tell Ghef'fhardim." She turned and walked out.

"So that's it? We are just leaving? Poof?"

"Poof." Angela smiled at Vasili. "But there is one more thing I can do for Ghef'fhardim."

"Oh? Will it involve killing Lilybell?"

"I won't have to. No." She pointed at the map. "They forget what I am. I can /feel/ this war. Send word to Ghef'fhardim that the enemy is about to try to puncture through the front line right in the center and they're going to do it by hitting the left and right flanking armies at the center simultaneously--with the Knights of Kael Ras."

Vasili whistled. "A bold move. They must be feeling their corns."

Angela sighed, closing her eyes. "Oats."

"I know." Vasili laughed. "I did that one on purpose..."

...Ghef'fhardim's glare made the messenger cower.

"She did WH--"

His hook hand slammed into the table and got stuck there. As he ripped the table apart removing it, Maradir said, "You are dismissed, lieutenant."

The messenger left with obvious relief. The general turned to the marshal. "Have her hanged."

Kicking the table aside, Ghef'fhardim shook his head, "I can't. The stupid little twerp is politically connected to half the Seelie armies."

There was a long pause, then Maradir said, "Very well. Give me a few days. I will arrange that that is no longer true."

"In a few days, we'll be dead," Ghef'fhardim said.

"Perhaps," Maradir said...

...The battle had been wearing on for hours, neither side gaining the upper hand. Both were growing frustrated, The Pit's very presence taking its toll on either side. Men had already fallen off the Rim to their deaths, and it could only be assumed that more would do so. Indeed, the closer to the edge the battle was, the more effort was spent attempting to toss one's opponent over the edge and into oblivion. And that would be what led to triumph.

One of the Khardantal'has forces picked up on a hidden fault line running along the edge of The Pit and saw the opportunity. A quick relay to one of the commanders had the Allied strategy shifting, corralling all the enemy they could closer and closer to the edge while those who had a way with stone began working their own special skills to aggravate the fault line.

Soon enough it happened, a rumble like the foreshadowing of an avalanche before the ground shook and the earth at the edge of The Pit gave way, parting from the rest of the rock with a gravelly rumble and falling - along with every enemy that had stood on its surface - into The Pit itself...

...The orders had Ansley's seal on them. They included a quick personal note, an update on the supply lines, and news of two Troublemakers' deaths. Rodrick and Milano. They died laying down cover for a wounded officer to get his men out of the thick of battle. His heart dropped.

But then he got to the news, and orders from Ghef'fhardhim. Gerrick read them, then crumpled them up, smiling.

Tam Lin looked up at the gray sky. "Good news?"

"Not even a little. We're fucked."

Tam Lin blinked. "Why so?"

"First, we lost the general of the Seventh Army. She happens tae be a hero a' mine. A manifestation of one of my gods. Before she left, she said this place is aboot tae become shyte-storm central."

Tam Lin looked concerned. "What place?"

"The one yer standin' on, Laddie."

Tam Lin looked down at the black ground around his feet. "Well...it can't be any worse than anything else we've faced so far?"

Gerrick laughed, and patted Tam Lin on the shoulder. "An optimist. That's cute." He turned around. "LISTEN UP! THE GAME IS CHANGED!"

The troublemakers mustered attentively, as did the commanders of the cohorts and divisions marching behind him.

"Our comrades, to our left and our right, are aboot tae be up tae their periscope lens in undead! We will not be intervening! Watch me, follow my orders /immediately when they are given,/ and some a ye might make it back home tae tell yer families what happened here! Now, no matter what ye see, what ye hear, what ye feel, you obey only one soond! ONE! SOOND! MY VOICE! NOO GET THE PICKETS UP!" He pointed at the Troublemakers. "Nae you lot. You attend."

The Troublemakers approached. Raven said, "Whatchou got, Gerrick?"

"Trace, front and center, Lassie. The rest a ye' gather roond."

Trace looked worried. Tam Lin could tell she knew something was up, but she tried to break the tension with a smile and a joke. "If this is about the last of the Glen Ray, in my defense, no one else seemed to care--"

Gerrick put a hand on her shoulder. "I got a note from Ansley, Trace."

Trace shook her head. "No."

"I'm sorry, Trace. We lost Rodrick."

Trace shook her head harder. "No. No we didn't. She's wrong."

The other Troblemakers gathered around her, forming a cocoon of embrace as she sobbed.

"She's wrong!" Trace collapsed against them, with a scream. "SHE'S WRONG! Oh god, Roddie..."

"He and Milano." Gerrick now addressed all of them. "They died savin' the lives of a cohort of men who were pinned down by snipers. Ansley says they left the cover of the supply train to flank them. They bought the men enough time to get oot safely. Bought it with their blood. With /our/ blood."

"Our blood." Haystack shed a tear.

"Our blood." The others repeated.

"Trace, take what time ye need. The rest of ye, prepare tae scoot ahead wi' me."

Trace sniffed hard. "The only time I need is time alone with these bastards."

Gerrick nodded. "If that's what ye need. Haystack. Stick by her side." He smiled. "Doon' let her steal all the fun from the rest of us."

Haystack grinned, but kept a reassuring arm around Trace. "I'll be there."

They climbed up a dune. Tam Lin said, "How are you holding up?"

Gerrick scowled. "I'll hold up later. We got a war tae fight."

Tam Lin nodded, and took that as his cue to focus.

"I knew I'd be pipin' home a fair few heroes when this was over."

Tam Lin glanced at him.

Gerrick went on. "I still remember the first two. Like it was yesterday. The cairn, back home, used tae just be a big pile a rocks. Know what it is now? A wall. An' the wall's runnin' oot a room for names."

Tam Lin nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Seventeen thoosand eight hundred forty-three since the war of time. Noo I gotta find room for two more." Gerrick shrugged. "Frankly, I'm surprised we made it this far withoot more loss."

"Yeah. So am I."

Gerrick looked at him.

Tam Lin smirked. "With your strategies? I'm surprised we still have a war."

Gerrick laughed. "I like ye." He started climbing again. "Ye remind me of an old friend. Best I ever had. Jonas Khalev. He was an Ender--which is why he liked hangin' aroond ma family." Gerrick tapped his temple.

They crested the ridge, and stopped immediately. Gerrick got out one word: "RUN!"

But they were too close. A detachment of armored skeletons on rotting-corpse horses rode easily to surround them. Haystack grabbed a lance and unhorsed its wielder by sheer force, but the Knight's horse boxed him down with his front hooves. Gerrick smashed his Hammer into the fuligin sand, and some of the Knights disintegrated. A few others dodged backward, and others did not move. The unhorsed knight grabbed Tam Lin by the arm. Tam Lin screamed in agony, but turned into a roaring lion. He twisted in the knight's grasp and ripped into his armor and crushed his dry bones. Two lances pinned him through his legs into the sand. His roar turned into a Human scream as he transformed back into his natural shape.

A humming sound emitted from the depths of the undead Knights' throats. Tam Lin felt...strangely...peaceful...

Tam Lin shook off the trance to find himself kneeling and tied up on the fuligin sands. Gerrick glanced at him, his eyes hiding careful calculation. On the other side of him, Haystack knelt next to Trace.

"Easy, sister. Easy."

Trace, tied up with more rope and chain than all of them and gagged to boot, still thrashed like a landed fish.

A familar voice laughed behind the knights. "Whooo. That was fun."

Tam Lin looked up.

The Knights parted to reveal the man from the camp, still in his impeccable black and red suit. He smiled. "Good gods, Warden, you are so predictable! I knew once you didn't break off to help the line you'd want to do the scouting yourself, and you were true to your legend! Your dad would be proud!"

Gerrick shrugged. "He'll be even prouder when I send ye tae serve him in the afterlife."

Gustav laughed. "Oh! Where are my manners. Laird Mac Boon, gracious Troublemakers, These are my good friends, the Knights of Kael Ras. Some of them, anyway." He put his hand on an armored shoulder standing next to him. "This is Captain Drogan. Drogan has been a Knight of Kael Ras ever since he murdered his superior officer in the Order of the Crysanthemum for talking too much. He enjoys stargazing, long walks in the fuligin, and sexual torture sessions, and he'd like to get to know all of you." He turned to Drogan. "I promised if you were a good boy, I'd let you pick out a toy. Would you like one now?"

Gerrick snarled, working carefully at his chains. Tam Lin took a deep breath, hoping one of them was dumb enough to grab him and planning to force them to if he could.

"That one." He pointed to Trace. "I want to see what it takes to break her."

Haystack struggled up to his feet against the hands of two knights. "The hell you w--"

Two blows across the backs of his knees dropped him with a snarl.

Gustav nodded. "The girl, huh? Good choice. Personally, I'd have gone for the blond, but hey." He shrugged, then grinned at Tam Lin. "Maybe I still can."

Tam Lin looked him in the eye. "Oh, take me into your arms, you stud."

Gustav waggled his finger. "Ah ah ahhh! Nice try though. I know about the geas on you, boy. Don't worry. You'll get your turn." He clapped his hands together. "Alright! Get 'em loaded up, we're takin' 'em to interrogation first, and then everybody gets to have fun!"

One of the knights rode up to them. "Sir. They're coming."

"Good. Without the Laird's leadership, we should be able to punch through--"

"No, sir. Not ours. Theirs."

Tam Lin and Gerrick looked at each other in confusion. Raven mouthed an oath of surprise.

Gustav held up one hand. "Our spy said he ordered them to hold position."

"And their pickets are up. Nonetheless, a detachment comes this way. carrying makeshift holy symbols."

Gustav grimaced.

Gerrick smiled. "Hi, Ma name's Gerrick, I enjoy good wine, modern music, and seen' how far I can get my boot up yer arse before it comes off ma foot." He stood up. "An' I wanna get tae know you." He turned his back to Tam Lin and opened his tied arms as far as they would go.

Tam Lin took the opening. "I am so sorry, Laird." He stood up into Gerrick's backward embrace--

--and turned into a raging bear. His furry skin tore, his bones crushed agianst his chains, but his shackles broke, and his claws rent armor. Gerrick screamed, and thankfully the flesh of his hands tore rather than the sockets of his arms. His hands came free, slopping blood onto his protective clothing. He whipped the chain around and bola'd it around Drogan's neck. His other hand siezed the Hammer from the ground where their weapons lay.

Tam Lin ripped the skin from Gustav's face, but he disappeared in a flash. The Knights started to hum, but he roared to drown them out.

Gerrick pounded the sand again, and the bindings fell off his comrades.

It was the confusion more than the battle that did the damage. Sure, Gerrick slew his share of knights with the Hammer, and Tam Lin ripped his share of heads off their spinal columns and crushed his share of ribcages, incapacitating the undead threat, but what the Troublemakers excelled at was exactly as their name might imply--coordinated chaos. Surprise.

Big, clanging, sparking, shiny, massive BALLS.

Drogan reined his zombie-horse around. He hissed, "IGNORE THEM! KILL THOSE AP--"

/SMASH./

Gerrick's Hammer crushed Drogan's chest with one swing. Holy flame engulfed the knight. Tam Lin ran himself up on a lance and crushed the skull of a zombie mount in one blow. It toppled over with its rider, and Tam Lin finished him. Haystack dropped down and cupped his hands, throwing Trace up into the air. She came down on a rider and unhorsed him hard, two knives planted through his armor and into his chest.

But the Knights reorganized quickly. Soon, they surrounded their prey again, their circle reformed, and their lances lowered to pin each and every one of them to each other.

Gerrick licked his lips. "Lads, it's been a pleasure."

"Us too, Gerrick."

Tam Lin let out an ursine whine.

"I'll tell Roddie you're all coming."

"Good. Jackass owes me twenty sovereigns."

"Shut up, Raven."

"Well he does!"

And then, another sound filled the air, faint at first.

Voices.

United in a scream of charge.

The Knights turned their attention toward the new threat, but some of them merely stepped backward. Some did not have the opportunity, as their zombie mounts crumbled under them.

In the next seconds, a swarm of Freehold men of every stripe swarmed over the ridge, carrying crosses, chrysanthemums, holy symbols of all kinds made from junk. It was a good thing it was sturdy, heavy junk as well, because many of the men resorted to bashing the Knights over the head with them.

Raven pointed. "Now see that, in a nutshell, is why I don't like fanatical religion--"

"TROUBLEMAKERS GO TO WORK!" Gerrick joined the fray.

Tam Lin pounded two armored heads together, crushing the skulls inside. It slowed them down long enough for the holy powers to catch up. In a few minutes, the fray died down. Haystack had to lift a frothing Trace off of a now nearly powdered Knight. "Easy, sis. Hey! Hey. He's done. You showed him."

Trace twisted in his arms and pounded on his chest, sobbing. Haystack patted her gently as he held her.

Gerrick stood before the leader of the expedition--the commissar of the freshman camp. Their rescuers were the young and inexperienced unit.

Gerrick said, "Report."

The man saluted smartly. "You don't have to stand in front of us anymore, Sir. Now, we stand with you."

"In front of the World." Gerrick laughed. He gave the man a friendly shake by his shoulder. "Good job, lads. Damn good job."

He beamed.

Gerrick turned. "ALRIGHT, LET'S GET THIS ROAD-SHOW BACK TAE CAMP! COLLECT THE WOUNDED AND DEAD!"

"Did you hear that? He said good job!"

"He said /damn/ good job!"

"Holy hells, man!"

Gerrick groaned, but went about the work...

...Achariel struck, and the Seventh Army captain died, choking. In a few moments, he would arise as the abomination's slave. The figure surveyed the field. Forty-five devout followers of the WAR GOD lie motionless around the solitary undead. It had been a good fight...

...Endhathef pulled his hood low.

The biting fuliign sand never ceased, even here at the edge. It somehow seemed worse here, in fact.He glanced at the maw of The Pit. It was different from what he expected. It was bigger, so big that its form was not entirely apparent. It did not seem like a pit, but a huge canyon, one so big the other side was unseen. Its bottom was invisible in a huge shadow so far down that looking did not inspire vertigo or acrophobia, for it could not be fathomed as a depth. It seemed flat.

He turned to his companion. The Windkeep Consequent was a hardy mercenary, and she knew the landscape of war well. She was Endhathef's guide, and he was her calm sounding board. She nodded out toward the enemy.

Their position along the rim was gained by punching through a small faction of Harkanian troops and holding, trying to find a route westward just over the edge. They knew paths existed along the cliffside, if they could just find them. It would allow them to control some of the enemy's routes better. The downside of this was that their unit was cut off, but they knew that when they signed up for it. It was not an easy mission.

'Anamel asked, "Want to pick a nasty one for this fight?"

It had been Jheshemirath's idea to support each other. Sorosophia, Vessera, and Aleel'aqallah had all turned him down, and Daenil had hesitated to speak at all about what he bore in his mind. Kili'anamakaauhe was near to an animal in mindset now, and Endhathef was unsure if Rindacsa had been yet approached. But the others regularly spoke with one another about the weight of Consequence and the best ways to target the history within themselves. Different tactics were emerging.

The most common was, of course, to pull skill, memory, and power from many targets at once, so as to give none enough strength or focus to take over one's body. Powerful figures from the past were either to be avoided or treated with lightly. Others were to be sealed away by more pleasant figures. But there were times when giving oneself over was not entirely out of the question, and in war against horrors, sometimes, it was almost necessary. 'Anamel liked to let legendary warriors take over her, but she had a nation to draw from without a history of vile evil. There were some villains, certainly, but none were like the Vewelians in terms of proportion or extremity.

"I will not," Endhathef said. "Though I must admit, the rigors of these fights would come easier with some of my brethren under control. I fear they would not relinquish that control, however."

'Anamel nodded, "Well, get ready soon. They're almost here." She turned to their elite crew of former elves and shouted, "Pull up your pants and unsheath your blades in that order, girls! It's time to get bloody."

The troops drew their weapons and moved into position. Endhathef let his mind flicker through the many Vewelian warriors he kept under the surface to draw from, and as he did, something pulled him back deeper. A weaver of jet crystals, a mystic of ancient power, had come toward the surface. It must have been 'Anamel's comment about someone nasty that did it, along with the fatigue. She found it almost too easy to slip through. To take control.

The troops beside him had no chance to react, to face the enemy. Endhathef cackled in mad delight as Vestrikan took control of his body, drawing void from a thousand thousand years of power. Energy dark and negative roiled from his every inch of skin, and it made even the fuligin around him simmer and dissolve into nothing. He strode forward.

Harkanheim's troops marched inexorably toward, no trepidation in their steps, and Endhathef matched them for pace and resolve. The troops behind the Consequent watched in horror as jet black energy shot out in long loops, making Pit-monstes and fuligin-infused soldiers cease to be. Midnight met midnight, and the ancient power ripped the new one to shreds as long withheld desires to nullify and obliterate were sated. The ancient crone's might drew from millions of ancient, now dead elves, and their cessating power answered her skill. Bolts of void ate through blasphemy as easily as it would faith at these levels. The entire platoon vanished from existence within moments, and Endhathef, still under Vestrikan's power, made the air before him sizzle with his power.

He walked. Slowly, steadily, through fuligin sand, onward, westward, toward more of the enemy...

...This was bad. This was very, very bad. He'd been caught during a scouting mission and had set off running, Madra taking another direction in an attempt to draw pursuit off his heels. It hadn't worked. Or rather, it had, but not as well as Avery would have liked. He still had enemies at his heels, and his headlong retreat had not led him to the best of places. In point of fact, it had led him to the edge of The Pit itself.

He turned, mind racing, as his enemies closed in. Their weapons were iron, certain death for him, and while he had ways of defending himself he was not, nor had he ever been, a fighter. At heart, Avery would always be the young musician he once had been. The problem was that the young musician didn't stand much of a chance on a battlefield on his own when faced with iron weaponry.

He drew his blade regardless, parrying the first blows, when a cry from one side made both him and his opponents look up. His eyes widened. Barrelling in, and taking down one of the enemy in the process, was Jack the Diamond, jaw set and eyes hard. His father, to the rescue. Back to back they stood, Jack calling over his shoulder for Avery to follow his movements as they each defended the other, and Avery did his best, keeping pace with his father as they gradually fought their way through towards Allied lines. It would be Avery's inexperience that led to further trouble.

His job was simple: watch his father's back and keep moving. And he did it to the best of his ability, beating off attacks aimed at Jack and himself while Jack did the same on the other side. It was an ill-timed parry that caused the wound, Avery's blade knocking the other just off-target enough that it missed him but sank several inches into his father's back. Jack cried out in pain as the blade was torn out by its owner, blood rushing from the large, jagged wound in his back and side. It was truly only luck that saved them then, the two having fought far enough for allies to come to their aid and get them both out of harm's way...

...Zarren was dead.

The Erlking sighed. The nimerigar archer was one of the few who had ridden the whole way through Vesturia with them. He was one of the ones who had ridden with them to face the dark powers and Hellish landscapes, and his bow had proven useful more times than the Erlking could count. And here he lay, a bone spear through his heart. Faeries were unkillable save by iron or mystic art, and this bone weapon counted as the latter.

The Erlking sighed, then drew the bone spear out. He spoke an ancient charm and watched it burn to dust in his hands, then turned to the four Hunters with him.

"Wrap him in what we can find and send him back to the supply lines. He deserves better than being buried out here."

Realta nodded and gathered the little archer up, while the Erlking considered his position. He had a mile between himself and The Pit, and that mile was crawling with undead. His forces were ill-suited to facing the Grey Host, but they had a few tricks. But the undead did not stop coming, and the Hunters were finding it harder and harder to stand against them. The end was in sight, though, and that gave them some hope. The Erlking sighed, and wished not for the first time that Tam Lin had stuck with him for this leg of the war.

His reverie ceased as a scream reached him. He turned and urged his mount back toward the trouble, and there, he found Realta fighting for her life against a translucent figure with Zarren's appearance. Screaming for magical assistance, the Erlking summoned an ancient charm to ward off souls and sent it at the little archer's ghost. The impact should have been like a feather against a cloud, but some greater force resided within that grey form. It was like a thunderclap, and it sent Realta, the Erlking, and two other Hunters rolling in fuligin dust as their mounts bolted in pain.

The Erlking looked up from his prone position to see Zarren's ghost flicker across the fuligin sand toward a blue-robed figure some distance away. He pulled himself to his feet and began to run, whistling for his mount as he rushed after the phantasm. Each time he came nearer, he found the ground uneven. Each time he looked back, his mount remained the same distance, never quite gaining. Each time he sought to use one of his charms against the undead figure, some power misdirected him. Within moments, he should have been upon the blue-robed figure, but he never quite made it.

After a few minutes, he realized he was separating himself from his forces, and more importantly, his back up. Stopping to catch his breath, he decided to let the undead go...

...The battle raged.

All around him, energy released, like a combination of lightening and orgasm, the spark and fire of WAR. In that instant, Mudpie knew how the Crimson Father must feel. His eye had not left this conflict, not even with the departure of his Avatar.

Mudpie fell into vision. Distance maintained its meaning, but failed to be a barrier to sight and knowledge. All points were /here,/ even if some of them were actually /there./ An energy more powerful than the war around him pulled at his soul.

He stood at the edge of oblivion.

This wound in the world, it was no mere wound in a /world./ it was a wound in /existance./ He stood at the edge of a black pit, not miles across, not hundreds of miles across--but solar systems across, and deep as eternity.

He closed his eyes. The pit pulled at him, romanced him with its power. It was the power to defy not only the gods, not only the Arbiter--it was the power to defy ALL.

The Foundation.

He or they or it who laid it.

It was the power to unmake, and eventually, to reweave.

The Pit could create a God of Gods. A God of Arbiters. A God so many layers up from the Arbiter that the Arbiter was as a speck of dust.

And all Mudpie had to do was leap in. Offer himself and his gods as a sacrifice. He could be the first apostle of--

A voice.

In his mind, it took the form of a mother giving birth.

/Free me./

Mudpie opened his eyes.

/Free me./

"Then help us."

/Say. My. Name./

Mudpie wracked his mind for the Name, but none came to mind.

His mind filled with an image of a woman giving birth. Tentacles emerged from her opened canal. Mudpie gasped.

/Say my name./

Mudpie licked his lips. "Mother."

/Take the names of the nine brothers and sisters to the Hunter. Do not speak them until you are at the rim./

Mudpie's mind filled with images:

An albino moragesque creature as big as a castle, in the shape of a great iguana, crying in abject fear.

A singing Bann Sidh, weeping in loneliness.

A dragon of forest green and eyes of emerald, the size of a village, sulking alone in spite.

A great lumbering rock creature, looking at a worn and faded picture, bearing a great pain in his heart.

A woman covered in blood and wielding a bone scepter, her eyes full of fire, and an army of rejected and wounded monsters behind her, on her lips the command /never again./

An unassuming man in tattered clothes casting the shadow of a batlike monster, nearly insane with hunger, but desperate to hide it.

A giant metal man, staring at his hands, his heart full of hurt and confusion.

An unformed shadow, desperately searching for something, borrowing energy everywhere it could find it, chanting over and over again its own name.

And an ancient sea-creature, a great grand-dam of the first Kraken, with one thing on her mind: /My hour come round at last./

In that instant, Mudpie knew their /Names./

Mudpie wanted to scream, but could not. He was transfixed, and the more he stared at their horror, the more he /loved them./ He /understood/ them. Their need. Their pain. And he could not bear to look away.

Mudpie fell to the ground and choked, crying like a newborn. He gasped for air, and struggled to his feet.

Mudpie found Prax cleaning out a fortification. He helped fight, and then approached.

"You look full of purpose, my friend."

Mudpie swallowed. "The world is more complex than any of us ever imagined."

Prax nodded. "That it is. Though this is not new to us."

"I need to give you nine names. Do not speak them until we are at the Rim. Mother has commanded."

Prax blinked. "Mother?"

"Echidna. I saw her children...They are...beautiful, and terrible...and they are us."

Prax stood silent, and he sensed the threads around Mudpie. One of Echidna's many possible selves was reaching out.

"There is no ready. You need to sit..."

... "I have an itch," the Cyhyraeth Manifest whispered, to a dying soldier.

"Give me a scratch," the soldier responded, not knowing why, with her last breath.

The Cyhyraeth Manifest moved, invisibly, intangibly, to the next one, hundreds of meters away. This one had been maimed by a Pit-monster. His left arm was gone and all the bones on that side had been shattered. His right hand twitched. He'd ask for help, but he hadn't been acting on orders, and blamed himself. It was his mistake. And it was starting to sink in that there was something especially wrong about the pain in his left arm.

"I have an itch," he heard. Who could have said it? There was no one around to speak to him, so he decided that must have said it himself. "Give me a scratch," he whispered, dying.

On the other side of the battlefield, an alliance scout was being tortured in a ditch by Harkanians. They lacked real training or equipment, their methods were crude - dining implements inserted in places they shouldn't go. She would be dead long before she'd experienced enough pain to break. While she waited for death, she reflected on how stupid her orders had been. How naive her commanding officer was. How her loyalty and duty had brought her to this. She was covered in blood from tiny cuts and punctures, applied from head to toe. Damn Queen Lilybell.

"I have an itch," she heard. It was true, she did have an itch. A full-body itch. "Give me a scratch," she whispered, dying before her captors could happily oblige her.

The itch chant had always been one of his favorites, especially when raising cyhyraeths. Itches are a a cruelty experienced by all living things. Often they don't make any sense. The medical definition of an itch is "the feeling associated with a desire to scratch". What could be more useless? But what is useless medically can be so very useful to the application of msawhat. The alliance hadn't caught on. Wounds are itchy, and dying people say stupid things.

Tom Fool had been at it for several days, and the train of cyhyraeths now stretched behind him for 70 meters. It would have been a terrifying sight if cyhyraeths had any bodies to see. Until now they remained silent and thus undetectable. He judged that their numbers were great enough for him to execute his plan. He could easily create and command so many more, but time was precious, and his target was only one man. "Find the itch," he whispered, and they scattered in every direction.

Nearly an hour later, Dullahan heard the alarm. "HERE'S THE SPOT!" it shrieked. He shifted, looking for its source. There was something familiar about it. "HERE'S THE SPOT!" it repeated. That was enough for him to identify the creature's species. He lacked the sensitivity to msawhat to find the soul of a bodiless undead, but even a bodiless undead has a location, so it wasn't necessary for him to speak its name. He snapped his spinal whip and destroyed the thing instantly.

He held his head high and scanned the field. At first, there was no sign of a disturbance - not one that would explain why a cyhyraeth was trying to attract attention to his position. Just the usual fighting.

The soldiers around him had heard the alarm too, and those not actively fighting were now watching the Headless Horseman as he scanned the field. Consequently, when the cyhyraeths assembled and began whispering in their ears, they naturally targeted Dullahan.

"Why is he here?" dozens of cyhyraeths whispered in the ears of dozens of soldiers. Doubts surged in their hearts. "This headless horseman, isn't he dead himself?" "How can anything live without a head?" "How can a head live without a body?" "Why doesn't he say anything?" "I heard he killed one of our boys." "I heard that too, just said his name and that was it." They turned their weapons on him and began to close in.

Dullahan tucked his head under his arm again and dismounted.

"Kusha Farrinou," he said, snapping his whip, sending a cyhyraeth and killing its living pawn almost simultaneously.

"Hielel Areereh," he said, snapping his whip again, dodging under a pike thrust, and maneuvering into the opening left by the dead woman.

"Amel Ilatitan," he said. Relief at finally having the swarm on one side of him vanished as three arrows stuck in his back and nine more stuck in the sand around him.

"Ammos Samahteri", he said, disbelieving that this was entirely the work of cyhyraeths. But he kept hearing their whispers, and he knew his whip was sending them. There was only one way there could be so many cyhyraeths in one place.

"You'll never guess my name," he heard. But it wasn't true. He knew the name. And saying it was the only way to stop this.

"Tom ..." he said. But then something strange happened. It was as if his voice was stuck. Something was at the back of his throat, at the base of his head. His jaw worked, trying to force the sound out. "Fffff ..." he managed. "Fffffff ..."

"You're the fool," he heard. And then Tom Fool laughed. He laughed and laughed as Dullahan methodically killed cyhyraeth and possessed soldier. Tom Fool was in his skull. He felt the cyhyraeth dislodge himself and leave. It was only a metaphysical feeling, of course, since cyhyraeths have position, but no bodies. And then his voice was gone entirely.

"Gleosa Martinia", he said. His voice said, anyway. But it did not come from him. His shock was so great that he dropped his head. He fell to his knees, broken. Tom Fool's horrible laughter continued. A sudden wind blew black sand into his eyes. For the first time in an age, he wished he could blink.

"Samua Sogahari," he said, his voice starting to move away. The cyhyraeths' pawns turned away, their work done, and began fighting un-possessed alliance soldiers.

"Resa Laghonchamy," he said, his voice getting further away. His eyes flitted from one dead body to the next. His own work. He felt despair and envy. Silently, to himself, in his mind, where he still had words, he said a prayer. "Let me die here. Isn't this enough?" But no answer came. No one came to finish him off. And he still didn't know how to do it himself.

"Vassa Lichila," he said, in the distance. His despair turned to anger. His envy turned to purpose. His will returned, as it always did in these moments. He picked up his head, shook off the sand, and mounted again ...

...Rindacsa stood outside the circle of 11 Valhonians, alone. Around them, the camp was an anthill kicked into activity as men, women, and beasts broke down tents. As she drew her athame and closed a circle around herself, the noise of the camp instantly died, leaving a ringing in her ears. She shook her head and steadied herself for the prayer.

She was the Counterpoint, and the Valhonians here had asked her to perform as a Brother Witch for her prayer. Normally she would be too busy, but after the close call with her children she had carved out this time each day for prayer. These prayers soothed her, helped her keep her mind together, helped her keep down the wellspring of sorcerers that kept threatening to overtake her every time she reached for their magic.

Rindacsa turned her attention to those praying. As a brother witch of Silence, she couldn't hear their prayers directly. She had to guess at what they were praying for by studying the absence of their desires, feeling the absence of their attention to facts in their own minds. It was a strange thing, describing the shape of someone's desire by looking at the negative space in their minds. Rindacsa concentrated, unlocking forgotten facts for some, hiding crippling fear for others. She helped each individual in turn, then prayed for herself. "Father of Silence, show me how to listen to the Silence, to better understand the Mysteries, and to find strength in myself.." A simple prayer for a basic intention. She felt the wellspring of faith, and unleashed the work...

.....Something was not right. She had been called to the front lines, supposedly to parlay with a major lieutenant in Harkan's army that wanted to surrender. Still, no one could tell her who the lieutenant was, or give her any background information. She scanned over the troops that were waiting, looking for the platoon leader, when suddenly all the sound died around her...

... Something was not right. She had been called to the front lines, supposedly to parlay with a major lieutenant in Harkan's army that wanted to surrender. The front was supposed to be right here, but the Alliance army wasn't where command said it would be. Puzzled, Rindacsa prepared a life spell to find the platoon, only to feel the spell die inside as the sound died all around her....

... Something was not right. Rindacsa was sweating, knuckles white against her staff. She had her protections up, but she couldn't remember activating them. She had been called to the front lines, she was sure of it. Why had she been called here? Why was it so empty? There was no wind, only the ringing of her ears in the silence.

Rindacsa stopped acting, and listened. In the silence, she could hear. She closed her eyes, and she could see. "Bless the Father for this boon," she thought.

It was in the middle of the field where she had been told to go. She could not see it, but like the prayers she could see the space around it, feel the mysteries it's tendrils created as they lashed out touching everything near by. She was sure now the platoon had been here. She was sure now that this area of land had once been 5 times the size. With the blessing of Mysteries, she saw reality draining into a vortex of nothing at the epicenter, always accelerating. At this rate, it would consume her and the adjacent armies. She prepared a travel spell, speeding around the vortex, trying to cut it off.

There was something in the epicenter, she could feel it looking at her.

She lept away as her protections failed. She had failed to raise them... no, with her grip on her staff, her protections that had stood up to demigods had been simply stripped away. What was this?

The thing at the center shouted at her, asking her to please stand still.

She cast with Cerulean, circling around the vortex, trying to warp space back to where it had been, to make more space, so that all of reality would not be consumed by this monster.

The thing shouted after her in the center of the maelstrom, asking for her name.

"I am the Counterpoint!" She shouted back. She circled, casting with Ostian, trying to contain the effects of the monster. Why was it so hard to cast?!

The thing mocked her, rambling about how it was the true counterpoint to all that was, is, will be, etc etc. She couldn't follow, the words falling out of her consciousness as she concentrated on casting. She cast with mana, sending a blast into the center, trying to disrupt it.

She watched in horror as the mana she sent into the maelstrom simply became pure Void, then blasted back to her direction. She only barely lept away in time.

The thing, roughly humanoid in shape cried out in sounds of pure ecstasy. The maelstrom pulsed and grew, as the thing in the center shouted for more, promising to release them both from existence if she fed it more.

Rindacsa backed up, sweating. What was this? She racked through her generations of memories, coming up only with a dim memory of a forgotten God who had no name.

Rindacsa circled around the maelstrom a third time, casting with spheres that were familiar to her, spheres she knew well. She worked with Myranese, with Yorathi, with Azure and with Sanic. She could not bind this monster directly, but she could bind it's effects on the world. She would collect the mysteries, binding them into the reflections in her armor, and give them a name. She circled outside the creature's area of effect, as it screamed in rage. As she completed her 11th secret, she whispered into her armor.

"You are No More."

The creature screamed a wild scream as it imploded, it's definition it's undoing.

The maelstrom stopped. She felt the secrets of the Nullman flow into her armor, sensed the damage he had wrecked to both the Alliance, Harkan's armies, and to Shem itself. These secrets would take some time to parse, but one secret stood right at the surface. Before it exploded into non-existence, the Nullman had a message for her from the Court of Void:

"We promised to leave you alone for a time. We made no such promises about your children..."

... the "fuligin flu", as the army had taken to calling it, had been traced back to a chunk of rotten vegetable matter in a cask of water. How it got there had not yet been determined. Initial symptoms included cough, fever, vomiting, sweat, and loss of the power of faith. Except for the last, the symptoms were all manageable. But those who didn't recover quickly fell into comas. Several units had been slaughtered when they lost the ability to move amidst battle. Those who had been in coma longest were starting to pass away. And it was spreading quickly.

Noinalla was changing cold compresses and contemplating her next move in the battle against the flu in a medical tent when the intruder appeared to her. It was late at night and the other medics were sleeping. She watched coolly as the yellow-green cloud billowed from under the blanket drawn across the flu's latest kill. Healer, it hissed, resolving into a vaguely humanoid form. Hear me. The epidemic is tied to the fuligin desert. Move those who are incapacitated out of the desert and they will recover. Leave them too long and they will die.

"What the hell are you doing in my tent?"

I've come to finish wiping out my ledger. I didn't want to be involved here. An old debt forced me to deploy this plague against you, but I won't have it said later that I chose sides. As he spoke, Noinalla realized who He was, as if remembering an acquaintance from childhood, though she'd never seen Him before, in any of His disgusting forms.

"But you have," she countered. "Whatever you do now to mitigate the damage, it is done."

You're wrong. I've given you the key to victory, if you have the will to grasp it.

"What key? How do we grasp it?"

Those strong enough to stay in the desert and fight off my plague will be transformed by it. Their bodies will come to naturally reject fuligin particles. Not total immunity, but they can take off their masks without fear.

"How is that possible? You're a God, you have no power over fuligin."

My power is the furnace of the body, the alchemy of gut flora, the hammer and anvil of virus and antibody. The fuligin is as it ever was, I simply changed the biological systems in play. Use magic, faith, vitamins, medicine, whatever you have. Bolster your people and their own bodies will do the rest. When they burn through the virus, it will become a part of them.

"This doesn't 'wipe your ledger'. It won't bring back those who died."

Your military leaders would have gladly paid in lives ten times what I took - or what you let slip away - for this power. And because you didn't ask for it, your hands remain clean. As mine should have been. To call it a bargain is an understatement.

"That's logical insanity. Life is sacred, nothing can make up for its loss. You can't barter it away like that."

I can. It's only you, healer, whose code prohibits it. Generals play different games. So do Gods.

"My Goddess will never accept this!"

The cloud shuddered, smirking. The Silver Mother has accepted worse. Done worse. She'll turn a blind eye. And She's not who I'm concerned about, anyway.

"Who, then?"

Many. The next Arbiter, if there is one. The Gods who maintained their neutrality. Echidna, Mother Shem. Your Logos and Messiah. Tell them what I have told you. Heed me, or don't, healer, and see what happens.

The fetid cloud dissipated quickly, before Noinalla could think of anything else to say. She wanted to vomit. The air still stank of sick sweat. Everything He said lined up. She herself had gone out without wearing her mask the day after the fever broke. She just forgot it when leaving her tent. Rationally, she knew that she had reason to be hopeful, but behind that was a worse form of guilt, that of being the corruptor's accomplice. Then again, he hadn't left her with a choice.

Not a medical choice. But he had left her a political one. She'd keep this meeting a secret at least until after the war, do what she could to strengthen her patients, perhaps sabotaging the detente Hollow Jack wished to maintain, perhaps even increasing the death toll among the sick, but she wouldn't become that monster's messenger. It was too fine a line between that and advocate. She began writing a letter recommending the transfer of all coma patients out of the desert. A simple prescription wouldn't raise any suspicions ...

...There were too many of them. Too many of the enemy, too many injuries, too many injured. Marrec Kierallon muttered a few colorful curses in Murjan as his worktable was cleared only to have a new wounded soldier placed on it. His was not the only one, either; the medical tents were full to overflowing with the dead, dying, and wounded.

There was a constant stream of orderlies running in and out on various tasks; some were set solely on corpse duty, carrying the dead out to free space for the living. Some were set on bandage duty, wrapping up those wounds that the healers on triage had determined could wait or only needed mild immediate treatment. Still others were on supply runs for bandages, needles, thread, alcohol, and other tools needed by the healers who were, by now, so numb to the sweet-rust smell of blood that they wouldn't be able to smell anything else for a solid day at least after this, and others yet were bringing food and drink, or ushering in replacements for those healers who were too exhausted to continue their work, and helping the exhausted out to try and get what little rest was even possible.

Marrec's clothes were a loss, so covered in blood that their true colors would likely never be seen again. The woman at the next table over, Halla Jallan of Tara'hin, was in similar straits.

The two glanced at each other as Marrec bent to tend to his new patient. The battlefield might be hell, but it was only one form of it. This place, overflowing with moans and blood and excrement and fear and pain, was wholly another...

...They came over the black dunes like a dark cresting wave. Khanga lead her followers but kept pace with the twelve until she saw her quarry. Sun faithful of Tarahin and Inisel and other nations were trying to combine their prayer efforts. But the Goddess didn't answer quick or strong enough. Khanga and some of her legion fell upon them writhing and quick. She twisted around men and broke their backs, she attacked Hul'tessaq with tooth and nail and weapon. There was one Tuq'tessaq that she eviscerated as he vainly tried to pray. She pulled entrails out of him and ripped into them as if they were her first meal in weeks. Blood and bile ran down her dark chin as she slithered toward her next enemy...

...The Queen watched as her forces fell back.

She turned slightly on her steed and looked to Edela, her longest and most trusted adviser. "You do not make mistakes."

It was not a question, not a reprimand, not a command. Merely a statement of fact. This defeat was not at the hands of bad intelligence. Someone had betrayed them, and the implication was that their entire network might have been compromised.

Edela turned and rode back, moving swiftly behind the lines. Finding a small crest in the rocky landscape, she paused and surveyed the field. Along the rim, the enemy had countless fortification and camps, and each one was being supplied by lines moving along the inner lip of The Pit. The curse that afflicted the region did not apply to fuligin dragons and Harkanian ships (nor, it seemed, spectral undead, though their utility was more insubstantial), meaning they could resupply anywhere along the northern shoreline and fly it or carry it around the rim. Intel had suggested that the enemy had far fewer reserves along this front, hence Ghef'fhardim's choice to leave it undermanned while the supply lines caught up in the next sector over. Instead, a full twenty-thousand more soldiers appeared to be moving out from the two fortifications here than previously suspected, and the monster Khanga was here as well, when all reports suggested she would be to the southeast by nearly a twenty miles.

There were two agents who might be in a position to mislead the Intel Council this badly. One was working for the Tara'hinian Intelligence Corps, the other was under Edela's command. Edela would let Haniqa address the Tara'hinian agent; she was going to ride down to find Mollin.

The command tent was a few miles away, surrounded by a mixed legion of elites and trainees. Edela bypassed them all, riding undercover of glamour and charm, hidden from view. She did not have time for code words and convesations. Her steed, masked by her power, raised no dustcloud nor left any hoofprint, but simply ran with swift grace into the heart of the camp, slowing only to let her rider down.

Edela composed herself and walked into the tent, still invisible, and watched. Mollin showed no sign of perturbance. He showed no sign of realizing she were there. He showed no sign that he had caused death and destruction that might end this army's chances. He simply shuffled papers, hummed to himself, and checked things off a mundane list of supplies. His role as quartermaster was straight forward enough, but he doubled as one of Edela's information filterers. He sifted through reports and made sure she got what she needed. He coordinated. He spoke to agents. He knew their identities, and he knew the army's resources. Of all of her agents, he was the one in position to let such a massive oversight happen.

He should have been running. Edela paused and considered. She did not hire on stupid agents, and Mollin was one of her sharpest. This could easily be a double bluff. Or something more intricate. She took a deep breath, confident in her invisibility, and let her senses roll through the room, seeking answers. She spoke an old poem, invoking the powers of yahas to sense any hidden connections. She traced a rune in the air and let its power reveal truths. And then she revealed herself for the final action.

One of her most basic requirements of her agents was that she had access to their True Names. It required absolute trust on their parts, and it gave her a trump in case the worst happened. To invoke on a Name, however, she had to bare herself. She could not be glamoured, she could not be vanished, she could not be charmed. It was a risky move, but a necessary one. Vanishment faded. Glamour cleared. Charms subsided.

And then, Mollin spoke a word, an unfamiliar word. She could not fathom it in that moment, but she recognized the object that appeared immediately. She ducked before he fired. The bullet sliced through tent wall and hit someone without. Edela spoke her own word, his Name, Amanmuillin Moll.

The old fey twisted in pain as the command made his body spasm. The gun dropped, fired again (striking a pillow), and rested upon the sands. Edela moved to subdue her target, using her power to reach into his very essence, finding new truths.

Others might first want to know why, but Edela wanted to know the extent of the damage first. The extent of the lies. The network was thankfully small--it had to be to get this far--and the compromise limited. But thousands were dying now because of it. All for a long dead Divine...

...And there it was.

Mudpie had expected that hyperbolic vision to dull the impact of finally seeing it, but it did not. The Pit, miles and miles ahead of them down this slope, on the other side of untold legions of the enemy, was breathtaking, in all the worst ways.

"Well..we made it."

The line stopped. Horns sounded for miles in either direction.

Memories played in his head: the first meeting at the pub, the trip to the Nightwood, the dreams and nightmares, the Hand of Treason, the trip to Sah Bellaaw, meeting Inelle.

The Children.

The doors in the vision.

Bargaining with a dead Goddess.

The War.

It had all come to this.

Through the blood, death, and fire, Mudpie's senses burned. He felt a buildup of energy, dark black fuligin energy. It came from the western end of the enemy camp.

"Oh gods..."

The mother of all Fuligin attacks was about to be unleashed.

"NO!" He sprinted.

Mudpie stopped, wheezing, before a Dhunnic general. "There's about to be a major attack here, we need to get our defenses up!"

"What kind?"

"Fuligin! Powerful fuligin monsters! Er--not monsters, people! I'll help!"

And so they prepared. Every possible defense was re-routed their way. Legends made their way over to join the fight.

Mudpie kept them apprised of what he felt--

--until the feeling vanished.

Mudpie looked to the east, in horror.

The general stood up. "Survivalsmith?"

Mudpie fell to the floor onto his butt. "No...No..."

The General ran to him.

"I've made a terrible mistake..."

...Hours previously, in the enemy camp, Gustav stared at himself in the mirror. With one angry fist, he shattered it.

That Innesmoor Faery-brat would pay. That much he promised. He would live for /years/ of abject torture before serving as Gustav's personal undead slave and being gated directly into the Hells.

Gustav wrapped his face and walked out, to the command tent.

His servant Haggardy fell into step next to him. "Sir. You look refreshed. How about a nice cup of wine?"

Gustav batted the cup away. "Report."

"Sir...they're...approaching the Rim fast. The Fuligin Twelve are preparing to ride forth."

"Good. I may have a way to assist them. Take me to their marshall, or keeper, or whatever it is they obey."

"Sir, they uh...they obey His Black Majesty directly and only."

Gustav stopped.

Haggardy waited.

"Oh. Well then...I guess we'll just have to help from a distance, won't we?"

The servant sighed in relief.

Gustav put his arm around him. "Haggardy, what would you imagine to be the single greatest danger to the Fuligin Twelve?"

"I...well sir, there's the uh, the Red Hunt, and the Survivalsmith, perhaps The Queen, or the Valhonian Consequent, and the Logos...and..."

"Exactly. Now, these fools have come a long way under the power of their own chutzpah, correct?"

Haggardy nodded. "Oh yes, undoubtedly, Sir."

"And might there be, in the farthest reaches of possibility, a danger to the Twelve if our enemy were to muster all their defenses right where they emerge?"

"I...could concieve of such a thing."

"Well Haggardy," he straightened his servant's lapels. "They will."

"Ah. I see. But uh...sir, how will they know?"

Gustav gestured grandly ahead. "Energy, Haggardy. The fuel of the Universe. They have a rather pesky dwarf who can sense all of it. He will feel the buildup, and alert them. So you know what we're going to do?"

"What sir?"

"We're going to fool him."

Haggardy grinned. "A capital idea, Sir. Uh...how are we going to do that?"

"By bending time and space. See, here's the thing. They know good and well that we've got all the Grey powers on our side. But they forget one very important thing: we have other powers. It so happens that our magi have dabbled a bit in the less unsavory arts. One such art is the art of connection, which would allow us to tie a little string of energy between the Twelve and the spot we want the Survivalsmith to think they're coming out of. All the buildup, all the energy will be felt on the west end, but actually released on the east end. See?"

Haggardy nodded. "I do, Sir! I do indeed. But...won't that take a lot of power?"'

"Indeed it will, Haggardy. Which is why I need a favor from you."

"Oh, anything, Sir!"

"Good." Gustav patted him firmly on the shoulder. "I need you to go ask His Black Majesty for the power to fuel this spell."

Haggardy went gray. "But--but..."

"But but but there's a difference between you and me, Haggardy. I'm not expendable."

Haggardy swallowed. "Sir..."

"And Haggardy," Gustav held up a vial on a pendant, "Remember who has your soul." He patted his servant on the cheek and walked away...

...Captain Valabalar sat huddled close with his 20 men, back to back, weapons drawn. Pit-monsters approached from the left, hulking forward with all the time in the world. Undead shambled and crab walked from the right. Ahead of them lie the Pit, and behind them lay /that/ demonic mound of flesh.

"I have to ask, captain, what do you think your odds are right now?" Noraqqalmud's voice grated his nerves raw. Still, the demon had been a boon so far. "I think we have good odds of taking out that Pit beast on the right before we're cut down, if you can take care of those undead on the left."

Noraqqalmud chuckled, the sound like rocks scraping against each other. "Not our odds, captain, your odds. Your plan is to trade your life to take down one Pit beast, when they advance at us without number?"

Valabalar glanced back annoyed at the demonologist. How dare he do this to him, in front of his men. If they hesitated now, they would all die for nothing. "Unless you have a better idea."

"I do, in fact, but it needs your.. cooperation. Since you're trading your life anyhow, I can ennoble that sacrifice, make it more worthwhile."

The captain turned, pointing his weapon to Noraqqalmud. Gods damnit, the monstrosity looked smug. It pushed it's spectacles up it's face, and touched an amulet around it's chest. "Kuyyangilla, it's time for plan B. Come."

From the amulet lept a beautiful woman, naked from the top down, but warped with the legs of a mule. She smiled at the captain, licking her lips. Valabalar felt his face flush despite himself.

Noraqqalmud spoke to the demon in his gravel voice. "I'd like to sweeten our deal. Increase my boon in exchange for their worship."

The demon spoke with a fire behind her eyes. "Deal."

Noraqqalmud turned to the captain and his men. "Here's my solution." He raised his hand in a gesture, and the platoon began to bleed out from their eyes. Captain Valabalar fell to the sand, blinded, clawing at his face.

"All of you are going to die in the next five minutes. If you do nothing, your soul with either be obliterated entirely, or you'll come back as an undead and be obliterated by the Fuligin in short order. Or, you can pledge your life to this beauty before you, and spend the beginning of your afterlife safe and in ecstasy."

The captain writhed on the ground, coughing up blood. He heard his men screaming behind him in agony.

Noraqqalmud continued. "You'll likely be much better off if you take the option before you. I know you've no reason to trust me, seeing as I've just murdered you all, but I'm not /all/ bad. Please, have a bit of faith."

The demoness spoke with a lilting voice that made the captain's heart flutter, pumping even more blood from every orifice. "I promise to be gentle."

What choice did he have? Captain Valabalar pledged all 4 minutes of his meaningless life to the demoness.

Noraqqualmud smiled at the 20 corpses before him. The demoness had vanished with the souls she had stolen. With a gesture, he animated the lifeless body of the captain and his men, so they stood guard around him. "Come, join me, be legion." To the right, an enemy commander, a vampire, was advancing towards him. He glowered at the vampire and shouted out to him: "What in the Nine Hells took you so long...?"

...The Hunter quietly handed the small cloths out.

"This?" Tam Lin asked.

"He's not one to boast," the Erlking said.

Tam Lin inspected it. "It's so small."

"Size--" the Erlking began, but Tam Lin cut him off.

"You know it matters," Tam Lin said. "Don't pretend it doesn't matter."

The Erlking nodded, "Fine. But in this instance, the size is sufficient. It just has to cover your mouth."

The Dollmaker muttered, "Or be stuffed down it..."

...The King glanced back at the field, littered with the bodies of too many. The Dabbenese soldiers were tying their dying lord to a stretcher to carry off the field, hurriedly trying to draw him away from the oncoming battle. Lord Sukhrab Kohlaba would not live through the hour. He had been an honorable warrior, a wise leader, and a good man, as far as lords go. He cared for his soldiers. He cared about his nation. He cared, and it had killed him.

Suk Boon-ja knew his was a similar fate. The line had broken for miles. The supply lines had been compromised. Thousands were dying. Allied blood washed the fuligin sands, leaving an impassable muck, and water was in short supply now. Undead units were fast approaching, and the only forces left at this position were the Uruoese, a few angry Rothanians, the broken Dabbenese, and five unreadable asterians. The King of Uruo watched them wandering the expanse of dead and dying, and he knew they would fall when the enemy arrived.

He turned to Gyeong. "The star banner."

"Your Majesty?" the soldier asked.

"The star banner," the king insisted.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the soldier responded. The old veteran walked slowly, tiredly to his horse and loosed the banner from its stirrup. He held it aloft a moment, then let the wind catch it. He leaned it against his shoulder and turned to the king. "Your Majesty."

The flag raised in salute, its banner ripped and shredded by arrows, singed by flames, hacked by axes. Tattered, but still flying. The king nodded approval and took a deep breath. He thought of General Seok, of Lord Sukhrab, and of countless others, and then he looked off into the distance at the glowing blue giant that was once the elven leader that had inspried Suk Boon-ja. The king hoped this elf approved of the banner, even now.

He then turned and shouted, "Form up, soldiers of the Fifth Army! The enemy approaches!"

The soldiers milling about the field turned to him. Those who had begun fortifications turned to him. Those who were standing ready turned to him. Those who were thinking of running turned to him.

"You see them! The mounds rushing toward us! We have fought these underdwellers before! We can fight them again! We have not lost this war!" Each sentence was punctuated with a thrust of the flag and a moment's pacing as King Suk Boon-ja rode to and fro before his men. He felt tired, as tattered as his flag. He felt ridiculous, like an imposter. He had seen better leaders die this day. He had lost better leaders to his own stupidity in these last few weeks.

"The Pit is there, not a mile away. This is what we have been fighting to reach. It is within our grasp. Let us not fall now! Ride with me this day, that our children might sing of us!"

And with that, he whirled toward the enemy. He did not look back to see if anyone followed. He simply charged, letting the flag fly as he drew his sword.

He reached the first burrower's mound and let his horse do the work, kicking the fore of the pulsating sand. He heard something crunch, and he knew the undead creature within was slowed, at least. He swung his blade in a clean arc as another bust from the ground, cleaving it a-twain. The halves twitched as they tried to move, but they were unable, no longer a threat. The King roared as he engaged more of the enemy. One, two, five, ten. They came on and on, but he let adrenaline and madness push him. Soon, he was surrounded, but by now, his men were there, and more. Asterians were using some sort of energy weapon to burn the monsters, and the Dabbenese were singing as they fought. The Rothanians were screaming, unleashing a fury few other nations could muster. None of them had holy weaponry anymore, but there were a few with enough magic or supernatural power to slow the onslaught of the grey chthonians.

Still, there were too many of them. The horde pushed the Fifth Army back, and then forth, and then back, like the tide. Their losses grew (and then became one with the enemy), but still they fought. After an hour's bloody butchery, they found themselves by the edge of The Pit, being forced toward it. The King knew they couldn't rappel with horses, but most of their horses were dead (or worse) already. He tossed the star banner to Gyeong, leapt down to the ground, cut a shambling chthonian down, and called for his men to rally.

"Let's see if we can get them into their own godsbedamned trap," he urged, then stepped back, slapped his horse's rump to send it fleeing, and slashed an undead Dabbenese cavalryman down. Leading carefully, he swung himself over the Rim, landing on a wide walkway of fuligin stone. Quickly, the chthonians burst from the cliff wall, but his men deflected the monster over the edge and off into the eternal drop. The King pushed onward.

The ledge narrowed, and the enemy kept coming. Slash, parry, duck, thrust, deflect. Chthonians crawled out of the walls, and the King considered that they must be from the Ninth Army, now corrupted to the Grey. He watched most of them tumble, but a few found footing. Some had weapons, but most fought with sharp, rock-cleaving claws and tiny rock-rending teeth. Bones broke. Flesh ripped. Men died, or worse. And the fight moved on.

The ledge narrowed, and the enemy kept coming. The King made the mistake of looking down, and a feeling of insignificance struck him. His guts churned, and he froze. If not for Gyeong's loyal blade, he would have been torn to pieces. If not for the namless soldier whose scream preceded a tumble into vast fuligin night, he might have remained stunned. But as his blood ran cold with terror at the idea of the fall, the King shook himself awake. He pushed hard against the chthonian horde, shouting an ancient warcry that only a third of his men understood, and commanded Gyeong to keep the banner high. They pushed onward.

The ledge narrowed, and the enemy kept coming. Two more men and a woman--one of the asterians--fell into The Pit. At this point, the enemy was consistently bursting from the wall and going straight over the Rim. The biggest danger was being taken with them, or letting the draw of the depth confuse or disorient. The King pinned himself to the wall and inched forward, heedless of the chthonian threat.

"The way up is ahead. I can see it. Fifth Army, keep moving!"

He remained pinned as they watched him a moment. Finally, an asterian walked forward, carefully slipping past him on the ledge, only a few inches of fuligin stone. He walked easily once past, and moved toward the upward thrust. The king's body spasmed as chthonian diggers shoved hard at the rock behind him.

"GO!" the king commanded, and more soldiers moved past. Another fell before he ever reached the king, but the rest pushed forward.

Another spasm hit as a Rothanian brute was climbing past, and the two tensed for a fall that did not come. The Rothanian laughed, patted the king's shoulder, and took another step. Then plunged as his footing gave way. His scream tore at the king's ears and heart, but he forced himself to watch until the bastard wasn't visible any longer.

Finally, the last of the soldiers slipped past, and the king carefully pushed forward. Blood slicked his back from undead claws and fuligin stone, but as he weakly inched along, he could see the star banner flying above before it all went dark. If you stare into The Pit, they said...

... Derek Reis and Necco Loufburrow, senders, sat in the ravine with the other priests, monks, assassins, and assorted other servants of Death, waiting for the Master Sender to arrive. Secerator Tove's ancestor, Lucas Tove, had summoned them all here, and they had been trickling in for the last few hours. Many had answered the call to enjoin war against the Bone Champion, and those who had survived this far were being assembled here.

Finally, the Master Sender arrived, his expression drawn and tense. "Brothers and sisters. Our time has come."

A murmur went through the crowd. One's "time", to this group, had a very specific meaning. It was normally frowned upon to attempt to determine one's own "time", but sometimes it happened anyway. And it was normal to find out for others. For most people, it was the kind of secret you wanted other people to know, as long as there wasn't an emotionally attachment. Over time, the knoweledge could eat away at a person, even drive one mad. But once the time came, it was always best to accept it and face it, so said the gospel of Death.

"I have seen the manner of our passing. It will happen here, today, in battle against the grey," Secerator continued. "We all knew that we might meet the Gatekeeper here. Now we can be sure. And we can take pride knowing that our actions can save many others, for here we can make a stand against the grey army, for their last wing will march through this pass, and after this, only their reserves will remain. Please, let us share our blessings for the coming struggle."

Many prayers were spoken over the next few hours, and positions for the ambush were worked out.

Derek found himself sitting next to Necco again. "Did you ... check? That he was right, about your time?"

Necco chuckled. "Aren't you more interested in your own time? And he was right about that, I checked."

"It doesn't seem right. All of us going at once. It's too ... coincidental."

"These kinds of things happen in war."

"You seem awfully cheerful about it. Aren't we supposed to be grim?"

"I'm always cheerful. What good does it do to hide our emotions? We're alive now, and our lives will end meaning something, before we can undo that good. Isn't that what it's all about?"

"Yes, but ... shouldn't it be ... I don't know, more random? This seems so ... organized. Deliberate. We were called here, for god's sake!"

Necco shrugged. "There may be a reason for it, or it may be random. We'll just have to wait to find that out. And yes, I checked on myself as well, and he was right about me too."

"I just don't like this. Why do we all have to die here? Why not just a handful, and the rest escape?"

"You know I can't answer that. It's not for us to know. Not yet."

Along with the rest, the two young senders finished their preparations, crouched in their hiding places, masked their ashar, and waited.

About a hundred of them were assembled there when the grey army started to stream through the pass, spectral undead swirling and corporeal undead shambling or skulking. Hundreds of thousands of them. There was plenty of cover here, and little sign of the alliance, so they thought to use the pass to outflank the alliance, overwhelming them with mass amounts of cheap cannon fodder.

The first sign of the ambush was when the spectral undead found themselves unable to phase through the walls or floor of the pass. With the number and potency of servants of Death that had been assembled, it was quick work to create a consecrated zone of a dozen acres inside an invisible fence. The ground remained blasphemous and unfazeable, but the faith was in the air. The spectral undead moved in double-time, rushing past their corporeal bretheren, eager to put the difficult terrain behind them, until they met the second sign of the ambush, a massed force of senders and assassins, eager to put their powers to use.

The battle was enjoined, with the servants of Death enjoying superior positioning and the undead finding themselves unexpectedly confined. The spectral types exposed between the corporeals and their enemy, they flowed upward and over their own lines, expecting to escape the pass by flight.

This, too, was impossible, thanks to the efforts of the curseweaver. Though the restriction matrix was beyond his ability to control or dispel, he was able to pull a single thread, to bend the rules, to lower its boundary, making flight outside of the pass in this one stretch impossible. Upon realizing this, the spectrals knew terror and began to flee, but more servants of death had been hiding and waiting for this very moment to strike, boxing then in. A hundred men and women had a thousand times as many undead trapped, and it would only cost them their lives.

The pincer slowly closed around the slower but far more relentless corporeal undead. There were no serious attempts to destroy them, only to distract or contain. All sending efforts were focused on the quick, intelligent, slipperty incorporeal undead, until there was no more space, and they would have to either fight or yield ground. And that was when they detonated the explosives, trapping all within under thousands of tons of rock, enough of it blessed by Death to send every last soul within to the afterlife ... except one.

Lucas Tove awoke and once again found himself buried alive ...

...The Stonedelver Consequent and his forces had done well throughout the Allied effort, seldom faltering and proving as steady as the stone from which their leader hailed. That steadiness, however, had not gone unmarked by the enemy, who pinned the unit's success solely on the head of its leader. So it was that, after one particular strike against their wing of the army, Deyn found himself cut off from the rest of his unit.

Not an ideal situation for any soldier on this field, Deyn immediately shifted into a more stealthy mode of movement and combat. A lone soldier, especially a known commander, was asking for trouble if found this far within enemy lines. The trouble was that there was precious little place to hide in this area of the field, leaving him incredibly exposed for the patrol he could see coming. They hadn't noticed him yet, however...that was good.

Drawing his scimitar he swung it at the ground, the enchanged ailsilver cutting through the stone like butter. Within moments he had carved out a small shallow bowl large enough to lie in, which he quickly did. The scimitar was then used to raise the stone on either side in a smooth arch over his chosen hiding place, with loose earth concealing the joins. Once done, Deyn was little more than a small rise in the ground, all but undetectable by any.

It certainly escaped the enemy's notice; he listened as their footsteps approached and passed without slowing, breathing out a quiet sigh of relief before cutting his way free of the stone once they were safely gone. He had no more time to waste; there was a unit missing its commander on the field, and he had to find them again...

...The Zef'tassaq wormrider 'calvary' were led by Harr'neldeqh Bhertten in their final great charge against the Alliance. She was not their normal leader but had been raised as others a bit more seasoned and qualified had fallen, some with their worms, some without. She rode an enormous worm that had survived its previous rider. Although she was a bit less experienced she had the heart of a great Iniseli warrior and when she saw the Enemy forces nearing too close to the Pit edge she sounded the call. Fifty of the great worms formed a near impenetrable undulating wall of razor sharp teeth and freight train speed. They had no trouble herding their enemy together and driving them off the Pit. They drove nearly 6000 enemy troops over the edge but the worms weren't made for sharp stops and more than half of the worms and their riders were lost over the edge, including Harr'neldeqh and her giant mount...

"...HOLD!"

Gerrick held his position in the fuligin sands, his Hammer raised.

Only his Troublemakers and Tam Lin stood with him.

Bearing down on him now, more of the giant, horrific cavalry from their first night. They rode great fuligin wasteland behemoths, in full charge.

"For the record, Gerrick, this is the stupidest plan I've ever had the privilege to be a part of."

"HOLD!"

"And I traveled with the Survivalsmith."

Raven held his knives ready. "I don't disagree, Gerrick. This one's a whopper."

Gerrick looked the lead one in the eye. "Come get me ye nihilistic bastard."

Tam Lin nodded. "I uh...I think he accepts."

"Ready yerselves, lads. HOOOOOOLLLLD...."

And then they crossed the line.

"NOW!"

A single crossbow bolt sailed over their heads, and went right between the eyes of the lead beast. It exploded, blowing its riders free, and shattering its skull. The Freshmen in the flanks pulled their ropes. The nets fired.

They were not meant to catch, only to delay. These beasts and their fuligin riders would tear through or cut through easily.

But Gerrick only needed one.

He ran to a thrashing beast and mounted it, thumping it on the head with his Hammer. "Property of Inverrray!"

The arrows fired. The molotovs flew. Gerrick jousted several of the enemy down with his Hammer. A beast tried to grab Tam Lin, but he turned into molten metal and burned out its insides. More explosions went off as Ansley kept firing.

When the rookies ran out of ammo, they charged. They had learned from watching Gerrick--they did not attack, but they distracted the beasts and their riders, lured them into each other, lured them into entanglements with the torn nets, lured them to their deaths at the hands of those with the power to actually kill them. Gerrick claimed four more mounts using the Hammer, and two of the rookies rode along side Raven and Haystack to cause even more trouble.

In the end, though, they were fuligin, and it was time to put them down.

"Awww, do we have to?"

"Aye, Raven. They'll just taint us and cause problems."

"Okay."

Ansley jogged up as Gerrick smashed the last one. She gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Hoy, lover. Finish up quick. There's more comin'."

"Aye."

"And don't do anythin' stupid!"

Gerrick blinked. "Ye do know where we are, right?"

She waved.

Tam Lin leaned over to Raven. "Current ladyfriend?"

Raven looked surprised at first, but then answered, "Current, original, and only."

Tam Lin nodded when the realization hit. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"She uh...looks good for her age."

Raven grinned. "I know, right...?"

...It had taken Madra all but dragging him away from his father's side to get Avery back on the field, but back he was. Jack the Diamond was now only one of far too many wounded, and Avery still had a job to do. Madra at his side - and occasionally at his back to literally push him forward - he stole forward, concealing himself with invisibility to avoid notice and a repeat of what happened at The Pit.

A good thing, too, as it helped him slip by in tighter spaces than he otherwise would have been able to and that was what did it. It was a purely chance discovery but one that would prove invaluable to the Allied forces: a hidden route, little more than a goat track or rain-carved gully, that the enemy was completely disregarding. But with the right mind behind it, such a thing could potentially be used to devastating effect with a pincer movement.

He grinned, reaching out the contact the First Song provided him, re-established by recent connections in the field, until he found the man he sought. Arlie Battisto, former bodyguard, old friend and bandmate, and one hell of a fighter. It didn't take long for Avery to explain what he'd found and where it was, nor for him to suggest the notion of a pincer movement. The rest he left in Arlie's hands; doubtless the man would be able to pull off something truly epic. And he was right; within two hours the unfortunate enemy battallion that had ignored the little goat-track was no more...

...The old faerie could fight.

Maradir's Sword was useful again now that the Worms were on the Allied side, and he put it to use not just in his role as an adviser. As the enemy swarmed the command camp, the General of the Teg drew the Sword of Wisdom and rode forth. It shone like a beacon, and the nearby troops rallied to its nickel grey light.

Ghef'fhardim called to his aide-de-camp, "Check the right flank!" And then he ran toward the fray, swinging his spear and hook, metal and crystal meeting fuligin flesh. Blood spattered the marshal's face and arms, but he ignored it and kept hacking at the Pit-monsters rushing his position. He cut his way through, striving to reach the old general and bring aid to his friend. Four monsters fell to his blade before he was forced to summon esoteric power to the fight.

He blew the Trumpet. In this realm where teleportation meant death, he could not summon Iniselis to him. He could not summon dragons. But as Master of the Gift, he could use it in novel ways. Its voice repulsed fuligin, bolstered his allies, and gave him the dragon's strength. Ghef'fhardim lowered the Trumpet and charged forward through the open space afforded him, reaching Maradir's side in time to deflect a spear thrust. The two men pushed back against fuligin metal and stood side-by-side a moment. Ghef'fhardim looked quickly toward Maradir, then laughed bitterly.

"How do we get out of this one?"

The ancient fey let his Sword pause in its arc, then redoubled its force and cleaved a Harkanian warrior's head off. "Fight, and pray."

Ghef'fhardim nodded, then pushed forard, drawing the heat of the sun into himself and preparing through lost arts to send a wave of golden flames dancing through the desert. He danced among the enemy, bringing death and pain to them in heavy measure, preparing his burst of sunfire, and then stopped cold as the teg-lord shouted in anger and agony. A quick glance told Ghef'fhardim that his friend had taken a grievous wound. Without hesitation, he brought the Trumpet back to his lips, preparing to bring strength and a bit of space to his staunch ally, but again, he was cut off. Huge claws raked his sides, and he fall almost immediately.

Again, he tried to blow the Trumpet, but vast claws tore at him. Darkness threatened to take him, but Ghef'fhardim refused its call. Swinging the Trumpet like a club, he battered the Pit-monster's gnarled face, once, twice, thrice. Fuligin blood fell, spattering the ground around him. Four, five, six. The Trumpet's graceful curve came back bent and twisted, but still, Ghef'fhardim fought. Seven, eight, nine. A piece of fuligin fang fell to the ground next to him. Ten, eleven, twelve. Each blow left the Trumpet more and more broken, but so too was the Pit-monster. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. A spray of blood told him the beast was nearly dead. Sixteen, seventeen. Ghef'fhardim felt his own power slack as the Mastery of the Trumpet died. What be pulled back for blow eighteen was merely a jagged piece of Godsteel, but it was enough.

He slammed that jagged shrapnel into the monster's eye...

...The Hand of Undeath.

His energy blipped in Mudpie's senses like a beacon. He made his way that direction. Creature after creature, soldier after soldier, stood in his way, but Mudpie would sap their energy with one hand and release it as an attack against the next one with the other. It was energy he could not consume for himself--there was too much Msawhat out here. Too much blasphemy.

But it meant he could not recharge.

Still, The Pit called to him. Its comforting power loomed in his visions. Part of him wanted desperately to leap in, and another part of him cried out to heal it. His mind felt as if it would split in two.

Now, so deep behind enemy lines that he could feel his friends and allies far behind him, and a sea of Msawhat around him, he no longer cared who or what he killed. Vampires, fuligin monsters the size of sea-vessels, some kind of dragon. He sapped them all, and hammered their fellows with blasts of the energy. The two guards at the edge of the Hand's camp jumped to in surprise, but he left them lifeless, without even looking their direction. All others simply ran from him. He allowed it.

The tent ahead of him, glowed a sickly gray in his sight, and smelt of corrupted rot to his nostrils. He threw open the tent flaps.

A host of generals reached for their weapons. Mudpie struck them dead.

Elpidian did not look up from his map. He picked up a marker in the shape of an ammoniac dwarf and moved it decisively. "Hello, Survivalsmith."

"Hello, cupcake."

"Now now." He stood up straight and faced Mudpie. "I'm being respectful. There's no need for insults."

"Fuck, I'm bored of this already." Mudpie reached out to Elpidian and began sapping his energy to feed back on him in an attack.

But Elpidian grinned, stopping the flow out from Mudpie. Mudpie choked.

"You really thought I wasn't prepared for that, didn't you?"

Mudpie gritted his teeth against a snarl and rooted himself into the heart of Shem, drawing up a primal fire.

"Yes. Do that. The explosion will take out half the battlefield, salt the world with Fuligin dust, and slide us all into The Pit. I long to see such sights."

Mudpie roared, pushing back against the blockage.

Elpidian knelt, reaching down. "Let's see what happens if I start channeling Fuligin blasphemy into you."

And Mudpie knew how it would end. The world would be wounded again.

Unless--

Mudpie could not release the energy, but he could control it. He formed a shield around them both, a tube of pure energy with a bottom under their feet.

There was just an instant, a very satisfying instant, of a look of abject horror on Elpidian's face.

There were no words for the explosion. Mudpie did not experience it anyway.

A column of white fire and black fuligin veins shot into the sky with a sound that would be heard or felt everywhere on Shem and seen on the nearest continent, and by every logos and ephesh within five light-years...

...Paul Driver looked up in awe. "Was that our Logos?"

"No." A nearby Consequent shook his head. "He's over there."

"Sweet gods..."

...Mudpie awoke to a feeling of alarm, coming from Inelle. He tried to move, but his arms and legs hurt /terribly./

Inelle's voice in his head. "<It's phantom limb syndrome. Keep your eyes up. Don't look.">

Of course. She knew what Phantom Limb felt like.

"But...all four...of my limbs..."

/"Hush. I know what to do here."/

Inelle ripped off her gloves and strode to the miracle-working elf-king. "I need you to fill me with as much energy as you can stand to give me."

At this point, the sleepless Messiah did not question. He reached for her hands.

Mudpie screamed as his burned and jagged stumps sprung to life. On the other end, Inelle fed him wave after wave of energy, using her skill to craft nerves, cast bones, weave muscles, and press skin. It was like diverting a river into a bottomless pit.

Until everything snapped into place.

Mudpie rolled over, weeping.

/"Get up, Mudpie. You need to find energy."/

Mudpie coughed. /"Thank you..."

...Achariel stood before the sweeping Hunt. A single swipe killed another mount, but the rider once more rolled out of the way. The abomination hissed in anger. The Red Master cheated. He sacrificed mounts and saved the Hunters. It was a strategy, but to what end? The abomination had not the time to learn. Foiche Maru cut through him with argent blaze...

...Silence fell over the field, and both armies stopped as the invisible weight of the moment fell upon them.

The Fuligin Twelve rode out in a staggered line, black-bridled beasts from the Pit beneath them, each as different as its rider.

Truly, they were all beasts from The Pit, or rather the race from The Pit. Each was humanoid, but they all varied in ways subtle and gross. Where they rode, the air itself became blasphemous. When they spoke, faith crumbled. Yet unlike so many of their allies, they were neither broken nor corrupt. They were born of blackness, heirs to The Pit, and pure in a way that even the vilest Misbegotten or most voracious Nightmare would find wrong.

Rikerrdh had a thin, elongated body reminiscent of asterians and shemir, and rode a chittering, eight-legged centipede-like animal.

Shaalerith, the only woman in the procession, had an unearthly, soul-chilling beauty made even more terrifying by her fuligin-black skin, eyes, and hair. She wore no clothes as she rode her winged vulpine steed, confident in her ability to bring lesser beings to their knees by her mere presence. Closer inspection would reveal that her skin and mount were covered in the blood of the thousands she had run down without resistance, but fuligin would not admit light to illuminate the evidence at any distance.

Falltev was short and stout, the quickness of a halfling blended with a sadistic streak that could only be described as innovative. He rode something not unlike a rhinoceros blended with an ostrich that cried with a chorus of mourning mothers.

Pryherrgh was enormous and muscled, with blackened wings like a fallen angel. He was mounted upon a bear-like beast with a snake's neck that craned 10 feet above its shoulders.

Dalssek was the most human of the Twelve, but his ability to tear the very faith out of a person made many speculate if he wasn't closer to a psionist. He rode atop a goat-like beast that ran only on its hind legs.

Jarggel was truly massive, presenting as vaguely ogrish atop his large beast with the head and tail of a colossal mouse and the scaled body of a lizard.

Aldmerrik was the smallest at only a foot and a half tall. He rode a night-black mechanical steed as tall as a giraffe that brayed like a mule from its transplanted throat.

Brankiil was completely hairless, and it was almost impossible to see the black flames rising over his head without contrasting color. He rode an almost mundane horse, normal except for the fact that it breathed the same Pit-black flames.

Xyggarn was reminiscent of an animalman, or many animalmen, whose rippling features spoke of a battle in the blood, as if the beasts within him wanted to claw their way free in desperation. His snout was that of a boar, but long and luxuriant fur covered him rather than bristles. His horns were two feet long and spiraled slightly like an antelope, but his hooves were more reminiscent of a minotaur's. But while his body seemed to war with itself, his eyes were that of a pure, singular predator. He rode - and sometimes ran with unearthly speed - next to a feline steed whose neck and limbs were covered in razor sharp quills.

Cadiibh was the giant among them at 18 feet tall. His toes still scraped the ground as he rode a massive beast with beetle jaws. He licked his lips in anticipation of the bloodbath to come, and the meal that would follow.

Faaltew seemed saurian, but his mix of plates, horns, and scales made his heritage difficult to place. He rode a winged terrier whose massive jaws shook men to death like rats.

Yyrgh rode a giant hairy caterpillar with premature butterfly wings. He was elfish in stature and features, but his chest bore no heart, merely a cavernous hole. It was no wound, but simply a hollow space, as seen in the stretched ears of some Taggarus humans.

With pride, with power, with malice, they rode alongside Khanga once more.

As Prax and the 13 Hunters rounded a ridge, their final charge began.

The faces and mounts of the Hunt were once the stuff of Nightmare, and in the centuries hence, might be again. Yet for the better part of a year, the banner of the Red Fox has been synonymous with audacious, raging freedom for Dream and Shem herself.

So the Hunt and its Master saw the approaching Twelve, and Phalaris Prax howled Love, Hope, Dream, and the voice of a hundred thousand poets lost before their time into the stifling air.

The Hunt responded in turn, and the air crackled with the energy of every story that brought them this far.

Echoes of the Miracle flowering against the night. The cries of a false goddess as her lie-life crumbled in the sun. The gentle embrace of the World Tree's dream. The power unleashed as the Vexed found Mastery, kin to their Gifts at last. The strength of one who feeds the world alone. The light of a prince purged of fear.

The song of a Child awakened to the truth of her heart, and the heart of a wounded world.

The endless gratitude of convalescents given leave to push off the shores of death, and swim.

The anger of those who bleed to remember. The tears of those who will watch the stars fall.

The rising tide of a sleep long due to break...

...Rikerrdh tasted Dho's namesake antlers as they slammed through his throat. The burning spikes ripped fuligin flesh and pulled the head off the Pit-Rider, hurling his cephalus off into the Field. His massive, burning stag trampled the fuligin warrior's steed beneath its hooves. Shaalerith's winged fox met with Prionsa's falcon in low altitude, just below the matrix of protection. The four figures clashed, and Prionsa's cunning won out in the end, though the falcon met its fate there as well. Falltev died upon Bas's twin blades, both swords finding his heart. Pryherrgh died upon Aisling's righteous fury, and Jarggel fell to Mara's spear. Dalssek, like many before him, discovered that psionic power faltered in the face of the fey mind, and the mind he fell to was Oiche's, a terrifying one to be lost in. Aldmerrik was broken by Deiridh's apologetic assault, and Brankiil and Realta faced each other with muscle and fist, ending with Brankill's burning skull being shattered by a fearsome blow. Xyggarn's heart proved to be no less susceptible to Lamh's determined blades. It beat twice outside his ribcage before he died. Cadiibh was felled by Casur's cunning, and Faaltew and Yvrgh both were defeated by Dubh's ferocity.

Leaving Khanga to Prax.

Their first combat ended with the Red Master's death, his body cast down into The Pit. This fight, thankfully, happened only in the Red Master's eye. He pulled the thread, and the second fight was long, an epic stalemate ending with both being broken and wounded, and Khanga's eventual fall followed by Prax's eternal suffering. He pulled the thread, looking for new outcomes. Death, maiming, madness, a thousand outcomes flashed before him. Victory in the battle but not the war, victory in the war but far worse down the line.

And then, the one he wanted:

Prax leapt from his steed, raising Foiche Maru up high. A single, graceful arc brought the blade down cleanly, and in an unexpected executionary swing, the story ended. Khanga's head rolled...

...There are many tales of bravery from this war. But this is one of insanity. The Cultists had regained their own insanity when the Hul'tessaq Manifest gained control over the Worms of Law. Because of that their ability to help the cause wavered a bit. It was never clear whether they were going to be effective in a battle or not. But there was one fight in which the Cultists suddenly acted as one unified unit rather than their normal disorganization. A fuligin beast had just risen out of the Pit and started toward a small group of Cultists who were having a chat about moon tides and kingly responsibilties. As the great black creature neared them its maw opened to reveal several rows of dark sharp teeth. As one the Cult of the Mouth turned to face the creature. There was an odd two seconds where the eight eyes on the creature blinked in confusion at the sudden attention and then the Cult of the Mouth fell upon it. Almost none of them even had a weapon at hand but that seemed to matter little. They tore at its furry legs with tooth and nail. One armed cultist used a butcher's knife to hack at it's tall underbelly. The creature thrashed and flailed but it was for not. Within half a minute the cultists had it by each of its 7 legs and they pulled as if in a great game of tug-of-war. Soon it only had three legs left but they weren't done. The creature could no longer stand and so one Cultist straddled its neck and began to gouge out each black eyeball. Within five minutes the creature was gasping its final breath as the Cultists continued to claw at its remaining leg and pull more great tufts of fur from its ravaged coat. Within another half a minute the strange effect seemed to have disappeared. Many of the Cultists wandered off, some to continue their conversations, a few to play a game no one has ever heard of and only one was still hacking away at the neck of the beast...

...Gerrick, Ansley, Tam Lin, and the troublemakers took cover behind a wrecked fortification.

Ansley slammed a map down on the ground. "Timojin found Harkan's Master of Beasts." She pointed at a mark on the enemy camp. "If we can take him out, it'll end their attacks."
"What'd he see?"

"A giant. A hundred feet tall, covered in Fuligin. He wields a nine-tailed fuligin whip with barbes the size of dirks."

Gerrick blinked. "Well bleedin' bollocks. This'll be easy compared tae the other shyte we've done."

All looked at him in horror.

Tam Lin nodded in realization. "No. He's right. We were never going to best a troop of fuligin warriors. they would be too well armored, and kill too many of us. There's no trap we could spring for him that would hold him. Look at what we had to do to take down those behemoths. We killed the men by taking their mounts and letting them do all the work. Only Gerrick engaged directly. There's only one beastmaster. Something that big, we don't have to kill. We can just bring him down, and let Gerrick brain him."

Gerrick grinned and pointed emphatically. "I knew there was a reason I like ye."

Raven shrugged. "Well, guess I didn't come here to live forever. Tell you what. My turn to be bait this time."

Haystack squinted. "Sure you don't wanna draw lots, mate?"

Raven waved. "Naaaahhh, fuckit. I'm tired of bein' scared I'm gonna die. Let's just bring it on."

Ansley looked at him sympathetically. "Ye're nae gonna die laddie."

"Yeah have that inscribed on my rock. So what's the plan, man?"

/"First, we get there..."/

...Gerrick and Tam Lin clung to the underside of a Fuligin war-wagon.

"No," Tam Lin said, "I'm wrong. /This/ is the stupidest plan I've ever had the privilege of being a part of."

Gerrick chuckled. "Ye know ye like it, lad."

"That's beside the point..."

/"...then, we create a distraction."/ /"Oh. Well, as long as we're playing to our strengths."/ /"The distraction will have to careful, subtle, perfectly timed. Ye cannae skimp on this, and it will nae be simple, or easy. Ye're gonnae have tae be an artist, laddie...."/

...Raven ran up to the guards, his fists balled. He leaned right into their faces. "FUUUUCK! YOU!" He ran off.

The guards gave chase...

/"...That should get the giant alone. Next, we break into the pens and start setting up the chains."/ /"Want me to do that?"/ /"Ye're the only man for it, Haystack."/

The Fuligin chains clinked as Haystack dragged them out of the giant warehouse next to the pens. Each link a foot long, four inches thick. He could have hula-hooped with the manacles. Grunting under the weight, he hooked one manacle over a rock.

The chain stretched from a giant warehouse, bigger than a castle. It could hold several ships. Next to it, a great complex of fences held herds and packs of all manner of fuligin creature. Fuligin mud sucked at his boots--somehow more unpleasant than dry fuligin. The air smelled like a bloody, blasphemous barnyard.

The ground under his feet shuddered.

"Awww shit."

Haystack rolled aside as the whip slashed down into the fuligin dirt with a crack like thunder. He dodged behind a giant fuligin plow twice as big as he was tall. The next blow of the whip wrapped firmly around the handle of the plow, and sent it flying with a yank. Haystack ran for his life.

Tam Lin winced. "There goes the plan."

"Nae even close, laddie. It's up tae you and me. Ansley, Trace, cover us."

Ansley sighed and drew a handful of crossbow bolts to her off hand. Trace hefted two daggers.

Gerrick and Tam Lin ran for the pens. Picking up one end of the chains, they started finishing Haystack's work. "Sydney Broncour how did he even lift these?"

Gerrick grunted under the effort. "Less talk, more draggin'."

"Uh, Laird?"

An explosion went off on the other side of the pens. Ansley shouted, "THEY'RE COMIN'!"

"Arse." Gerrick looped the other end of the chain around a pylon, panting.

A horde of Fuligin warriors charged toward them. Tam Lin pointed. "Well what do we do now?"

"This!" Gerrick swung his Hammer at the pens, knocking the fence over. A great many fuligin beasts glared at him. He waved his Hammer over his head at them menacingly. "SAP THEIR COURAGE, LAD, MAKE 'EM PANIC!"

Tam Lin drew his Sword and pointed it right at the beasts, screaming.

Gerrick had never seen the panic expression on a Fuligin face, let alone a herd of them. With screeches and howls, the beasts stampeded, knocking down their pen walls--straight into the oncoming rush of warriors.

Gerrick laughed. "I hannae had this much fun since the rogue Watcher!"

"You are psychotic."

Haystack came around the corner at full tilt. "HELLLP!"

The end of the whip wrapped around the side of the warehouse with a deafening CRACK!

"Fade back!"

Gerrick moved to his mark. Haystack and Tam Lin moved to his sides.

The giant stepped around the corner.

Gerrick motioned to him. "Dance tae yer daddy."

The giant sneered. He bent down and picked up one of the chains. "THIS? THIS IS HOW YOU HOPED TO CATCH ME?" He cast the chain aside.

Tam Lin went ashen.

Gerrick shrugged. "Well I was kina hopin' ye'd trip over it."

The giant laughed. "YOU MUST THINK ME TRULY STUPID."

"Very, actually." Gerrick stepped forward. "Well? Yer move, big'n."

Tam Lin stepped back. "Laird, this is not the time to bluff."

The Giant pulled back his whip for a killing stroke--and took that crucial step forward.

"NOW!"

From out of the door of the warehouse, three fuligin harpoons the size of ship's masts shot forth, slamming into the giant's knee, thigh, and side. The chains attached to them, at first slack, drew taut...

/"...Timojin says they got harpoon balistae in the warehouse. Probably anti-dragon, for use in their later conquests."/ /"Do they now. Timojin, how aboot ye comandeer those? They may come in handy..."/

...Gerrick gestured to Tam Lin. "Sap 'is strength. I got the rest." He strode forward.

The giant fell to one knee with a snarl of pain, then fell over onto his side.

Gerrick climbed up him easily, and perched on his head. He tapped him with the Hammer. "Now. Ye do as I say, or I hurt ye. That simple enough?"

They marched their charge back through the lines. The beasts, too dumb to do anything else, herded around them obediently. No one dared approach. As they passed through the thick of battle, ally and enemy alike scattered from them. Gerrick stopped them in front of the Master of the Red Hunt, mid duel with some blackguard hero. "Yoohoo. I have a present for ye..."

...Run. He had to run. So far he'd managed to avoid notice by either side, but Wei knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. He'd thrown his lot in with the wrong side, that was apparent, and if caught his life would be forfeit. Caught by whom? It didn't matter, at this point.

But escape was not to be his fate. Trying to slip past an Allied patrol his ankle rolled on a stone, revealing his position and causing the platoon in question to pounce. He tried to wriggle his way free, but fighting had never been his strong suit; Wei dueled with words, not weapons, and here words failed him. What could he say that might save his life and be believed?

The answer fell on him at the same time as the blade of a sword.

Nothing...

...Foiche Maru bit into bone.

Most of this worm-rotted angel was bone, but the one it caught was just at the spine, at the base of the wing. Prax pulled back his blade and hacked again. Certain authors tell their tales starting as close to the ending as possible. Cutting out all of the chaff and leaving only the crucial details. The Red Master didn't remember the build up; it didn't matter. He brought the sword down again and again, each blow the end of a thread. Each blow leaving the sword broken, cracked, lost, or stuck. Each thread pulled changed that ending, until finally, the wing snapped off.

The angel lashed out, sending Prax sprawling in the dust. Sitting up, watching the angel fly off, he thought to draw another thread, then stopped. Good enough for now...

...Damn the bitch.

Bluebird growled aloud at the sight of holy flames bristling across the paladin's blade. A simple twist of his wrist brought his own blade up against this Dhunic's longsword. The Obiefune sword the grey saint wielded was as strong as his own faith, and his own faith was absolute. The longsword shattered, and Bluebird reached out and touched the paladin's face. The man's eyes went slack and he fell. In a few minutes, he would rise again, a Raesian knight. For now, he was simply an afterthought.

Damn her cowardice. Damn her weakness. Damn her.

Bluebird continued to curse Lilith's failure. Every flicker of holy light, every resounding prayer. Every grey phantasm that faded. Every rotting ambulator that fell. Every cold Death. Every instance of faith on the field made Bluebird cringe and grit his broken teeth. Damn her worm-rotted soul.

The lines had fallen. The Allied forces were pouring through in vast numbers, and the higher ups had yet to unleash the reserves. They had given up the forward positions. Damn her serpent's heart.

He would not go down without a fight. He had reserves of his own, and if he somehow remained unsent through the coming onslaught, he would hunt her down.

Reaching into his blue-tattered robes, the Grey Wanderer drew forth a jagged piece of bone, the bone of his own father's ribcage. He thrust it into the ground, spoke a single word, and watched as the fullness of his Host arose. Thirty-three thousand phantasms and two-thousand corporeal undead monsters shimmerred into existence, ignoring curses and spells, and began to swarm forward at the Allied legions.

Damn her barren womb...

...The unexpected dustdevil rippled through the camp, bringing pure chaos. Wactawa stepped out of her tent and calmly watched. Something felt wrong about the whirling fuligin sands, more so than usual. After a moment, she realized she was feeling uneasy in a specific manner, a manner that she had come to realize meant the presence of undeath. Speaking quietly, she commanded her assistants to protect the patients, and then she stepped out into the whirling storm. The fuligin dust stung as it slapped her scales, little pinpricks that she felt deep in her Soul. Her instinct was to take a deep breath to counter the pain, but any breath in this rasping gale would be death.

She covered her snout with a bandage, then knelt on the ground. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her faith, sensing the pain at the core of this undead manifestation. Flashes came to her of a life in a marsh, of a giantess dying in a rage, spitting vileness as she fell into the blades of angry hunters. She was a cruel woman in life, and in death, her soul became a thing of foulness. Invisible, without substance, it flitted through the wastelands until it found a vessel. For centuries, it brought disease to those that touched it, until a grey figure in a blue robe captured it. Now it scoured this new wasteland, from fuligin blade to Allied buckler, from Allied buckler to saddlebags, from saddlebags to tent flap.

Wactawa focused, stood up, and gestured confidently. A burst of platinum light unfurled from her fist and burned a whirling, tattered scrap of canvas to cinders. The dustdevil died...

...Deftly, Sewael parried the blow, then countered with a quick jab that brought her holy blade into unholy flesh. The vampirirc warrior burned. Around her, her forces were screaming their prayers in a hundred languages. Their faith crackled through the undead ranks, destroying phantasms and corporeal opponents alike. Supplementing their prayers were savage attacks with blessed sword, spear, bow, and other tools of their pilgrimage. Claw, gun, staff, whip. Her motley crew devastated the Grey Host when they clashed.

Very rarely since the turning of the Worms, the Grey would send a more puissant figure, one that even Sewael found difficult to send or destroy. There had been that knight of Kael'Ras with the burning shield, whose faith in the Bone-Mother was strong enough to protect him from all but the most potent acts of faith and blade. And the gashadokuro that had appeared suddenly out past the Worm-Scar. And the chir batti sorcerer, and the cyhyraeths of Maal Canyon, and the seven kukudhis bonded together in dark ceremonies, making them akin to a rune-knight. But the Swanmother had prevailed, and each of these had fallen.

A prayer of protection brought down another phantasm, some poor ghost of a merchant or banker, screaming about his life of greed. He vanished in a white flash. A dozen shamblers wielding clubs, lead by a stinking nachzehrer with a huge blade. Sewael knew them all, for in her Consequence, there were hundreds of undead-hunters. She knew the difference between a hupia and a duppy. She knew how to tell a gjenganger from a nukekubi. And she recognized the old, rotting deer woman in the stone-cloth robes that came down the crest ahead as a spearfinger. What a strange being to appear here.

Seeking to avoid direct conflict--that robe was incredibly effective armor--Sewael sent a prayer out to send her. "Swanmother, embrace this abomination, that she may rise to you from her grey prison."

Her mind crackled with energy, an unfamiliar pain that felt like a cold hand grasping her behind the eyes. The answer to her prayer was a hiss, a mad cackle, and a dazed moment of agony. The spearfinger reached out with her dark mind and sought to break the Bright elf. Through the mist of anguish, Sewael felt some satisfaction. The crone had hit the Consequence of Bright Isle with all she had and found a fortress beyond her imagining. This pain would pass, and if some lucky shambler did not smash her skull first, Sewael would rise and invoke the Pantheonic rite. What was making this spearfinger so powerful?

Grasping her sword and invoking both Grayson and the Alabaster Shield, she rose. "By the sacrifice on the cross, by the Shield of the Meek, by the grace of the Swan, I abjure thee."

The pain faded, and Sewael stood defiantly. Letting holy flame surround her, letting it trace the blade of her sword, she walked with purpose toward the old, cackling crone. No fear. The enemy had no fear even of this show of power.

Sewael gestured for aid. Something was giving this once-cannibal woman more power than seemed possible. Sending an arc of holy fire outward, Sewael cleared a path to the enemy. As she did, a responding arc of rust-hued light flowed back from the long claw of the old crone. It was strong, much stronger than expected, but whatever it was--Sewael knew these beings did not usually command such powers--it was not strong enough to break the Defensatrix Fidei's shielding aura. Sewael approached, determined.

At twenty feet away, the crone summoned undead swarms of locusts. Sewael and her allies took mere moments to burn them away. At fifteen feet away, the spearfinger broke one of her rotted anlters and tossed it into the sands, creating a barrier of msawhat, a wall of grey, corrupting energy. The prayers of a dozen followers of the Swan broke it in seconds. At ten feet away, the crone's babbling was audible, a stream of imprecations and blasphemies that seemed rooted in disdain for all other living things. At five feet away, she lunged with her claw. Sewael dodged nimbly, then brought her blade down. The stone dress served its purpose, deflecting the blow. Again, the claw struck out, and again, Sewael danced aside with the grace of a thousand elven dancers. Quicker than any of her companions could move, Sewael struck again, this time landing her burning white sword atop the skull of the tall, proud crone...

...Her companions looked to her.

The Seventh Army colonel was a Ciceran beloved, and her companions often found themselves staring. She did not mind. The positive feelings they had for her went deeper than the beauty they saw when they gazed upon her, and she could use those deep emotions when necessary. They were literal fuel for her fire. At this time, however, there was little more than fear in their hearts. As the enemy lines collapsed, a force of several thousand Grey soldiers had arisen seemingly out of nowhere. Their moment of victory was being snatched from them by an unexpected response. She felt their cold disappointment as much as their burning terror, and she knew they needed her to lead.

"It looks like we've got an hour before the next wave hits. Sentries keep alert. Everyone else, rest or eat."

She turned back to her tent, thinking of the cool basin of clean water she kept there. Nodding to the guards outside, she entered and took her helmet and gauntlets off before finding soap and brush. Her war with the fuligin sands was nearly as exhausting as her war with the living (or unliving) enemy. It was not a matter of vanity so much as comfort. The grains caught in her armor and grated at her flesh, and she was certain it was doing more than physical damage to her.

She turned to the opening of her tent as a knock on the board alerted her to a visitor. In stepped, carefully, a young lieutenant. Markos, she thought, or Petros. Maybe Paulo. Her contemplation of his name preoccupied her just long enough for him to draw the blade, but not long enough to let him strike. The emotional register in him was all wrong, she realized moments before the blow landed. He felt so hungry.

She whirled and kicked, then ducked and grabbef for her own dagger. Soon, the two were rolling on the rugs, trying to force sharp edges into each other. Paulo--Petra?--was not in control of his own body. He rested deep within, the colonel could sense, angrily fighting some other, some hungry force. The realization left her cold; she was trying to kill a loyal soldier. She shouted for the guards and tried to pull herself away, but the lieutenant's possessor held her fast. His blade scraped down her left arm, and she barked a laugh in order to keep from screaming. Bringing up her knee to his groin, she found out the other benefit of possession was that physical pain was irrelevant to her attacker. The lieutenant felt it, but the mind in control didn't care. She was only making it easier on her enemy.

His heart is still pure. She reached into herself and found every positive emotion available, reached out to the guards, to the passersby outside. Drawing in determination, loyalty, love, honor, respect, defiance, pride... everything. She poured it into Lieutenant Pavlos, damnit, and gave him as much strength as possible. Suddenly, he was being dragged off of her by the guards, and his struggles ceased. He began to weep in terror and confusion, and the colonel knew the leanasche had fled. She knew it for what it was, for in her connection with Pavlos, she had touched its heart.

She began to speak a command, but her voice failed her. Her stomach constricted, her chest siezed, and she dropped to her knees. Her body went cold as she struggled to tell the guards. Pavlos had begun to speak for himself, to collect himself, but the guards were ignoring him. She knew the blade had been poisoned--she had felt that in the leanasche's heart--but she did not expect it to act this quickly. She wanted to absolve Pavlos, to tell the guards he was innocent, but all that came out was a gurgle and a cough. Once more, she tried to speak, but the pain from her failing organs left her no energy to formulate words. With a burst of emotion, she tried to signal her thoughts to the guards, but all they felt was her panic. It was a mistake.

The guard, wracked with the panic of the dying, lashed out at his captive, a crushing blow to Pavlos's skull. The last thing the colonel saw before it all faded was the lieutenant's death rattle. All went dark, but only for a moment. She could hear them speaking above her, shouting, calling for healers, calling for priests. It was too late. When her eyes next opened, she was facing the small mirror she kept hanging in her tent. Her skin was so pale now; she knew she was dead.

Rising slowly, she reached out and felt the soul of the angry sergeant who had taken over at the scene. Ambition. Yes. She could use that...

...The Worm didn't like to be roused from her nap. Can'eldra had been handling unhappy worms since First Shem, though, and she knew how to coax her into action. With a glance at the setting sun, she prodded her mount out over the blacker than black sands. She didn't like moving out after dark, but orders were orders. They had to go replace a Worm that had died to the east, where an unexpected assault from the Grey had nearly routed the front lines.

It was an hour after the sun had slipped completely behind the horizon that she heard the music. It sounded to her ancient ears like something from a Riverkin gathering, but in another tongue. If the Worm was affected, it did not show it, nor slow in its rumbling pace, but the legendary Wormrider was struck dumb by the beauty and haunting elegance of the tune. Rhythmic and melodic, the tune had sharp angles, like the gait of a swift horse turned into inhuman voices. Can'eldra nudged the worm toward the sound, and as the Worm turned slightly, she let the rhythm of the rich, feminine voices lull her into a trance.

About a quarter mile down, just past a series of crags, seven women, completely naked, danced. Their hair fell down their bodies and covered their torsos with ragged, wavy brown tresses, neatly concealing what was beneath no matter how their movements affected it. Each held a candle in her hands and wore bells around their ankles, and several of them had beautiful black wings on their backs. Nearby a few were fuligin chain shirts, lying cast aside for this bacchanal. Can'eldra slid down off the Worm, letting it wander off, and walked slowly toward the Hora, fighting a deep sleepiness that threatened to steal her away.

As she reached the circle, she dropped her blade. She reached down and pulled off ehr sand-hued robes, her concealed daggers, her crystal necklace. She disrobed and stepped into the circle. She had never seen anything like this. She had never experienced anything like it. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the whirling dance and tried desperately to copy their movements.

For some reason, this seemed to enrage them. The women stopped and leapt upon her, instantly furious, and began to claw and scrape at her. Can'eldra screamed and began to fight as the trance wore off, and soon, she was fighting for her life...

...She had no memories.

Kez stood over the body of the strange woman, invoking the power of his god to understand. Her feet were on backward, awkwardly twisted, but she had been ambulatory a moment ago. Nothing in the recesses of her recently de-possessed mind contained any memory of the past hundred years. Before that, she had died moments before her own wedding, killed by a stray bullet from the gun of her fiance, who had been in a duel with his best friend over some trivial matter. The soul that had taken control of her had come from the Hells, unbidden, unsummoned, driven only by opportunity and the aura of grief around her body.

Now, she was a lifeless shell, dead, her soul and the one that had occupied her body gone, sent away by the thrax's Divine might.

He looked about the field of lifeless bodies. Four hundred of them the same. Every one a woman of some Dabusenese race, every one with their feet turned backward, every one once blood-hungry and beautiful, now twisted and hollow.

He turned to the Myrmecian legions behind him and gestured, and as one, they turned and marched onward...

...Lord Lapeyrouse fled in terror. His horse fell under the panicked commands it was given, and the lord did not stop. Behind him, a swarm of twisted, spectral beings floated and shambled along the fuligin sands and stones, filling all who saw them with equal parts disquiet and fear. He let the horse fall to them; Lord Lapeyrouse fled. Behind him, the enemy followed, swarming his men who were too slow. The Galdish cavalrymen were attached to their horses, naturally, and many of them, even in their panic, tried to spare the equines. This only meant the phantasmal approach would have them in its cold embrace. Only the blindly terrified survived.

In the days and weeks to come, the best anyone could identify as their salvation was the shepherd. Most agreed he had been there. He had been helping their medics for several weeks, tending the worst of the wounded with some sort of holy power that had effect even before the Worms had turned. Others claimed it had merely been a miracle, and others still claimed one of the dying men had called out a prayer. But of those few that survived with minds intact enough to answer mostly said it was the shepherd. At first, he had not been there. He had been with the medical unit, almost a mile back, but swifter than possible, he had appeared at the crumbling line and stood before one of the bigger phantasms. Some said it was a giant fish, others a merman or reefman of some sort. All agreed that it showed signs of a slit throat.

The shepherd had done nothing but speak a single word. And then the light came...

...She could feel Matrim nearby. His undying love was the strongest emotion on the field, even stronger than Paul's deep well of emotion. He always felt this way to her, and she assumed it was because when she sensed his emotions, she was near enough to be foremost in his heart. Beneath that love, he felt the steady determination she related to his role as a healer and warrior, a feeling he got when facing a grim but necessary task. Like fighting the undead. Beyond that, he felt revulsion, fear, anger, faith, and hope in equal measures. These mingled with the steady conviction present in his sword, the living ailsilver blade Silfrbal.

Paul was feeling less conflicted than Matrim. Justice was a complex thing for him, but he had faith in his Staff and its powers, and he had faith in the Divines, and he had an understanding of undeath from both his wife and his tragic son. He knew that there was mercy in what he meted out here, and he knew without doubt that these souls that burned at the touch of his Staff were being sent to better realms. His was a cleasning strike. For Matrim, doubt always followed.

Emily could sense their pain through empathic channels, and she felt their relief when her own Staff, the Staff of Oneness, given her by the Miracleman of the Bronccourian Church two Ages ago, struck their forms. Its holiness washed away their pain, gave them awareness, and lead them to a kinder afterlife. Combined with the might of her faith, the Staff was all she needed to fend off the undead. Even the wall of hupias and hitodamas that flowed at her was a matter of a few small movements to send.

Behind her, Matrim faced off with seven crazed peuchens. In her senses, they felt nothing but pain, but outwardly, they seemed like rabid beasts. Three took the form of jaguars, one of a huge bat, one of a flying snake, and one, inexplicably, a llama. Matrim slashed with argent-torched blade at each one, sending them back before striking more decisive blows. They swarmed to him, as a beacon of qi among a thousand soldiers. He stood out as the most potent source of energy for the monsters, and it wounded his heart to unleash such power. Paul, meanwhile, sought out the biggest, toughest monster on the field, a starkad draugr that would have terrified lesser men. With Justice in his hands, Paul was staunch and bold, and he called out the undead giant without hesitation. Though Paul had the skill of a great warrior, the undead had supernatural speed and strength. It was a matter of time before Paul landed a blow that would send the foe, but it kept Paul from unleashing his power against other enemies for the time being.

Emily reached out with her heart and softly whispered a prayer, sending hope and kindness to her husband and her friend, then turned and raised her Staff against the next wave of spectral mists...

...How lovely.

Watching the Allied lines fall back was satisfying, if fleeting. His last act of defiance would not completely break this front, not since that bitch had failed. He could already sense his minions falling in crucial areas. As many as they killed (and turned), they lost ten times that. With any luck, some of the more exotic undead would give them trouble. He hoped someone important died. He hoped, and that made him sick. Hope. How weak had he become?

With a gesture, he summoned a shambler-horse. It stank of the charnal house where it had come from, but Bluebird paid it no heed. He mounted and willed it forward, riding swiftly over the rocky flats along the Rim. Half an hour later, he was approaching the Third Army's main camp, many miles from his previous vantage. Wrapped in spectral invisibility, he moved unseen through the lines, seeking his target carefully. Somewhere in this camp was the tent of the Deaths, the four bearer's of the Gatekeeper's Name. He had hunted them before and been diverted by other tasks and clever ruses, and the damnable Tove family. When the war broke out, he had been called back to serve on the front, but the war was over. Harkan would ride out in a day or so, and he would either succeed or be destroyed. Either way, it would end. Bluebird would serve his Goddess.

Eventually, someone noticed him. They didn't see him, but they felt him. He could tell by the way they startled, or turned, or shivered as he passed. Sensing that time was growing short, he began to employ what few tricks he could. A strong breeze to drag fuligin grit across the camp would serve to deter some of the lesser guards. Shadow selves would lead the more cunning on a wild goose chase. What few noticed him directly would die swiftly. If he survived this night, they would rise later. If not, perhaps they would find rest. He doubted it, though. Not if they died here.

The Rendruan flag. Of course the Death-seekers of Ranu would be guarding the whores of the Gatekeeper. He stopped before the black pavillion and considered. Two guards stood outside the entrance, both of them powerful Rendruan sorcerers. Bluebird glanced down at his mount and smiled.

Dismounting, he slipped, invisibly, behind the next tent over, then willed the undead horse into the visible spectrum. Then, he simply let it loose. Predictably, the guards startled, then began to act, glowing bright with magical power. A blast of well placed wind blinded and distracted one while Bluebird snuck behind the other and unfurled his proboscis. Wrapping it around the guard's head, he shoved the long, insectoid tongue down the man's throat to cut off his scream and drain his qi. He died gurgling while his friend was stomped by the horse.

Bluebird sent the horse to thrash into the next tent over, drawing more guards away, then turned, now visible, into the tent.

The four women were not huddling in fear like he hoped, but kneeling and praying. The power was almost enough to break the ancient undead Seeker then and there, but he drew msawhat from within his broken, withered soul to bolster his decrepitude against the Deaths' faith. Drawing the sword Conviction, he strode with purpose into the well lit center of the tent and began to attack. His blade came perilously close to the skull of the onyx-draped muse before him, but a silver stiletto snaked out of her robes to parry. The Obiefune-forged blade snapped the thin silver dagger, sending shrapnel through the tent, but the move was enough to keep his sword from severing her head from her shoulders. In reaction, he filled the room with shadow selves.

Suddenly, the tent was busy with movement. The other three Deaths were drawing away. The youngest screamed in Galdish some prayer that merely fell befouled in the fuligin air. The goblin swung a huge, silver-laced fist at him, but he dodged nimbly despite his desiccated body. The other drew his attention, however. She appeared to be Lilith herself, somehow. She couldn't be. She's too small. This tent is too small.

Bluebird lashed out at the serpentine monster before him, draped in onyx robes, inexplicably in the guise of the Queen of Worms, and his blade found air where snakeskin should have been. An illusion, of course.

He turned away, back to the muse, who clearly had combat training. Speaking a word of power, he blinded her, then stepped close to bring a killing blow, his blade rimmed with grey flame. His mistake was discounting the illusion, for somehow, she was able to strike him from behind. At first, he thought she had raked his back with a claw of some kind, but the claws hit too many spots at once. Rats. She has covered my back in rats. Growling in irritation--the rats could not harm his undead flesh--he reached back to throw them off, tearing his robes and leaving his stinking corpse exposed.

The muse lunged, but he was quick enough to parry again. Her new blade was ailsilver, and it survived the impact. Argentflame and msawhat mingled a moment, creating sparks, and then they disegnaged. The goblin woman took another swing, but Bluebird ducked, then turned and brought his blade up. It left a deep gash in her right arm and drained the light from her eyes. She would not die, nor rise as undead, but she would not use that arm again any time soon.

The illusory figure, now appearing to be Rosamonde for some reason, swung a staff topped with a large onyx key at him. His sword hacked the top off the prayer-bonded weapon and sent the black stone whirling across the room. He stepped forward and kicked the illusory figure in the stomach, this time meeting flesh. She gasped in pain, but this only gave the muse another chance at attacking him. Her ailsilver dagger bit hard into his shoulder, and he felt it. Argent and onyx. An undead-hunter's weapon. He reached up and let the cold of his hand shock her as he gripped hers. She pulled back, taking the dagger with, and he whirled and slashed her across the upper chest. Blind and bleeding, and still she came.

The goblin was down. The illusionist--what sort of bizarre tactic was that?--was regaining her breath. The child was out of sight--blast her what was she up to?--and the muse was still fighting despite wounds that would fell a worthier opponent. Bluebird growled and unleashed a furious flurry of sword blows, seeking to break her completely. She was using some other skill to see with, he knew. No blind person could fight this well. Seven blows landed, and he finally felt the satisfying crack as her ailsilver dagger succumbed to the superior strength of his paradoxical blade. He thought for a fleeting moment he saw chagrin, or possibly fear, in the empty eyes of the muse, but it passed quickly as he stepped forward to make a final blow. The child had reappeared, below his knees. He stumbled forward in a heap.

The illusionist struck first, bringing down a heavy silver basin onto the back of his knees. She seeks to cripple me, he managed to think before he felt the rats cover him. They couldn't kill him. They couldn't destroy him, nor send him, nor truly harm him. But they could ruin his body if they did enough damage. They could severely inconveience him. Another, heavier blow hit the back of his legs, and he knew the goblin had refound her senses. He pushed back up, but more weight landed on him. A silent prayer had no register, for no Worms served him. A scream of impotent rage escaped him moments before the four Deaths regrouped enough to say the word.

He heard it, and then there was nothing. "Ulune"...

...Polyhymnia considered the blade upon the ground. Around her, the other servants of the Gatekeeper were clearing away the broken clutter and the remains of the grey saint. She was pondering the Obiefune sword he had dropped; it did not look to be inherently evil. Reaching out gingerly, she picked it up, and to her surprise, it flared onyx in her grasp. She felt it fuse with her heart and faith in that instant, and saw its edge sharped and grow dark. Conviction. Its name sang in her mind...

...The Grey Commander let the fuligin-viper entangle his rib cage. It felt good to let his ancient totem embrace his rotted heart. It felt almost like being alive again. He sat astride a helhest and listened to the reports from his minions. The Allies had rallied, and the front lines had collapsed. Again. No matter how hard the Grey and Fuligin pushed back, the Allies still pushed harder. He knew Harkan would ride out soon. He knew he had to match the Fuligin King's maneuver or be crushed for treachery. Elpidian had been clear: Harkan expected their full support. So be it.

Raising his hand, he silenced the babbling vampire. Surveying his forces, the elite of the Grey Host, he silently willed them to follow. He nudged his mount, and he rode out. Via his bond of control, he sent them each the message. Speak my name, he commanded. Speak my name and let them know fear.

And they obeyed, chanting, slowly, "Kael'Quillin..."

Breginthresh 20 / Fysirym 6, 1003: 

...He didn't need the report, but he listened anyway. It gave him time to consider his options. His army was stretched around the Rim, and the Allies were concentrating on only a few hundred miles. He had pitted the fortifications around the northern edges, knowing full well the Allies couldn't reach there anyway. Duke Craedrick had seen fit to ignore the summons, however, and about 20,000 Harkanians were hanging back at Algram Point, about fifty miles north of the Allied front. The bastard was waiting it out, looking to be the next king of Harkanheim. That left only 235,000 loyal soldiers, only half of which were along the front at this point. He could expect about 30,000 more to join him.

The Allies still had about a million in the field. That cunning worm had devised a rotating deployment plan with those supply lines and staging areas all across the Field. Constant guerilla strikes, from land and air, had done little to deter those. They simply had too many forces and too strong a defensive strategy. Their supernatural power was not as strongly affected by the fuligin dust as expected, in part due to Lilith's betrayal, partly due to that blasted Messiah, but mostly due to the fact that they had come with their reserves, allowing magi and other esotericsts to rest.

They could no longer hope to outnumber them. The Grey Host's numbers seemed infinite, but the numbers became meaningless in the face of the Allied faith. The Pit-monsters theoretically had no end, but they could not be produced fast enough. What they lacked in numbers, they would now make up for in power.

"Bring me Har'kash," the King demanded. His best steed, the eight-legged Pit-monster, the first he tamed. The wings of a dragon, the face of a falcon, the body of a cougar. Har'kash moved like a river through canyon and fought like the WAR GOD's own.

The King stood. "And muster the Royal Guard. We ride within the hour..."

...He let them gird him. His usual finery (all in fuligin cloth) was set aside for his mail, Pit-black fuligin chain draped over him. A helm crafted like a cross between a demon's face and a crown, baal-dark metal and studded with one gem for each God of The Pit, the gods that died after Starfall, an impenetrable aura emanating from it. His gauntlets, made from the hide of a Pit-monster, and his boots made from the same. Fuligin plate wrapped his legs and bolstered his arms and chest. His belt was more Pit-monster hide, and his scabbard was baaltree wood and Pit-leather.

His sword was a fuligin great sword he named Godsbane. Inlaid in its Pit-monster bone hilt were strands of hair from each God of The Pit, and recently, he had had his artificers fashion the baalseed into the pommel. The sword, also called Giftbreaker, had exchanged blows with the Queen of Cats once, and though she escaped with her Sword, it was cracked. She had not returned from The Pit, nor did he expect her to. Godsbane was the greatest fuligin weapon ever forged, and into it had been wrapped eight curses, seven anti-prayers, and four broken souls. Each of these was bound together by an energy not even Harkan understood, but it made the sword unbreakable beyond even the measures of Gifts and fuligin weaponry.

Over his armor, he wore his mantle. Made from finely crafted fuligin thread, from the spider-like Pit-monsters that lived in the edges of the Bear's Heart, this mantle also had hairs from the Gods of The Pit woven into it. This gave Harkan an aura of faith-destroying might that trumped even the power of the Worms of Law, ten miles wide. It thrived off his own beating heart, so that it only worked when worn. It made the Grey nervous, and so he forwent its power.

Until now.

Now, he would ride forth...

...He recognized them as Third Army. Good. Precisely who he wanted to hurt. They relied most on faith.

Tara'hinian regular infantry, he recognized by their golden disc banners. Windkin cavalry, Rendruan pathfinders, and... Oh yes. Guardians. Jesumeinian elite forces. Harkan laughed as the panic set in, as their lines realized their prayers had not been answered, as they saw the fuligin pennant, the Pit-black banner with no sigil. Harkan himself rode here, they now knew, and no power on Shem would save them.

He drew Godsbane and sniffed the air. Some of them had Gifts.

This was going to be a good day...

...Maradir called out an order, and six colonels rushed to obey it. Ghef'fhardim almost found time to smile at the sight, but the urgent matters in front of him wiped it away. Harkan has riden forth. He scanned the documents, assessed instantly, and added orders to the litany being recited by his advisers, generals, and aides. Damn it all. We thought we would be ready.

He drew a line and made a note. "Send word to Lord Tecumseh, to the Red Master, and to--" Damn. "Da'sabash. Cut off his advance."

Maradir shook his head, "Can't you get the logos to intervene?"

"Not yet, general," Ghef'fhardim responded. "If we can take the Pit-King down without expending Nas's strength, we'll have that much more for The Pit."

The old fey sighed, "I hate a weapon I can't use..."

...He'd gone too far. Even Madra had agreed, the old cu sith running ahead to try and clear the way as they tried to rejoin the Alliance forces. A lone scout caught this far from friendly lines was a dead man no matter what race he was. Unfortunately, such was his fate, or very nearly; Madra had given no sign of them, might not even have seen them, until they were on top of him. Fuligin monsters of every sort, tearing and stabbing and making Avery use every trick he knew just to stay one step ahead of the attacks.

He ducked and wove around the strikes, blocking what few he could, but that didn't keep him from taking several injuries. Still fighting, he focused more on breaking through their lines than standing his ground and waiting for Madra to return, which was likely the only thing that saved his life. The young Fae managed to fell one of the monsters, though he took yet another wound for his trouble, and started running as best he could through the gap formed by the fallen enemy.

It was then that Madra realized his master was no longer with him. THe cu sith turned and sprinted back, tearing the leg off one monster who was getting too close to Avery and moving to support the youth as he ran. There was no question or comment to the hound's movements; Avery was going to the healers and he was going to stay there with his father, whether he liked it or not...

...As Harkan rode forth one of the great tragedies of this war took place. Some call it the field of lost faith and that's exactly what it was. Harkan's aura ripped faith away from the faithful in the Third Army and they were forever changed. A change of one's soul by an outside force is always Shem-shattering. Some lay down on the field and wept, unable to lift themselves from the dark sand even as their blood soaked it. Others went into a frenzied panic, trampling their fellows in an effort to run and retreat. Still others continued to cry to their gods, unbelieving of the sudden silence. But the prayers fell on deaf ears as they were ridden down by the Harkanians...

...The Court of Void was after her children.

Rindacsa sat cross legged on the floor, barriers staff up. The other esotericists in the Second Army had given up on trying to get her attention from outside the barrier. She'd seen them progress from giving her some space to pleading outside her shell, trying to use hand signals to get her attention. She ignored them, and the camp moved forward without her. No matter, she could catch up. She had more important things to tend to.

The Court of Void was after her children.

Somewhere in this mess of Mysteries was the key, she knew. She dare not approach anyone until she knew what they were planning. She knew Nas was watching her and the children. She loved him, but she wasn't sure she understood him anymore. She could barely keep up with him while she was given the insight of the Gods. Now, she had no idea what he'd do if something were to happen to her, or to them.

Focus. The Court of Void was after her children.

Unraveling the mysteries of the Nullman was hard, tedious work. The energies were primed to erase all traces of themselves. Already she had been too brash. Even his mysteries reacted to mana, converting energies to Void and nullifying themselves. She was sure she'd already lost details. She had to go slowly, examine every energy with indirection, opposite energies, binding the unstable forces into a persistent form.

Hard boring work, but the Court of Void was after her children.

She traced back through the Nullman's steps. She saw her battle with him. She saw him erasing a platoon of Allied soldiers. She saw him walking through Harkan's troops erasing people indiscriminately as he grew more unstable. She saw him talking to the Nullman Manifest. She saw him talking to a prisoner that never existed.

Something tugged in her stomach. Her mouth went dry.

That prisoner looked like her.

He looked like Nas.

He looked like Nedhui.

No. No no no no nonononono.

The Court of Void had gotten one of her children. She was too late.

Rindacsa reached deep down into her heart, and felt a Void there she hadn't noticed before.

She shattered, and 11 sorcerers poured through the cracks...

...Haniqa penned a report, rapidly, etching what she had seen. The message, marked for Marshal Ghef'fhardim, read, "We have lost Rindacsa. She emerged from her solitude and began attacking friend and foe alike at the front lines. An area of three acres around her has been rendered unrecognizable via strong and powerful magic, and nearby sorcerers are warning that she is adjusting the flow of the leys. The only forces we have that are capable of reaching her within are busy fighting elsewhere. I advise staying out of her way, and treating her like yet another environmental hazard of the Fields..."

...The Erlking sent an arrow clear into the Pit-monster's heart, then stopped. High above, one of his own was drawn by the Grey Angel.

Knocking another arrow, he took aim and let fly, but it missed by many yards. The angel was simply too high. Somehow, Mara Tslea was not being torn apart, but the Erlking assumed this was the Angel's doing. It wanted to make her suffer. Another arrow knocked and loosed went up and fell harmlessly into The Pit.

He swore in frustrated as he watched. The monster's wings were back, and in its hands a glowing sword of bone and msawhat flashed. The Erlking could see Mara struggled, and he said a silent prayer to any listening god to preserve her. Moments later, she fell. As she tumbled into The Pit, the Erlking swore he heard her voice, rising in an old sea shanty...

...Tam Lin shifted his weight atop a fuligin cassowary, cutting down foe after foe as he rode through them. The other Troublemakers at his side with Gerrick rode similar beasts--except for Haystack, who rode a fuligin bicorn. The magi had no trouble enchanting the Master of Beasts, binding him to their servitude, and with him, all his little creatures. They would all have to be put down eventually, but for now, they served.

Gerrick led them in where the battle was thickest. There were no tricks now, no plans, only the need to push back, and win. They fought for their lives, with their army backing them up.

But not all the beasts obeyed their master.

Tam Lin saw the behemoth coming, tossing its own allies out of the way in full charge.

"GERRICK LOOK OUT!"

Gerrick leaped off his cassowary, his Hammer drawn back for a crushing blow--but he misjudged the behemoth. It stopped its charge just short of the blow. Gerrick landed hard.

"NO!"

The beast siezed Gerrick in its mouth and tossed him aside.

Tam Lin charged.

Three precise cuts from the Sword of Frustration left the beast without its sight, its smell, and its legs. Tam Lin did not stay to see the creature fall. He bolted for Gerrick's body as the other Troublemakers ran to join him. Crossbow bolts, thrown daggers, rocks, and finally two Troublemakers beat back the tide of enemies around him before Tam Lin arrived.

Gerrick moaned. "That mighta hurt just a wee..."

Tam Lin checked him for wounds. A near-panicked Ansley arrived next, in her rage physically lifting and throwing a Fuligin Goblin out of the way without even a second look or breaking her stride. She dropped to one knee. "Gerrick?!"

"I'm alright." He swallowed. "Shyte that hurts."

Tam Lin looked up to her. "Get him off the field. We'll take it from here."

She nodded, slipping her arms under him.

"Wait! wait." Gerrick lifted the Hammer and tapped Tam Lin on the head with it. It hurt far less than he expected. "Lads, follow him."

Tam Lin blinked. "Me?"

"Ye ken how I think, laddie. Get 'em through this."

Tam Lin blinked.

Raven put a firm hand on Tam Lin's shoulder.

Tam Lin nodded once, firmly, then stood up. "Let's go!"

He did not look back to see Ansley depart with her husband.

The siege engines. Tam Lin led the Troublemakers through the thick of battle toward them, winding like a serpent and only stinging where necessary. It was not the killing of individual enemies that mattered, it was the turning of the tide, and a tide of Harkanheim regulars came hard from the east.

"Turn them! Take out the other engines first, then fire on Harkenheim!"

And then, a voice in his head. /"I'm sendin' the rookie force tae hold the line. Ye have tae support 'em."/

Tam Lin pointed. "Timojin, Trace, go take command of that line!"

"What line?!"

"There'll be one there! Help them hold it until we take out these engines!"

"Aye aye, mate!"

/"Well, now. Timojin called you 'mate.' Think ye're fittin' in."/

TWANG! the first balista fired, followed by the two trebuchets. A satisfying /crash/ sounded from the first target--a direct bullseye on a loaded Scorpion.

A fuligin minotaur roared out of the fray, stampeding toward them. Tam Lin had only half a second to think. He swung his Sword at the cable strung between the two arms of the balista. It popped /hard,/ one arm slamming into the minotaur and crushing his chest. Tam Lin finished him with one stroke.

/"Nice, laddie. Alright. I've dispatched two units tae support yer position. Keep firin'."/

Tam Lin looked at the now wrecked balista, and moved to the next engine. "Create a canopy of fire! Stagger your shots so we can fire continuously!"

/"Have Haystack move his balista to the east. Ye got more engines comin' tae counter."/

"Haystack! Deploy east and fire at all the engines you see!"

"On it, mate!"

Gerrick chuckled in Tam Lin's head. /"That's two votes. I think ye might be a made man."/

The front line sagged.

"Crap. Concentrate fire on the east line! They can't break through!"

But they did.

And Haystack would be stranded out there with his trebuchet.

Tam Lin merely reacted. His mind filled with images of Gerrick letting go of the rope to slide down into the ant-lion's pit. He did the same.

"KEEP FIRING! HOLD THEM BACK!" He charged out for Haystack.

Haystack fired the trebuchet one last time and then ripped a beam out of its structure to use as a club.

Tam Lin ducked low under Haystack's swing and cut down two enemies who pushed in. "Hold them at length, and I'll get the ones who close in!"

"Mate, you are as crazy as Gerrick!"

/"Aye. I think that seals it, mate. Ye're one of us. Reroutin' the Rendruan cavalry tae yer position. Hold oot."/

Tam Lin cut down three more, and Haystack thrashed back at least a dozen more. Stones from their captured catapults slammed into the enemies, but not fast enough.

"Get outta here, man! No reason for you to die too!"

Tam Lin grimaced. "No, mate. Gerrick wouldn't leave you."

But the enemies kept coming. Tam Lin looked into the maw of death, knowing now what Gerrick saw when he slid down that ant-lion's pit to save his men.

Tam Lin cut two down. "Haystack, I want you to know I believe Gerrick'll come for us somehow."

Haystack redoubled his efforts, and took out a fuligin goblin with one swing. "I know he will. He always does."

Tam Lin missed his cut. A second of pure alarm later, the fuligin sword plunged into his chest.

But he felt no wound.

"What--"

The Erlking dropped in from above, doubled over from having taken Tam Lin's wound. the rest of the enemy scattered back from him. "How about me?"

Tam Lin laughed. "You are a welcome sight, friend!"

The Erlking laughed painfully, joining the fight. The three of them stood amid raining stones, beating back the foe, until the Rendruan cavalry arrived. In minutes, their position was secure.

Tam Lin hugged the Erlking with earnest ferocity. "Thank you, my friend."

"Is this the sort of thing that normally calls for drinks?"

"Undoubtedly." Tam Lin patted him on the shoulder. "We should see if there's any more Glen Ray."

"Oh no. Innitch disagrees with me."

"That's a bad way to be," Tam Lin said. "It's not safe to disagree with Innesfolk."

The Erlking squinted. "Is that racist?"

"I don't think so. Technically, they aren't a race, they're a culture."

"So you just insulted a culture?"

Tam Lin considered. "Was that insulting?"

The Erlking shrugged. "We could ask an Innesman?"

Tam Lin looked around. "Are there any present?"

"Well you're surrounded by Troublemakers."

Hastack just watched, non-plussed.

"Yes, but not all of them are /from/ Innesmoor or Inverray."

The Erlking gestured with an open hand. "You just said it was a culture. They have no doubt adopted the culture."

Tam Lin thought about that, then nodded. "You're right. Haystack, was my statement offensive?"

Haystack held up both hands. "I am not even getting involved in this. You two have at it." He walked on.

The Erlking nodded. "I think that may be a yes."

"Oh not at all. He was being courteous..."

...Jumana walked among the battle, invisible to all. She had left Arlie behind in the chaos; he had served well. His madness had pervaded the world around.

The tide was about to turn. She could feel it. A convergence, a miracle, loomed on the horizon. The air was thick and pregnant with it.

She walked by the Master of the Red Hunt. He had what she needed. One facet of Echidna had intended for him to release her inaugural brood, the Archetypal Nine, and he had the names, but he did not know what to do with them. As she walked past, she reached out to him, drawing the names from his memory with a whispered song.

There was an order to this. One had to be released first. He alone knew all the secrets of his Brothers and Sisters.

His Name Was.

She walked to the edge of the pit and made the proper supplicative gesture, and called out his Name.

A shock ripped through her body. She lifted off the ground, her arms spread, her Self full of power. The World seemed insignificant--she heared the echoes all of Time and Space, whispers even her immortal mind would forget in minutes.

The voice filled her mind. /Are you a god?/

Her body rushed with adrenaline. "I am a mere supplicant, Ancient One."

/Speak./

"Your mother gave us your name. This world is wounded. Can you help us?"

/The Wound will not be healed. But I can help you. And this is the price: A corner of the world that I shall show you. That shall be the land of my brothers and sisters. It shall be the land of Monsters. I shall remake it for my Mother's brood. We shall rule there. Her temple shall be there./

She nodded. "Yes, Ancient One."

/To the weakest and most frightened of your army, I lend the rage of my youngest brother.../

The Rookies fought hard.

Tam Lin shouted, "HOLD THE LINE!"

But they died too quickly.

It started when one of them began to cry.

Then he panicked.

Then the others panicked.

And then, the first one called out.

And out of the fuligin sands rose a giant beast. It roared in fear, and began its rampage, crushing and trampling and incinerating with its breath all the Harkanian warriors it could see.

Many more such creatures rose, all over the battlefield...

...To the bards, priests and leaders of your army, I lend the resonant voice of my youngest sister./

Mudpie struggled through the Fuligin sands, forever feeling like he might faint.

/"Keep going, Sulfur. You have to find energy."/

It reminded him of a song.

Something old, by a man named Crane, he thought a distant relative of Father Rufus.

He began to tap his feet.

"Hey. That's not bad."

/"What is that?"/

Mudpie smiled. "It's energy." He spread his arms and sang out, and his voice carried for miles.

Allies who were disheartened perked up, and found new courage. Allies who were frightened turned their fright to determined rage.

Mudpie could feel all of it.

"SING WITH ME!"

And all over the battlefield, his song was echoed by others, and the allies rallied as one...

/To the champions of your army, I lend the raw might of my next youngest brother./

Haystack roared and breathed a blast of raw fire, consuming a wave of enemies. His voice growed deep and primal. "IS THERE NO ONE TO CHALLENGE ME?!"

Somewhere else on the field, the Rendruan captain stared down a Fuligin Oliphant and ripped it to shreds before roaring in victory. A Paladin cut a bloody swath through Harkanheim's ranks, then bellowed a challenge to the Undead Arbiter. One of the rookies wrestled a Fuligin ogre--and won, ripping his head off, and yanking out his fangs for a trophy. "MINE! MY TEETH! CHALLENGE ME WHO DARES..."

/To the selfless of your army, I lend the fortitude of my next brother./

An army in retreat. There was nothing else for it. The Red Cloaks had suffered too many losses.

But Pajah stopped.

Rage filled his being, a quiet, determined rage.

His second in command looked at him in horror. "Pajah! Come on!"

Pajah stood up straight. "Go. I have this." He turned to face the onrush of beasts and blackguards.

"Pajah!"

"GO!" He transformed.

Pajah grew six feet. His muscles filled out, his clothes tore, his skin turned to stone. He screamed a mighty roar at the attackers, and when they came in range, he felled the first with a mighty punch.

"Leave. My. Men. ALONE!"

The charging foes stopped, and began to circle.

Pajah took a beating, but in the end, none of the attackers remained--and he still stood...

/To the needlessly meek of your army, I lend the authority of my right hand sister./

The enemy thought they were clever to circle around and hit the medics. They charged through the camp, butchering any who got in their way, until they came to a young woman, a healer in training. Still only seventeen, she came to this war with her brothers, hoping to keep them alive.

She cowered before the raiders and screamed.

Until they reached for her.

Her hand shot up, grabbing her attacker's wrist.

The man tried to pull away in surprise, but her grip held as firm as if she had been a legendary heroine. She looked up with an expression full of fire and fury, and words came to her lips that she would never have dreamed of speaking at home. "Oh, you are in Hell. Pray to me." With a wrenching motion, she snapped his wrist. He screamed and fell to his knee.

The first of his comrades swung to defend her, but with a twist, she threw her man to the ground and ripped his arm off. At once, she transformed, taking a tall, broad-shouldered, stately amazoninan form with bright raging eyes. She shrieked a bloodcurdling battle cry, and began her reign of terror using her attacker's arm as a scepter and sword.

When she stood victorious, she raised her hand high. "RALLY TO ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE..."

/To the deprived and repressed of your army, I grant the comfort of release from my next brother./

The army was full of poor, and devout. They suddenly became very hungry.

Tam Lin closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

Trace put a hand on his shoulder. "Mate?"

"I...I..."

Raven stepped up. "You alright?"

"No." Tam Lin doubled over. "I...Go. Get away from me."

Trace leaned down to him. "We aren't leav--"

"GO!" He snarled at her, suddenly wanting to take a huge bite. He galloped off on hands and feet, like a wolf, and threw himself on the nearest enemy, ripping it to shreds.

Tales would be told of the thousands who did the same...

...Jumana screamed, her voice breaking the fuligin sands around her.

/Do not fear. The effects on your army will wear off after the energy is spent. We have enough of our own anyway./

Jumana wept, a feeling she had not felt in ages...

/To the conflicted of your army, I grant the companionship of my next brother./

The priests surveyed the damage, carnage, and violence from a distant high place.

"Is this what it comes to? All this damage and carnage?"

Another one shook his head. "Sometimes..." He swallowed. "Sometimes this war makes me question my faith."

"Careful, friend. Let that not be the fuligin talking."

He twitched.

"What?"

"I...don't know. But..." He prayed. Where the prayer came from, he could not say, only that it was answered.

And the wreckage shifted, coming together to make a giant man.

The man stood a hundred feet tall, composed of bricks, metal, shards of shattered wood, armor, swords, and everything else--and every surface was etched with a holy symbol.

He turned to the priests. "WHO AM I. WHAT AM I."

The priest swallowed hard. "You are...a blessing."

The giant junk man bent down and held out his hand. "I WISH TO UNDERSTAND. TEACH ME."

The priests nodded. "We will. Will you help us fight our enemies?"

"TELL ME MY NAME."

The priest shrugged. "We can...call you...Faithchild. For you were born of our blind faith."

"I AM FAITHCHILD. YOU ARE MY FRIENDS. FAITHCHILD WILL CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES, AND YOU WILL BE SAFE TO TEACH ME."

The Priests smiled.

Across the field, many more such constructs moved to protect their newfound friends...

...Jumana held her breath, now unable to scream...

/To those of you erased from memory, I grant a second chance. My right hand brother will cobble you together, and give you a chance...to reform./

A phantom army rose from the field, ghosts of nothing, shadows that were never cast. They moved among the enemy, stealing Names, using those Names to make themselves anew, not perfect, frightful to some, but able to exist again.

They swept through, chanting. "Here a name there a name your name my name find a name take a name all names by name..."

They stole the Names by cutting out the tongue and putting it in their own mouths, such as their mouths were. The allies among them clamped their mouths shut, but they had no need to. The shadows swept past them, prying open the jaws of their Harkanheim enemies, and claiming their tongues.

"Here a name there a name your name my name find a name take a name all names by name..."

It was not until one of the allies faced a shadow head on, looking into its eyes, that he knew what happened.

"I...I know him."

"What is he?"

"I think I may have served with him..."

Jumana stood and watched, coldly considering.

/And to you, Singer of Old, I grant this Secret of my own. Use it to change the world./

He touched her head with a giant tentacle.

She could not say how she got back to the camp, but she collapsed when she did, shivering in more terror than she had ever felt in her entire life...

...The bloated grey sandworm rode over the sands. Every one of its segments is near to bursting with fetid innards and the scent of it can be smelled almost before the sound of passing sand can reach us. On its back ride two figures. The first seems elfish in stature and features but much has changed within her. Her once white hair is streaked through with fuligin dust. There are such great amounts of miniscule fuligin shrapnel that has been embedded in her skin it appears almost piebald. But the most disturbing feature is her eye sockets. They are completely empty and pitch black. Her companion has a head of a large cat, the front hooves and body of a bull with the hind legs of an enormous toad. He wears a twisted wooden crown across his feline brow and never stops smiling. His smile is oddly reminiscent of the Puck's upon committing some horrible mischief. R'heedha Valsoraa, Witness of the Pit & her slave Bhorim, a child of Baal have finally joined the fight. /Now/ it begins...

...They fled.

Cork had so carefully selected them, the bastards. The hardest, nastiest bruisers, killers, and butchers in the First Army, and they fled. Cork would be disappointed, Ybraulk knew, but it didn't matter right now.

For the last day, the monsters had risen with a greater frequency, and the squad known as Murderer's Row had taken it upon themselves to shove them back down as quick as they came up. Fuligin alligators crossed with boars, monsters mixed of griffon and wyvern, creatures akin to rams and wolves, and one that was wasp, bat, and crow all made no impression on the blackhearts, cutthroats, and footpads that Cork had convinced to ride with Ybraulk.

And then arose the moth.

Scanning the Gift-imbued Consequence within him, Ybraulk searched for a reason why. Nothing seemed to make sense, so he assumed that the monster had some sort of aura of fear about it that he, having the mental strength of the greatest blackfang trolls to ever live, simply did not register. He sniffed the air.

Cinnamon? He shrugged. Whatever it smelled of, he would kill it. Lifting his Waylon-forged spear high, he leapt forward, letting his body crash into the huge moth. At forty feet in wingspan, its every beat sent fuligin dust swirling around the Rim, forcing dustdevils and sandstorms to germinate. Ybraulk ignored that, for his power was Dragon-born and inflexible, unscathable. He came down in a decepitvely gentle arc and crashed into the moth.

The spear plunged into the carapace of the fuligin moth and stopped. A rasping noise like metal bending scraped his ears and he looked up to see neither spear nor carapace give way. The moth ignored him entirely, as if he were a mote of dust. It flapped its wings, and new dust storms arose. Lifting himself up by the spear, Ybraulk wedged himself behind one of the monster's legs, wrenched the spear free, and tried again, aiming between plates.

Nothing. Nothing.

The moth drifted in the air, floating forward, leaving Ybraulk hanging to the moth's appendages. He moved to get on its back and try again. This time, he drew on more ancient strength. The blow would have broken a god, and yet here, it only scratched this monster's shell. He sniffed again, and his eyes narrowed as recoginition finally hit.

The Hollow Child.

Casting out a message through Rosalie's Heart, Ybraulk sought information. /This moth smells of the Hollow Child. How?/

Cork's reply was nearly instantaneous, /Because it smells like a moth?/ Ybraulk ignored him and waited for a more intelligent answer.

/I sense both undead energy and blasphemy in it/, Mudpie answered. /Need help over there?/

/No/, Ybraulk answered. /I am Death's hand and the Dragon's hunter./

/Right/, Mudpie's response came, accepting bluntly the troll's assertions.

Prax's answer came next, /I can sense strange turns in his story. A crushed moth tossed into The Pit, a dying god, a transformation./

/It is both undead and fuligin/, Wactawa said. /Some disciple of the Hollow Child must have gathered part of his remains and performed a blasphemous ritual./

/Thank you/, Ybraulk responded, feeling the expression of gratitude jar with the Consequence within him. He ignored his ancestry and returned to the ask at hand.

He jabbed the spear into the shell and used it to leverage himself up, toward the head. On the upper segment of the monster, he reached down, pulled his spear up, letting it scrape the chitinous shell along the way, and then looped his arm around its head. The beast finally responded to his presence, attempting to shake him off. Below, troops were panicking, and Ybraulk guessed this monster was emanating the unease of undeath in a massive way. His Gift simply neutralized that particular side effect of msawhat.

The moth curled in on itself, bringing its lower body up, truncating the parts Ybraulk had to hold onto. It flapped rapidly, slamming the troll with its wings, and began to bob and weave unpredictably. At the nadir of one of its dives, Ybraulk leapt off, landing among a group of fleeing satyrs. They quaked in fear at the massive troll's sudden arrival, but he ignored them. Closing his eyes, he sought within. The power of the Dragon's Son included the power of the gates, the mysteries of death.

The black chamber. The silver path, a thin thread of light that twines around itself. The first gate, a point of light, white and cold. Opens with certainty. The second gate, a vertical line, a slit of silver in the black oblivion, at the end of the second path. Opens with fear. The third gate, a vast grey X. There are two paths, take the left, enter the third gate. Opens with longing. Three paths to the fourth gate, in time and space, beyond the edge of the black chamber. A pentagon in the swirling forever, that opens with acceptance.

Ybraulk opened his eyes, and in his mind, the Key still hung in the emptiness. Turning toward the moth, he ran, a quarter mile in mere moments. Beneath the moth, the living fled and the dead arose, fuligin-infused shamblers. Before Ybraulk, the same collapsed, the shebvic power of the gates emanating from him. Once he was beneath the moth, he leapt, and touching it, he brought Death...

...The Elder Elven Consequent held the Valhonian tightly, whispering in her ear.

"There is but one way. We must contradict it," he murmured.

She struggled, half-mad, and trembled. She said nothing, and he expected nothing. He just kept talking, letting his mind work. Somewhere, deep within, they waited. Ennasrion had pushed them away, but they were there. The Onjans, their Consequence. Pure paradoxical power.

Jheshemirath dove into their impossible ancestry seeking the art he needed. Time seemed to stop.

Rindacsa seethed as pain and mana flowed around her, and then, Jheshemirath spoke one single word, a word of no meaning, but a word of great power. As he spoke it, the single word of the Onjan language, she calmed.

"What was that?" she asked in awe.

Jheshemirath let go of her and stepped back, trying to pull himself back to dignity. "Redirection..."

...Her teeth met bone, which snapped.

Har'hagga crunched the delicate bird bones and savored the taste of blood and feather and flesh. It was rare to find a flyer.

Born in the breeding pits, Har'hagga could not say who her parents had been. She had been among the first of the self-evolving generation, a mixture of races. Agikaani science, Vesturian arts, and Krev stock combined in a fuligin furnace to create them, and now, the taste of flesh and blood drove them. She finished off the yankiir's wing, heart, and eyes, then felt her gut churn. Her back spasmed, and her naked body writhed. She rolled on the ground, rubbing the fuligin sands against her tail and teets, feeling the grit mingle with blood and shit, letting the rot around her infuse her skin. The undead and the dead alike made usable remains for her body painting. She had to be properly attired for the transformation.

Her back twisted, and she felt bones break. Her ribs were cracking and her skin was only half-dressed in the sludge of a hundred deaths. She rushed, rubbing more of the Allied soldiers' ichor and excrement into her furry flesh. As she did, she smelled blood and felt it seep from her eyes and ears. Her hair seemed to singe as it bonded together, supernaturally forming a hardened surface that would sprout, in a few moments, thick Pit-black feathers. She fell forward.

Her back arched.

Her legs went limp.

Slits opened down her on all sides, and from them, new limbs emerged. Two new arms, a set of huge falcon wings, and a second tail, all slick with blood as dark as blasphemy, unfurled...

...Noraqqalmud pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. Yes, everything was going according to plan.

They'd fallen for the act. He'd convinced the Grey commander he'd been waiting for a chance to turn, that since he was going to become a wraith when he died, he could serve the Grey in both life and death. He still had no idea how Kuyyangilla had done that. He'd have to wring that answer from her the next time he saw her.

Now he was marching back towards the front, second in command of an undead contingent, ready to do battle with the Allied forces.

Noraqqalmud smiled as he held the knife behind his back. One of the great burdens of genius was to be lonely, to be constantly misunderstood. He doubted anyone on Shem truly understood his mind. Certainly not the demons he promised passage to the Mortal realm, only to see themselves smashed against fuligin rocks. Certainly not the Allied forces, who were just looking for an excuse to burn him with holy flame while he toiled for their immortal salvation. Certainly not Kuyyangilla, who thought that she had Noraqqalmud under her thumb.

Certainly not the vampire commander he walked alongside, who was convinced that Noraqqalmud had animated those thousands of corpses with undeath magic.

It was easy enough to slip behind the vampire, to reach behind him and stab him in the back. The imp in the blade stirred up the sand underneath the vampire as Noraqqalmud stepped back in mock horror. "The Harkanian forces are turning on us-- attack!" He gave the order.

He'd thought the Alliance would at least stop to wonder why the undead forces before them suddenly turned on the Harkanian forces beside them. But no, no one ever stopped to think. As the bolt of divine light crashed down on Noraqqalmud, he sighed and accepted his fate. There were worse things than death, and those things feared or respected him. He'd be ok in the end....

...Back at camp, Private Helmand stepped out of the medical tent for the first time since he'd caught an arrow to the chest while helping that abomination Noraqqalmud. He found the tent of faiths, looking for someone who could help him. He stopped a young girl with white blonde and radiant hair.

"Excuse me, do you know where I can find a death priest?"

"Certainly," replied the girl. "He should just be back from the medical tents. Father Bruhail, over here!"

A stocky man in robes and black gloves approached. "What's this now?"

Private Helmand cleared his throat. "I was told to find you, by that demon thing that used to be an elf?" He reached into his pack and pulled out the knife. "He said it had run out of charges and was trash now. He said that while it might be useless to him, it was the most valuable thing I'd ever touch. Asshole. He told me to bring it to you for disposal."

Father Bruhail frowned, taking the demonic knife. "What is--- Mother's mercy! It's filled with souls in agony!" He grabbed private Helmand's shirt. "Where is this demon, I'll kill it myself!"

Private Helmand sputtered incoherently. "I didn't-- I was-- I don't--"

The little girl lifted a hand to the death priest's arm. "We must tend to the souls, Father Bruhail. With our faith together, we can show them mercy and save them from damnation. /Then/ you can speak to the one who did this..."

...The Tara'hinians kept their promises. Walking among their forces, the two old warlocks never once saw their duplicitous master. In turn, the warlocks served them well. Their power proved useful against both Grey and Fuligin, unfazed (perhaps even stronger) by the wearying fuligin dust and the limitations of facing the undead. Quite simply, a curse could affect anyone, if used properly, and the warlocks were experts.

Idir walked along, slowly, with Rufarro by his side, listening intently to the steady pace of the infantry. They were uncomfortable with the warlocks, but they followed orders. And orders required they accept the warlocks' aid.

"Fall back!" sounded through the ranks. Soldiers began to, in an organized fashion, follow through. One man would stand, one would move back. Then they would switch, in a repeating pattern, until everyone had reached the fall back point, a standing order of 100 feet back unless otherwise indicated.

The warlocks ignored the order and waited.

"What do you see?" Idir asked.

"I see a pack of Pit-monsters. They look like jackals," she answered. "But they smell like lizards."

The blind man nodded and placed his hands on the ground. The sands before the Pit-jackals, some 50 yards away, erupted, cursed now to forever repel the ground. A curtain of rasping grains took the beasts by surprise, ripping their flesh from their bones rapidly.

"The soldiers do not like this," Rufarro told her companion.

Idir stood up, "They would have preferred death?"

"Some of them," the panthress said...

...Tam Lin collapsed in the dust, his face stained with all the fuligin of the people he had savaged. He panted.

He looked around for the Erlking. He was nowhere to be found, nor were any of the Troublemakers.

Tam Lin suddenly felt very alone.

"If you're out there my friend, mates, I need help." He cut down enemy after enemy, each stroke a killing blow. Swift, efficient, calculated.

Until, across the field, toward a watchtower on the edge of the Pit, he saw a very familiar figure.

Gustav had his face wrapped in bandages, but his impeccable style of clothing showed through even the black dust. He met Tam Lin's gaze.

Tam Lin pointed with his Sword. /You're mine./

Gustav charged.

Tam Lin plowed through, shouldering enemies aside, cutting them down. Gustav did the same, throwing Allies aside left and right, gutting them with his daggers as he did.

They clashed. Gustav crossed his daggers across a downward strike to the head. He grinned. "I like you. We should fight more often."

Tam Lin pushed him back and took a cut at mid level. Gustav dodged backward.

"Woohoo! You're mad! Wonder what little ol' me did to deserve that!"

Tam Lin swung his sword, Gustav blocking every blow.

But he stepped back with every stroke.

Tam Lin pressed on, determined to take this head for Gerrick.

Gustav stepped back into the door of a tower on the edge of the Rim. "Come on, Faery-brat. You can do better than this can't you?"

Tam Lin backed him up onto a twisted outcropping. "I wouldn't be so blase' about my impending death if I were you."

Gustav shrugged. "Have it your way."

When all of this was over, Tam Lin would tell his children that not even once did it occur to him that Gustav never attacked him in this exchange. Instead, he pressed on, backing Gustav up the spiral ledge of the outcropping.

"So what's got you so mad?" Gustav laughed as he fenced with his knives. "Was it that sexual torture threat? Or did something happen to your Innesfolk boyfriend?"

Tam Lin kept his focus, not that it did any good.

"You know he's got a wife, right?"

Tam Lin pressed on.

"I bet that's some sweet pussy. I'd love to get me some of that."

Tam Lin took a series of precise cuts, watching Gustav's eyes, but Gustav parried him effortlessly.

"If he dies, I'll make up the difference." He spun in and kneed Tam Lin in the groin. "For both you and her."

Tam Lin roared in fury and pressed in harder, but Gustav only laughed, parrying each blow. Tam Lin snarled at first, putting more effort into the cuts, then more, and more, until he screamed in fury, taking cuts wherever he could manage.

But Gustav knew what he was about. He parried every blow, laughing.

Tam Lin caught a glimpse of a familiar face, behind Gustav, and made a split second decision--he intentionally left himself open.

Gustav drove in with a dagger, right for Tam Lin's chest. Tam Lin took it, gasping for air--but he did not feel the blow.

Gustav leaned right into his face. "Gods you're beautiful. If only you were on my side." He threw Tam Lin off the edge.

Tam Lin barely caught himself by his fingertips.

"Help..."

Gustav leaned over the edge. "Know what the difference is between you and me?"

Tam Lin stared up, into the face of death.

"I don't care. That helps so much in battle. I just want to die my death and glorify the Mother of Serpents. Not that you give a shit. You see, it's not the evil ones who are nihilists."

Tam Lin stared up at him.

"That's you guys. The good ones. You think that all there is to life is intent, but it DOESN'T FUCKING WORK THAT WAY!"

Tam Lin looked down. It was a long drop to the nearest surface he could see.

"It's you guys. You, so pure and holier than thou. Good intent, it just...wipes it all away. Oh gods, I never knew that would happen! I never knew people would suffer from my piety! I meant well!"

Tam Lin closed his eyes.

"It's all about results, little man. Say what you want about evil, we get results."

Tam Lin looked up at him.

"What. Wanna challenge me?"

Tam Lin looked him in the eye.

"There's no point. You already lost. But hey, how about an object lesson. What would you do to me right now, just to win."

Tam Lin stared at him, praying for a friend to rescue him. His mind filled with the image of the Erlking.

"Well? Answer me."

Had it all been a halucination? Tam Lin held on to the hope, and whispered the one name he could think of. "Erlking."

"Erlking? Really? That's all you have for me? YOU RIPPED MY FACE OFF, YOU BASTARD! I WILL TORTURE YOU INTO INSANITY!"

Tam Lin went calm. "You won't get the chance."

Something happened. Something attacked Gustav from behind, throwing him over the edge--and into The Pit.

The scream was almost ethereal. Otherworldly. It was a sound of the horror of final defeat--eternal defeat.

The Erlking appeared in the window. "I heard you my friend. Let go."

Tam Lin pleaded. "Pull me up."

"If I try to, you'll fall. Let go, friend. You're going to be okay."

It was not even a choice. Tam Lin did what he knew to do--he let go.

He expected to plunge into the depths of Hell's Hell--but he was caught in a net. A familiar Innesfolk woman's voice shouted, "Gerrick, we got 'im!"

/"Is Gustav dead?"/

Tam Lin answered for Ansley. "If he's not, he wishes he was."

/"Bring him home. Well done Mate..."

...Aleel'aqallah swears internally. "Finally!" she thinks to herself as she sees the abomination make a wide turn to return to the carnage on the sand below her. It's still a mile and a half out but she has enough time to get into position. This is not the way she'd like to do this. She was an assassin. She didn't generally take down her targets in the middle of a battlefield. But this one had eluded her time and again.

It was 'the sight'. It wasn't as bad as dealing with a prophet but it was close. The target just --evaded her. Over and over. Only once had she been close enough to see those empty black sockets. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been that close to a target and not made the deal. With her new found Consequence and skill almost nothing should have been able to get away. But get away she did. Pieces of her people whispered to Aleel'aqallah and reassured her that this wasn't her fault. Witnesses lived outside the rules and they were almost impossible to kill.

Aleel'aqallah scowled to herself as she ran quickly and easily down the dune and out onto the flat sand. She didn't care about 'the rules'. She was going to take down the Witness anyway. She needed to be out of the picture if they were to have a chance of taking down the King she served.

The rotting, undead sandworm-- NO! She wouldn't think of it as one of them. The rotting, undead /corpse/worm was upon her now and she ran alongside it, using her riding hooks to swing up onto its back, behind the riders. She put the hooks away and drew the knife she trusted most. As she moved forward the Witness cocked her head and then abruptly tugged on her hooks, making the worm undulate wildly. Aleel'aqallah's heart sank even as her stomach lurched. "She did it again!" she thought as abruptly there was no worm beneath her for half a second.

She started to fall just as the enormous side of the worm was returning to ram her. She instinctively lashed out with her knife, trying to get ahold in the soft place between the overlapping segments. Her knife surprisingly caught, held for half a moment as she slammed into the side of the worm. Then a great ripping echoed through the creature. It was just an animated bag of juices at this point in its decomposition. Now a great slit tore right through it, and innards begain to flow onto the sand as the entire worm deflated. The riders were swallowed into the slit as Aleel'aqallah fell into the sand.

As soon as she gained her feet she ran to catch up to the remains that still hadn't come to rest. A runaway freight train can go fairly far before rolling to a stop. She saw no sign of the servant but she found the fallen elf. Her sockets were filled with fetid juices and she was clawing at them, trying to clear them. For once she seemed blind to her surroundings as Aleel'aqallah's most trusted knife found its new sheath....

...The soldier leading his horse stopped, and so, too, did the horse.

The Fifth Army company now lead by General Yeong had been cut off for days by the Fuligin Host. King Suk Boon-ja rode in darkness, grim and silent, and his men rode with him. They guided him through the rocky landscape for days, but no Allied encampment was found. They had pulled back or been repulsed. He could tell that no one wanted to admit to him that there was no healer on the way, no salvation coming soon. Eventually, they would meet another enemy company, and they would have to leave him.

He accepted this, and he spoke of it daily to General Yeong. The old man said nothing in response, but the King knew he would do the right thing.

Lost in thought, it took the King a moment to realize that the soldier had spoken. "I'm sorry, Gyeong. What did you say?"

"Your Majesty, the enemy approaches."

The King nodded, reaching for his sword. He paused at the hilt, letting regret fill him. Gyeong said, "Your Majesty, draw your sword. I will guide you."

"Soldier, you need to consider your own skin," the King said, hiding his surprise.

Gyeong said, "Yes, sire." But he did not move.

The King could hear the approaching cavalry now. He could hear the clang of metal on metal moments later as the enemy engaged his comapny. He could hear the sound of men dying.

"Left," came a voice nearby, and the King knew what it meant. He could hear the horse, and he could feel the rider. He swung his blade, and it met another. Urging his horse to action, he turned and swung again, and he felt with satisfaction as it met flesh.

"Back," another voice called. The King whirled, swung, and took down the Harkanian before he could strike. He knew they couldn't keep this up. The simple commands would not be enough.

"Back," Gyeong called. The King pushed forward to dodge, and as he did, he felt the blade bite into his shoulder. He turned and hacked, and his sword caught the man's arm. He hacked again, and again, and again, until the enemy was gone.

"Forward," he heard, and he lunged. The sword hit what he suspected was a horse's head. He was sure this was not his intended target, but it seemed to have worked. The attack did not come.

"Left," Gyeong called again. The King spun and swung, hitting a shield. He pushed and adjusted, and swung again. A blade took him in the leg, and he used that to adjust his own aim. He hacked and hacked again, driving back the new foe.

"Left," another call came. For long minutes, the King fought as seemignly his whole company shouted instruction. He hacked and slashed and took wounds to his side, his arm, his legs, and his horse. After some time, he started to gain some confidence.

"Right," came a hoarse shout, and the King knew Gyeong was suffering. He turned right and parried, through sheer luck, what felt like an axe. He heard a sound he knew to be a breaking sword, but he reached back and hacked anyway. As expected, his blade shattered, but the head of the man or woman he struck caved in.

"Here," a voice said. A Rothanian sword hilt entered King Suk's hand.

"No, soldier, I can't," he replied. But the man was already gone. He called out twice more, but all he heard in response was "Right!"

He turned and struck. The voices were fewer now. "Left," he swung.

"Back," he whirled.

"Forward," he struck.

The Harkanians tried to imitate the commands, but the King could tell them by accent. He knew his men's voices, and he knew a Harkanian accent. He ignored them, or used them to strike at nearby foes.

"Left," came Gyeong's voice, weaker now. The King struck left, and his sword dug deep into something. A horse? A huge opponent? He could not tell. No one screamed, but no attack came. He drew back.

"Back," a rasping cough managed. The King knew not who it was, but he turned behind him and struck. His sword hit nothing, and a blade caught him in the stomach. His mail kept it from his flesh, but the blow threw him from his horse. He landed, hard, rolled, and struggled to his feet.

"Right," a voice called. He turned right and swung. His sword found purchase in something's neck. He hacked twice more and felt certain he had taken someone's head off.

An arrow struck his shoulder, and he fell to his knees. He reached up, pulled it out, and stood, defiantly.

"Back," a voice told him. He turned and swung, battering wildly against an enemy sword. Knowing he could not parry with any certainty, he screamed, letting his rage and pain erupt, and swung with a chaotic flurry. The fifth stroke, swung low, bit into his enemy's arm. He repeated the same until it found nothing.

"Left," the voice said. He turned and thrust. His blade hit metal and snapped. He jumped to tackle instead and felt blades tear his face, hands, arms, chest. He struggled with his invisible opponent, desperately beating at him or her until it stopped moving. He whirled as someone said, "Right."

His fists met something. He beat at it, his arms as heavy as lead. It stopped moving, and he tried to catch his breath. Moments passed, and no more voices came to him. He heard arrows land nearby, and laughter from afar. He felt the sting of a dart in his already wounded shoulder.

"Gyeong!" he shouted. "Yeong!"

No one answered. More arrows came, more laughter. And then a pain blossomed momentarily in his stomach before everything stopped...

...He had been the first king of Kael'Ras, lord of the small nation of devout followers of the gods. Not any specific gods. Just the gods. They prayed for good harvest and for protection against bad harvest. They prayed for the bodies of the living and the souls of the dead. They had been prosperous, until the plague hit. Forty thousand people died, and though it grieved him to watch, he would have weathered it had it not been for Aer'Lianne. She had not reached a year old when the plague took her from him, and on that dark day, the entire kingdom died. He turned, in his grief, to the grey priests. Their faith was not illegal, so long as they did not enforce their powers, but they were shunned among the people. Still, the king turned to them.

They agreed, of course, readily. They brought her back, and at first, she seemed to be a normal, healthy child. But those were the blind eyes of a father, and everyone around him--his wife, his son, his friends, his advisers, his sister--they all saw her for the abomination that she was. They also knew the price he had paid, and they lived in terror. The plague still killed thousands outside the palace, and the people were beginning to riot as well. But the king had turned his back on all but the rotting, ambulatory corpse of his daughter.

Unable to bear it, his sister did what she had to. She stole the child at night and washed it in holy water, letting it burn away, then she took more of the water and came unto the king's chambers. Instead of her brother, she found instead the grey priests, waiting. They fell upon her and slew her, and in the morning, they went ot the king and showed him what she had done to his daughter. Distraught, he took the ashes out to the ponds behind his palace, and there, he walked into them. He drowned, and at midnight, he rose again. Undead. Rotting. His soul was already sealed away, at the behest of the grey priests, into a phylactery hidden deep within their temple. He rose from the waters, and with him, rose the entire populace. Every plague death became a servant of the Bone-Mother. Every living thing slowly wasted away and joined them.

Kael'Ras became an undead wasteland.

Hundreds of years later, Kael'Quillin, as he eventually styled himself, would be destroyed by the power of a Messiah. Ages later, a world later, he would arise again. Now, he rode in the Grey Host as its Commander, more ancient and terrifying than any undead before or after. His heart was wrapped in a viper--his ancient phylactery--and none could oppose his might. A hundred knights of Kael'Ras, his kingdom, rode beside him. A thousand wraiths filled the air around him. Even as the lines broke around him, his held...

...His hair streamed out behind him. His stallion charged across the fuligin desert, Behind him rode Na'Amah in her robes, her war hammer in her hands, and a host of three hundred riders from the remnants of almost every Army. They rode with the tides of victory, and the wall of undead ahead of them would not break them. Banners of gold and white, of iridal and scarlet, of copper and lapis, of platinum and pearl flew among them, and these banners called to them the holiest warriors from the Allied Armies. A shimmering wall of faith stood around them as they charged.

Alan Caer raised a warcry. Behind him, three hundred men and women repeated it, and the air crackled with power.

He drew his sword, full again twice his size, impossible to wield by any normal man. But Alan had strength beyond mortal measure, and his sword was blessed by the Swanmother herself. It was forged by the Impossible Smith and crafted with angel hair and swan feather. It was made to slay demons, but undead would do.

The ground between the two forces was swallowed up in the dust clouds of two opposing cavalries, and when they clashed, the air filled with flame and agony from both sides. Alan brought his massive blade around, sending waves of righteous flame in broad arcs that demolished the undead. Four times he whirled the sword, and four times, nothing but ash was left in its wake. Around him, his allies unleashed the powers of heaven upon the Grey Host, sending wraiths and blind knights into the burning beyond.

And then the chant began. "Kael'Quillin. Kael'Quillin."

The undead moaned and hissed and rasped and creaked, and the name repeated from their hollow throats. "Kael'Quillin. Kael'Quillin."

Alan knew the name, of course. Every servant of the Holy Host knew the name. He looked about, fear cradling his heart as the chant continued. "Kael'Quillin. Kael'Quillin."

Na'Amah rushed to his side, her hammer bringing its own kind of judgment. "What are they saying?"

"They speak the name of the first bash tchelik king of Kael'Ras," Alan answered. "I fear it is more than a rallying cry."

Na'Amah nodded, then gestured with her maul. Alan looked, and there, atop a helhest, rode the Grey Commander. Alan did not hesitate, but urged his stallion toward the monster. His blade raised in defiance, he met the Raesian king. The first clash killed both steeds. Alan was upon his feet first, but his sword took more time. Kael'Quillin rose and summoned a spectral blade to his hands. The giant holy blade came up and over Alan in a great overhand blow, while the spectral sword rose to meet it. The impact tore the very ground from beneath them.

Scrambling, Alan was forced to drop his sword as fuligin sands became a downward flood. A vast crevasse was opening, and the Grey Commander's response had simply been to levitate. Alan watched his sword slide into the hole and said a silent prayer. Pulling himself up, he drew his dagger and prepared himself for the blow. The phantasmal blade slammed into the holy, golden blade, and Alan fell to his knees. The Grey Commander laughed, hissed, and struck again, missing only by inches. Alan raked upward with the dagger, but his blade was turned by the Commander's strengthened bones. A series of exchanges followed as Alan and Kael'Quillin failed again and again to harm their foe. Around them, the war carried on, but they didn't see anything other than each other. Msawhat and heavenly light mingled and flared, and Alan and Kael'Quillin both called to their gods.

Kael'Quillin lashed out with his free arm, hurling Alan back. He landed, hard, on the edge of the newly opened chasm, stunned. Struggling to get to this feet, he saw the grey shadow cover him, and he knew the agony that was about to meet him. He closed his eyes and prayed for salvation.

And so he received salvation. Into his hands, the hilt of his sword fell. Without hesitation, he brought it up and slammed it into the Grey Commander's unsuspecting body. The body of the bash tchelik erupted into holy blaze as the sword--as big as he was--ripped through him. The viper in his rib cage, the ancient phylactery, burned with him, and in that moment... he faded from existence, as if he had never been.

"An echo," Na'Amah said from behind Alan.

Staring, trying desperately to catch his breath, he just shook his head. Without looking, he said, "Thanks for bringing me my sword."

She nodded. "You are most welcome, Alan Caer..."

...It was Harkan himself who pressed the retreating forces.

No power of the Monster-Archetypes could turn him, stall him, or defeat him. He was a monster of his own kind: a Giant because of his deep seated insecurities. A Messenger because his very existence sang, and craved resonance. A Dragon because nothing dared challenge him. A Guardian because of his long-dead family, a Queen because of his ambition, a True Form for his Hunger, A Construct because of the circumstances that made him this way, a Bogeyman because of what he sought, an Elder God because he would change the world.

Had Echidna not children of her own, she would adopt him as the One Archetype.

All who stood in his way perished. There was no other way.

And that was all the challenge the Avatar of WAR needed.

Courage. Very few people understood the place of Courage in the WAR god's plans. So much of the battle was won merely by the chutzpah to show up. It took so very little to impress the Father of War, and so many misunderstood him. The place of conflict in the World was established when the first Protozoan outstripped the first Eukaryote in a conflict for resoures.

But Courage did not enter into it until conscious decision became a thing.

Courage was the ability to decide, in spite of rational analysis, that it was okay to die--provided the price was right.

The Father of WAR was all about making the price right.

Angela appeared. There were no other words for it. She /appeared,/ in front of the retreating fae forces, the same way the Laird of Inverray had stood in front of his forces, to protect them, to give them courage.

She turned to the nearest commander. "Tell Lilybell I said, 'this is how wars are won."

No one saw how she ended--but the world felt when she did. All that is known is that she faced Harkan personally, and lost, and in the process, uncounted allies were saved, freeing them to go on and fight the war...

...The sword burned like a silver sun.

A cascade of argent blaze emanated from its slender blade as Prax held it high. Moments before, the surviving Hunters had drawn the roots of the World Tree around themselves. Using the powerful tendrils as vast ropes, they had bound the Angel of Bone and dragged it to the ground.

Now, Prax brought justice. He had let it go before, but this thread ended in triumph.

The burning ashar coiled around the oneiric sword, and as it came down, it cleaved the fallen angel's head in twain...

... The Headless Horseman chased the Cyhyraeth Manifest a long time.

He chased him around the entire rim of the Pit.

He chased him the length of the alliance's column.

He chased him under the ocean.

He chased him among the underwater gardens.

He chased him through the deep trenches.

He chased him into the underground nations.

He chased him through the domain of the athaks.

He chased him to the gates of the Core, but Tom Fool did not wish to go inside.

He chased him through the ancient dwarven cities.

He chased him back into the outside world.

He chased him through the forests of the elves and faeries.

He chased him along the Long Path, until they reached its end.

He chased him through tundra.

He chased him through the forests of Genesis.

He chased him through jungle.

He chased him to the Mountain of Trials, but Tom Fool did not wish to climb it, and escaped the trials by passing through a tiny crack.

He chased him through the Catacombs.

And thereafter it is not known where they went.

It is said that the voice of Dullahan can still be heard from time to time, calling out the names of the doomed, and that it is always accompanied by the beating of horses' hooves. But whether the will of the voice is commanded by Dullahan's grim duty, or Tom Fool's sadistic glee, none are sure ...

...There was a secret so few knew about the Harkanians--It had to do with the nature of blasphemy. Blasphemy, by its nature, was /against./ It was a position of conflict, against creatures so much more powerful than normal that to challenge them should have been unthinkable. But to those whose war was with the gods themselves, there was /only/ that conflict.

Athiesm, in Shem, was not a philosophical position--it was a choice of will, an act of war.

The Guardians were believers in one assertion: I may be a puppet, but I dance for no man. I make my own decisions. My mind is not for rent, and if I find the truth, I do so without the help of gods.

That, in itself was not blasphemy. Blasphemy came into it when a Mortal /denied/ the influence of gods, no matter what that god's contribution to the current situation.

Harkan could not see how much his position owed to the gods.

Some of them /loved/ him. Few if any hated him. Most ignored him. But for whatever reason, he went on as if they mattered naught. It was a form of blindness many would speculate on for milliennia to come.

Was it an illusion? The Storyteller would argue that knowing what illusion to accept was the first step in understanding one's place in the universe. Harkan was a character, and playing his part was the utmost importance.

But his part ended in defeat, and he knew it.

For some strange reason, Harkan was painfully at peace with that realization.

And somewhere in the Heavens, a priest of Peace smiled...

...Mudpie walked among the battle.

Well, /walking/ was being a bit generous.

The energy left him. He wanted, so desperately, to embrace the Monster. It sang to his soul so much lie the intoxicating promise of well-made Sal Ammoniac. But he chose the fast, as he always had.

And now, more hungry the ever, he realized how much he missed the rush of energy.

He staggered.

The Fuligin enemies began to circle.

"That's the Survivalsmith."

"End him and be done with it."

"No. I want him for a servant."

It was like a dream. Mudpie could not say what was awake and what was asleep in his psyche, what was real and what was dream. He mused that Prax could help him in such a state, were he not off on his own battles.

The world seemed so far away. He lay his head on the cold fuligin ground, as if feeling Shem's heartbeat.

A woman's voice. An eight-eyed,golden giant bent down, offering him the sweetest Gald-bread he had ever smelled. On the other side, a one-winged creature whetted a rusty scythe.

He's mine, Harvester. Be gone. The demon spoke fluent Salt. He even had the Obsidian Eye accent and dialect.

You think he is in your grasp? She answered in Aeslan. And that must be why he feeds so many. Why he's so selfless.

His self-denial honors /me!/ The one-winged one responded.

His self-denial is in service to greater things! You stay clear of him, his soul will be mine!

The demon said, Even though he's blasphemed you? He spat in your face, after all you did for him, to call on /my/ name! He tasted your false promises, and invoked /my/ power!

She paused. To give his life, soul, and Name to good causes.

He snarled. Everyone gives those things for something.

In the distance, the enemies argued amongst themselves. Mudpie sat up, not daring to look at his Sire and Madam.

Well then take him by force if you dare. I came to bless him! Syrk said.

SO DID I! AND I CLAIM HIM! Threk challenged.

YOU HAVE NO CLAIM HERE, RUST! She pulled her staff back and struck Mudpie solidly in the chest, just as the Father of Rust cut deep into his chest with the scythe.

Mudpie screamed. His body froze.

The giantess pressed her staff into his chest. Let him go, you foul theif!

Release him, winged monster!

Mudpie screamed for his life. His body surged with godlike energies. He felt hope, the satisfaction and energy of a good meal, the driving pain of hunger, and the need to hunt or be hunted--eat or be eaten. In that moment, all the world was his kitchen, his table, his family, and also his prey.

He dreamed of feasts in Aeslaw, of turning the fuligin desert into a lush garden and farm, and of sweeping down upon entire nations to blight them. He saw himself--/lived/ moments, days, years--in the life of an avatar, of Amber, and then of Rust.

He could have whichever life he chose.

His body stretched painfully, pulled as if by a thousand horses.

Release him lest he die and we both lose him! Syrk demanded.

Your tender heart limits you. /You/ release him if you wish to spare him! Threk responded.

The Pit threatens you as much as it does myself  She said.

Never! The Survivalsmith serves ME! Threk roared.

The strain pulled his muscles and bones apart. Mudpie knew he could save himself if he chose.

He could not choose.

/Inelle...I'm sorry.../

...Her reply was not words. She made a split second decision to save Mudpie...

...Rust screeched in rage. Amber roared in protective fury. Mudpie closed his eyes, as every fiber of his being rent assunder...

...Inelle blinked, then fell on her butt. "I...I can't...sense him anymore."

The Miracle worker crouched down to her.

"I don't even know...if it worked. I can't...oh god...I can't feel this place...the ward, the tent, I can't feel my tools or the lights or the patients--"

"Here! here." The miracle worker touched her. "You still have your skill. Breathe easy."

Inelle took a long deep breath. She looked up at him. "Did it work? Did I save him...?"

...Hasulakh Zadhaun felt about a hundred pounds lighter.

He laughed.

He cackled and cawed, arching his back and pounding the sand with his hands and feet. "YES! YES YES YES! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU ALL, I'M ALIVE! HAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA!"

Sulfur Irongut sat up and rubbed his head. "Oh gods that's better. Whoo. I thought I was a goner. Inelle, I'm alright!"

Hasulakh squinted at him. "Who the hell are you?"

Sulfur blinked in surprise.

Hasulakh struggled to his feet and stomped over, trying to loom. It didn't work. He was exactly as tall as--well, as tall as himself. "Asked you a question, sweet-meat."

Sulfur blinked. "You look really familiar. Do I know you?"

Hasulakh glared. And then, he chuckled. "Oh gods, they do have a sense of humor."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on. You're not this dumb. Know how I know?" He tapped his chest furiously. "Because /I'm/ not that dumb!"

And then Sulfur got it. "...Oh."

He stared at himself. He stood at the height he remembered, scraggle-ass hair and pale desert mottled skin drawn tight over a hunched skeleton, decked in tattered black clothes. His furious, bloodshot eyes held a tense, fearful look, boiling into barely controlled anger. He snarled through yellow, rotten teeth.

He also stood plump and fit, handsome, rosy cheeked, his beard and hair groomed to attentive neatness. His pearly whites glistened when he smiled, and kindness emanated from his calm demeanor.

One of him carred a rusty sickle. One of him carried a blessed spatula.

Sulfur nodded. "Yeah. This is awkward."

"Fuck awkward. We got a war to win." Hasulakh turned and charged into battle with a scream.

"Wait for me..."

...She adjusted her cloak, letting the small movement serve as her only signal. Around her, one hundred wraiths swirled into action, flowing forward in a rush of mist and msawhat, sweeping over the Allied force. Styrah Rhee smiled, her once-silver flesh ripped slightly at the edges of her mouth. The Allied soldiers below her position met the wraith swarm and died in horror. Though the Allied forces had the Worms now, they still could not withstand her might.

Beside her, her former adversary drew back her bow. Rosamonde, the Grey Elf, aimed for a specific target, a single enemy. There. A gout of argent flame told her that the ashar-masters had arrived. She loosed her arrow and watched it fall, plunging into the heart of an Ailanean mistress of lifeforce at over 1000 yards. The arrow, empowered by msawhat and wintry night, would break even the ashar-protection of the ancient master, bringing another slave to the Grey Host. She turned to Styrah and said, "We should ride. I sense someone of greater import arriving."

Styrah looked ot her, then out across the field. "The star?"

"No," Rosamonde said. "He still remains aloof. This is the one they dare try to replace me with."

"Ah, that one." Styrah laughed. "Let us meet her..."

...So many undead. She'd never thought to see so many, even with the battles already fought and behind her, but there they were, stretching out before her. Shara took a deep breath and renewed her focus, drawing on the ashar welling up within her and on the memories of all the elves that were and are to best direct her aid and attacks. Her jaw was set, her eyes hard as she fought, the Sword in her hands almost more a focus for her use of ashar than a mere weapon. Her movements slowed, however, when she registered the approach of a worse enemy...

...Rosamonde rode a measured pace upon her rotting charger. Styrah, upon a bone-white stag, stenching with a hundred years of decay, kept pace beside her. The Allied forces around them died and rose again as the wailing wraiths melted their flesh and bones with cold and corruption. The Grey Elf watched the struggle ahead, the furious walls of argent might burning away her forces, but she remained unconcerned. Adjusting her ring, she called upon its power and a wall of grey fog coiled around her. Picking up her pace, she and Styrah rode to meet the Elf Incarnate.

The fog of undeath met the argent flame in a slow, infrequent fashion, and the commingling created strange gasps of steam, gouts of energy as two opposing forces struggled for dominance. Soon, the fog was burning off, but it lasted long enough to push the two undead elves through. Bursting forth from the crumbling wall of holy blaze, Rosamonde and Styrah's steeds leapt into the fray against the ashar-masters, and the elves clashed in a clatter of bone-sword and ailsiilver. Eight ashar masters were down at the hands of the ancient and powerful before they Anasharia reached them with her own power...

...It wasn't difficult to see them coming. Or smell them. All around the approaching duo Allied soldiers died screaming and rose again, grey-faced, to turn on those who had just moments ago been their comrades. So this was the source of the undeath. Shara's eyes narrowed at the wall of fog that met the argent flame surrounding the united ashar masters, the Elf Incarnate already moving to try and bolster the fire.

It didn't work. Soon enough they were inside, eight masters of qi fallen at their feet before she could bring her power to bear. She focused, hands tightening on the Sword as she lashed out at the Grey Elf, drawing on her own compassion for those she was trying to protect to strengthen the Heart within her and her own powers. For a moment it seemed to work, the two repulsed by both the balance the Sword offered and the surge of ashar that backed it, but there was no lasting damage done.

The Grey Elf paused in her advance, and drew on powers ancient and dark wtihin the ring she still wore, the ancient dragon's ring. Being as old as two worlds, the grey dragon she mimicked was older and more powerful than any but a Manifest. The might she had access to was unfathomable. She unfurled a plume of msawhat a mile wide and long, a freezing mist of undeath that encompassed a vast swath of the battlefield. As she did this, the former Ailanean silversmith simply pulled her fingers together, contracting the air around the Elf Incarnate. The movement made the temperature plummet.

Shara found herself forced back by a sudden surge of power from the one she now recognized as Rosamonde. The lost Elf Manifest, now turned against all that she had once protected. As if Shara needed a reminder that everything might well hinge on this battle. And then the cold set in. With two opponents, she could not focus solely on one lest the other find an opening and slip in, as had just happened. The chill was incredible, more bitter than an Evernorth winter, strong enough that Shara could almost feel her own blood slowing in her veins as it began to freeze.

No. That she could not allow. She set her jaw, reaching within herself and drawing on the skills and memories she now possessed. Surely one of Elvenkind had found some manner of defense against the undead. And they had. Within moments Shara was pushing the cold away, wrapping herself in an almost-invisible blanket of warmth and ashar and meeting Styrah's eyes with a faint smirk. That, however, seemed to goad the woman into another attack.

Styrah drew her dagger, one she had forged on First Shem, ailsilver and lapis lazuli, the marriage of the world. Life and creation. In her undeath, she had corrupted it by placing the blade in a bone hilt and infusing it with a hantu raya. She lunged for Shara, and the blade crackled as it came within range of Shara's protection.

Shara parried the corrupted blade with the Sword, about to turn the block into a strike of her own when she felt a sudden weight fall over her, as if her very being was being pulled out of her body. And it was. Her eyes went immediately to Rosamonde, every defense she could think of thrown up to prevent the Grey Elf draining her soul. Wall after wall, barrier after barrier, were thrown up only to be subsequently knocked down. Nothing was working. The once-Manifest was still far too strong to be defeated so easily.

Rosamonde's power engulfed Shara, and the mists she had summoned swirled around and around, creating a massive funnel with one purpose: to tear the soul from the Elf Incarnate, and thus, capture every elf that ever was. As the cone of msawhat coalesced into a massive pillar, drawing the power from the vast square mile it encompassed, Styrah Rhee laughed, "Weakling."

She cackled again, "You may as well be human. You've no life, no grace within you. You are a conglomerate, a construct. When your soul is gone, will anyone even notice? You are as nothing. In Agikaan, we would have executed you; you aren't even fit for breeding." She sniffed the air. "A body only a rapist could love."

Shara's determination beginning to wear thin beneath the unrelenting assault from Rosamonde, each word from Styrah's mouth just increased Shara's anger. Taunt after taunt rolled over her, words stabbing like poniards, but the last one...that one set the Elf Incarnate's eyes blazing with rage and defiance. She was not going to end here, if only to out-stubborn her enemies and spite them by surviving. A wave of pure ashar, fueled by that determination, rushed out of her to crash over both her opponents in an almost physical wave, knocking Rosamonde off-balance enough to break her hold and setting Styrah Rhee ablaze with silver flame.

The former Manifest drew her bone-sword and lunged while the silversmith burned in a column of argent glory. Rosamonde's blade bit into fuligin dust as Shara's body reacted with a delicate maneuver that sent her into a roll. She moved with suddenness brought on by the surge of a thousand elves granting her agility. In the escape, Shara's blade was gone from her hand. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the rotting arm of the Elf Manifest, deflecting another swing from the deadly blade. Three more blows failed to land, but a fourth left a small gash on Shara's forehead. A fifth took a bite out of her upper left arm, and a sixth scraped her left breast.

It was likely a good thing Shara had not expected that to give her any kind of breathing room, but it had also told her how to win this fight. Or this half of the fight, at any rate. Her own Sword would be of little use here; bad for the blade or not it got plunged into the ground as she ducked Rosamonde's first strike, the bone-blade whistling over her head. Drawing on her entire being, on the skills and knowledge of those who had gone before, Shara ducked and weaved around each attack, spinning more gracefully than the best ballerina and even, to avoid one particularly vicious slice, vaulting over Rosamonde entirely in a perfect, fluid flip.

The dodging had not gotten her out of range entirely, not every time; several flesh wounds had blood dripping from them by the time she landed behind the Grey Elf, a perfect opening coming with Rosamonde's angered turn. It was risky, but Shara took the chance and lunged in, beating Rosamonde's blade away with one open-palmed swat while the other plunged straight towards - and ultimately into - the woman's chest.

There Shara unleashed another Ashar pulse, her eyes meeting Rosamonde's. The wrongs the woman had done since her turning could be forgiven, for this was not Rosamonde. This was not the Elf Manifest that all elvenkind had once looked up to. Drawing on the Heart with that understanding and forgiveness made the pulse of ashar into the Grey Elf's heart just that much more powerful, burning her from the inside out with silver flame.

Then she heard a laugh.

It was a cold, foreign feeling, having something else - some/one/ else - slide into your own body and take control. For a few moments Shara tried to fight it, again throwing up barriers and walls in an attempt to keep the bash tchelik out of her, but something deeper suggested that allowing it, at least for a time, was actually the wiser course of action. And so she did, lowering all the barriers she had attempted to create and giving Styrah the control she wished.

Shara, meanwhile, retreated deep into her own mind, into the mind of all those who had come before. It was from there that the suggestion had come, and it was there that she sought answers. There had to be a way to defeat this creature that had once been alive, and Shara intended to find it. Deeper she delved and deeper until she found memories that proved incredibly useful. Memories of the once-elf herself and the weakness that was also her created strength. The Phylactery.

A silver heart on a chain, a simple thing, almost laughably fragile. That was the key to it all. And with the aid of the discovered memories, Shara knew now exactly how to find it. Focusing her entire being, she flooded herself with ashar until she was overflowing. First her soul, then her heart, her mind, then her body, the latter glowing faintly silver with the amount of ashar pulsing through her very existence, purging the intruder from all aspects of her.

Without a pause, Shara drew on Styrah Rhee's own memories and powers, reaching out a hand as if to grasp something. Within moments the silver heart and chain she had seen in memories were there in her palm. Reaching out she grasped the Sword that remained upright in the ground nearby and pulled it free, casting the phylactery on the earth before her and swinging the Sword down like a blacksmith's hammer.

For a moment two powers warred, the Sword and its balance and boundaries against the phylactery and the power stored within it. Ultimately the Sword, with Shara's ashar behind it lending power to the blow, won out. The blade crushed the silver heart, pieces scattering in all directions.

And then she stood alone, shoulders straightening as the last echoes of Styrah Rhee faded into nothingness. One more battle fought. One more battle won, and two terrible generals destroyed. Time to move on...

...Kyel Ennasrion watched.

Wrapped around the Fuligin King were powers too intense for mortals to discern. The Pit's blasphemous energies pervaded him, looped about in strands that emanated from his flesh, his blood, his Name. Corrupted ashar, tainted Pit-black by some ancient rejection, emanated from the pommel of his sword, and that power meant that every strike with the blade would drain lifeforce from its victims and turn it into blasphemous energy to empower the King. His armor, his helmet, his mantle, they all were bound to corrupted Divine essence of such enormous might that it seemed multiple Divines had died to build them. And perhaps that was so. Also wrapped around the King were curses. Curses were a strange energy, poioumenonic but darker and separate. These curses, whose origins were completely obfuscated even unto the logos, brought yet more power to Harkan. Laced in were souls of his enemies (and a few former allies), souls corrupted by sacrilege and profanity.

But most of his power simply came from The Pit. Being near it meant he drew its strength. It was not direct, intentional. Blasphemy simply drew blasphemy. Were Harkan even a few miles further out, it would do him no good. But he remained here now, swathed in fuligin.

Thundering across the rocky region known as the Rim, the King rode a huge Pit-monster into battle with a wall of faith-destroying power around him. The effect was crippling to the Allied forces, neutralizing even some Mastered Gifts. His huge sword swept away warriors that would be revered as legendary in other circumstances. His armor deflected weapons that would defeat dragons, giants, and even gods. And his meancing presence made even the bravest among them weak with terror.

Kyel Ennasrion watched, studying his enemy intently...

...Solidity was an illusion. All things, no matter how hard they seemed, had some give. They were not solid. They were made of a billion tiny pieces, and those pieces could be moved.

Xiao could sense them. To him, a solid sword was merely a slow moving liquid, a compact flow that needed only encouragement. Attuned to the beat of his own heart, he was attuned to the movement of the particles in the world, or at least, in the world's metal. As he moved, so too did these particles.

Early on, he had learned that bone-swords were a problem. He had nearly lost his life, and he counted himself lucky it had only been his ear. He had requested a place in a new unit, a mobile unit that served as backup specifically to those facing the Fuligin Host. His commander had seen the wisdom of this and approved the transfer. In his first mission with them, he had shown his new comrades the basic katas of bai laihu xiao. Most of them did not have the mindset to conquer it, but two of them had managed to make the bits of iron and tin that he provided wiggle a bit. He took to training them in his arts, and they helped him out, to his surprise, by fashioning a rudimentary hearing horn for his missing ear.

The horn was long gone now. He had lost it during a fight during the long advance from the Worm-Scar to the rim. He had needed a weapon, and so he had shaped the steel horn into a series of razor edged darts. The Pit-monsters' eyes were vulnerable enough.

Now he was once more being called up. With the death of faith in this area, inexplicable in the presence of the Worm, his unit was being called on more and more. Most of them resorted to blades and magic, but Xiao had a skill that made a huge difference in the field. Somewhere the source of this faith-death would be found, and he suspected he might be called to take part. No other master of bai laihu xiao, that he knew of, could command the Pit-metal, and whatever caused this wave of Divine-weakness was, if not made of fuligin, surely guarded by it.

The call came.

His unit moved on foot, but they moved swiftly. The fight was not far, and as soon as they engaged, Xiao lost himself to the dance. Graceful and sweeping, his movements drew the fuligin metal blades and shields and armor away from the Harkanian forces and into the air around him. In a blur, they became ribbons of death, slashing and tearing the enemy with their own weapons. His unit gave him room to fight, focusing outside the range of his attacks. He rarely needed back up.

At the corner of his mind, he felt it. Something huge loomed up nearby, but in the fog of war, it remained unclear. Slowing his dance, he brought the wall of baal-steel to a humming orbit around himself and focused on this new threat.

And then the fuligin shields around him fell. Terror gripped him. His mind screamed in protest. His body failed him. His serenity in the midst of chaos fled. Before him was the King.

Once, twice, the King's sword fell, killing the sergeant and a skilled killer that served with Xiao. That loss snapped him out of the terror, or at least, enough so that he could fight. The King was a wall of fuligin metal; he was garbed in his own downfall. Xiao took the strongest stance he could and waited.

The King's hideous steed leapt before the Dabusenese warrior and roared. Xiao instinctively started to bow, and then his survival insticts kicked in. He rolled before the sword could strike him. Kipping up, he brought his legs around in a whirling kick. The movement would normally have ripped the plate and chain off of any opponent, but the King's panoply did not budge. A hideous rumble came from the towering menace, and Xiao realized the King was laughing. Aware enough to realize he had just seemingly kicked at thin air as far as the King could tell, Xiao ignored it and tried again, this time bringing his whole body into the dance.

There was a slight rattle as some of the links in the King's mail reacted. The King just watched; beneath his crowned helm, he seemed amused.

Xiao once more executed the white tiger's claw, the ancient art that drew the aether of metals into the qi of the living heart. Once more, he felt a slight pull, a fraction of his power landing upon the King's invincible array. A slight fraction, but enough. This time, the King realized what this little man was trying. With another laugh, he lunged forward, moving with the speed of inmortal rage, and brought down Godsbane. Xiao's last thought was of home...

...He had to rest sometime. At night, he rode raids into Allied camps, crushing their exhausted soldiers. During the day, he seemed to teleport from battle to battle with his cannibalistic Royal Guard in tow. But he was not always trackable, not always present. Faith returned to areas intermittently. He must be resting, Aleel'aqallah thought. It was possible he was letting his guard down, though she doubted it. Still, she had to find out.

The powers of the Tuth blade were strange. It remembered the many previous wielders, and from them, it gained many interesting abilities. One of them was the power to hone in on objects of value, and few things were worth more on this field than Harkan's own sword. The Iniseli Consequent similarly consulted powers from her ancestry, and using the two skills in conjunction, she began to focus in on his location. Slowly but surely, she tracked him through the course of several days.

His camp, it turned out, had no banners, no tents, no fortifications. He and his guard simply stopped, dismounted, and waited. Around noon, when the sun was highest, wherever they happened to be. They did not teleport; they simply moved with incredible speed. Aleel'aqallah had had to draw on the blade and her Consequence to keep up. She crept as close as she was able and watched. Harkan himself may or may not have slept; he sat, eyes open, and stared. This seemed to pass for rest for him. His guards did sleep, though, most of them, anyway. They took turns, a third sleeping each day. That left 40 active guards around the King at all times.

No poison she owned would kill these. The King did not seem to eat much, anyway, and she suspected he gained strength from fuligin itself. The desert kept him alive as much as The Pit did. A knife in the dark would not work; it was not dark and there were too many open eyes, the King's included. Esoteric means were limited. She had nothing as strong as the King. Her only option was retreat.

Slipping away in the broad daylight was not easy, but she was usually up to it. Today, however, she realized within moments something followed. A shadow fell over her as she carefully scrambled over rocky ground, and she looked up to see a winged member of the Royal Guard circling above. Damn. Her choices were to try to make a stand, try to hide, or try to outrun it. Drawing the speed of ancient Iniselis, she bolted.

She cleared a mile in a minute or so, but the flyer kept following, swooping low, then gliding up. Another mile passed and both gained speed. Another mile, and Aleel'aqallah sported with danger over the craggy ground. That's what she's waiting for.

Aleel'aqallah tumbled. Carefully, she rolled, making it look like she was hurt, making it look as if her leg had caught in the cracks. The Guard swooped down, and Aleel'aqallah drew her Obiefune-forged blade. The well timed blow knocked the Guard's talons aside and slashed deep into her chest. A spurt of fuligin blood caught Aleel'aqallah in the eyes, and she kicked hard to get away. Drawing sand from a satchel--pure, real sand--she dried her eyes and said a quiet prayer while the Guard struggled to stand. The cut was deep.

Then, the Guard shifted position, and her wings spread out as her arms woven the air. Aleel'aqallah felt the sword in her hands tug free and flow through the air. Bai laihu xiao. Where did she learn THAT?

Aleel'aqallah responded with her own martial art, drawing on ancient Iniseli masters. She did not control aether or magic or ashar; she simply struck with her bare hand. The blow, guided by intricate movements, hit with the force of a bullet, breaking the winged Guard's arm. The Tuth blade tumbled to the sands, too far away to be of use. The Guard hissed and lashed out, but Aleel'aqallah moved aside with ease, letting the energy of the strike pull the Guard off her feet. The Consequent then brought a foot down into the small of her enemy's back; the Guard recovered quickly, however, and used her great wings to batter the asssassin.

Rolling in the sand, Aleel'aqallah fought the pain and reached for a dagger. Coming up quickly, she slashed at the feathers, but the Guard was ready. She had turned and brought down her own foot, kicking the dagger away. She followed this with a punch that landed hard on Aleel'aqallah's face. The Iniseli felt her nose break and a tooth jar loose. Ignoring it, she returned the punch, this one to the Guard's gut. She saw the pain in fuligin eyes and knew she had scored. She followed this up with her elbow, which thanked the Guard for the broken nose. The Guard shook off the pain and opened her gaping maw, revealing fuligin fangs. Aleel'aqallah leapt back, dodging away from the impossibly sharp teeth. Kneeling, she grabbed a handful of her clean sand and waited, but the Guard didn't take the bait. She instead crouched and hissed.

The two circled.

A lunge here, a thrust there. A jab, a punch, a kick. They tested each other, slowly but surely, watching for an opening. Both bled. Both had incredible reserves. But the Guard's friends were closer, and Aleel'aqallah knew she had to find a way out. She took a chance. She pounced, a little too high, knowing full well the Guard would duck. Moving over the Guard with agility, she landed mere feet from her sword. Snatching it up, she spun in time. The Guard had used her wings to draw up a cloud of dust, but it wasn't enough to save her. She took the Tuth blade full in the heart...

...They felt the sweep of his power, but it held no sway.

The judges of Zurash marched over the sands of fuligin without pause. They had walked the entire length of the desert, and not once did they stop to rest. Once they reached the Rim, half went one way, half the other. Steadiily, they walked the circumference seeking ingress and battle. Carefully, they searched The Pit's edge. When the undead came, they balanced them with life and death. When the Harkanians came, they balanced them with Law and faith. With the Worms on their side now, they were greater still. Harkan's distant might did not yet hold power over them, even with his mantle on.

"Will he come this way?" Esca-Kael asked. In the old language, her name meant Queen-King, and her authority over the others was absolute.

Ghannim-Ghuannadh-Urrh responded, "No. He is not interested in us. His attentions are on The Queen."

"And Kyel Ennasrion," answered Jau-Iurlh-Mauhaad.

"And he believes us powerless," said Puaundur-Urrh-Themauk.

Esca-Kael paused, watched the distant battle, then turned back toward The Pit. "Then let us continue seeking the ingress..."

...The tunnel was shallow. They could go no deeper than about ten feet before the protections of The Pit were activated, so they kept things shallow. Khennarha had been making tunnels since First Shem, but this was the hardest he'd ever built. Fuligin fought him every step of the way, and the stress of it was taxing. He stopped to take a breath while the soldiers behind him worked to shore up what he had crafted. It was unnecessary, of course. Since the transformation, he instinctually crafted perfect tunnels. But these were old habits ingrained in dwarves, gnomes, and chthonians. A new tunnel was untrustworthy, especially one under sand.

The ground above rumbled, but Khennarha paid no heed even as his soldiers braced themselves. The tunnel would hold. He listened instead to the timbre of the world's vibrations. Cavalry. Very, very heavy cavalry. Pit-monsters, most likely, ridden by giants.

"Let's follow," he said. The soldiers of the Eighth Army agreed readily, and Khennarha pushed onward, looping around, down a little, up a little, back toward the rumble. He moved swiftly through the stone and earth, despite the difficulties of breaking fuligin rock. The others placed fewer braces as they moved, but it didn't matter. He was now moving up steadily, and sand was beginning to pour through. Soon, he was just under the surface, moving like a sandworm.

And then he burst forth, erupting with stone and sand in every direction. The shrapnel bounced harmlessly off fuligin plate and hide, and the great annelidan khardantal'has grasped the legs of a huge panthroid Pit-monster as he leapt. The maneuver proved fruitless. His momentum failed him as a huge, fuligin-gauntleted fist grabbed him. Lifting the large worm-like Aeonian up easily, Harkan the Black breathed a heavy hiss. Then, he squeezed, and Khennarha's form crumbled...

...She stalked through the battlefield. Around her, men and women fought with sword and shield, bow and gun, but she was a hunter who fought with fang and claw. She batted away Pit-monsters and ignored the Harkanian darts that struck her. At 30' in height, she was hardly concerned with their little barbs. Ewah, Cougar Manifest, sought bigger prey. he dreaded little king rode a beast that was almost big enough to worry about. Certainly, he and the beast had speed, cunning, strength. He would make a formidable opponent.

She idly swatted a Royal Guardsman away, noting with satisfaction that he hit the ground and did not get back up. A growl sent a few minor Harkanians fleeing her path. A quick snap and fling sent a Pit-monster hurling into the enemy ranks far away. And then, then she was upon him.

The King turned and said something in his own tongue. His Guards stepped aside, letting Ewah through. The King's mount backed slightly, noting her size. The two squared off, and then Ewah pounced. Many, many tons of muscle, bone, and rage landed upon the King, but he stood his ground, using one arm to hold back razor sharp fangs. His mount collapsed beneath them, but he ignored it, simply standing up and thrusting with his massive blade. The sword ran deep into Ewah's maw, and she snapped her teeth around it, tasting flesh and fuligin steel as she did. She pulled back, jerking the King's arm forward. She knew she had pulled it out of socket, but the flesh did not tear. He used his free arm to grab at her face, and with a powerful shove, he tore his own arm free.

She swallowed, letting the sword slide down her throat. It scraped a bit, but it did not harm her.

The King, his arm ragged and bleeding, was undaunted. He reached up, made sure his helmet was on tight, knelt, then jumped. Springing almost vertically, he rose up before Ewah's eyes, and she responded with a swipe of her claws. He grabbed her massive paw and held tight, and she roared and slammed him into the ground. With a jerk, he wrenched her right foreleg painfully, and she snapped her fangs at him. He kicked, shoved, and rolled loose, and she swung her other claw, batting him down. Again, he rolled, and this time, he came up and charged.

He again jumped, this time forward, hitting her with his density, knocking her back in a tackle. The two rolled over Harkanian and Allied forces alike, crushing and killing indiscriminately as they wrestled. Eventually, Harkan forced Ewah onto her back and jumped onto her belly. She brought up her rear claws and tried to rake him off, but he dodged, then placed both hands, palms down, over her stomach.

The sword responded. Ripping her entrails with it, it burst from her insides and back into Harkan's hands. Her shriek filled the air for a hundred miles around as she panicked, clawing desperately at the Pit-King. The blows would have slain behemoths, but he simply batted them back with his sword, drenched in her guts. He thrust it downward, ripping another hole in her before she rolled, throwing him. Her blood gushing out in a flood, she staggered and fought, claw and fang, ripping into the King as best she could as he strength left her. Each blow she landed was met with one of his own, and soon, the cold and the dark over took her...

...In fair summer, long ago, he came to her with flower and wine, dewdrop and honeyed cakes.

She was not new to being Queen then, but new to this world. He was the son of a powerful miro, a handsome sidhe lord who was certain to be one of this world's mightiest fey. The Queen liked him well enough, and his simple gifts pleased her. He had a strong voice, and when he hunted, he always brought her back some small trophy. She lingered in the early days to enjoy his company. The Sleeping King knew nothing of her pleasures here, and this noble of the wood was charming and kind and gentle, despite his rough lifestyle. It was he who named her Esaria (a portmanteau of two old words meaning "beauty" and "majesty"), and she who named him Jerus (for the Divine that patroned her here).

The first decade had been pleasant, long rides in the country and invigorating, long nights in bed. He would sing to her ballads older than Shem, and she would tell him of the Summer Country and the hills of Tir Na Og. Long ago, on First Shem, the continent of Fasune had been their home, when gods had warred and mortals had striven for their place. As time passed, Esaria grew accustomed to this world and its vast network of powers, and Jerus longed to see other realms. They quarreled, and he, not incorrectly, ajudged that she was neglecting her duties elsewhere in the realms of Faerie. She banished him to the woods, and to her bed, she took many lovers. That was when he gained his antlers.

Eventually, she called him back to her bed, and when he came, she teased him mercilessly about the antlers. He responded in rage, storming out, taking up willful banishment. For two hundred years, they lived apart. He rule the wood, she the valley. Their reconciliation came when, after a long tour of the Dream Realm, she returned to find him in grief. He, too, had taken a lover, and she had been that year's first victim of the Teind.

That night, The Queen took the King to her bed, and their lovemaking was a gentle reunification. For many more years, they ruled in peace, side by side, on Shem and beyond, moving back and forth between Summer Country, Dream Realm, and the many worlds where fey dwelled in the Waking Realm.

It had been on this continent, The Queen reflected, that they had ruled. Before Starfall was Starfall, it was Fasune, and on First Shem, it had been the feyhome, until she drew it back to the Dream Realm to protect it from the Wars of the Gods. That had been when she had met the Jack of Hearts, when the King had fallen in love with that Lover Priestess that traveled with him. That had been an awakening for Jerus that showed him that love need not be limited so. They had been good years, and in the Dream Realm, they had indulged in many lovers...

...Kyel Ennasrion found The Queen fascinating.

She was a faerie, and yet, she was so much more. She was not a Manifest; or not one that he recognized. She was so much more than that. She was, as far as he could tell, the poioumenonic equivalent of a logos. She was not an archos, a living story. She was not a miro, a living dream. She was quintessential, the primary vision, a dream of something fundamental. Womanhood, femininity, and more. She was neither matron nor whore, neither virgin nor crone. Yet she was all of those things, but not as a person. As an energy. She was living narrative energy, embodied in a nexus of all poioumenonic powers.

He knew she could feel it coming. A major shift. A change. A fundamental change. She would not avoid it. She would ride to it bravely, with grace and majesty. It waited for her in Harkan's shadow.

The First Army clashed with the Pit-King's Royal Guard on the morning of Fysirym 9. The Queensguard proved one of the most dangerous foes the Harkanian Royal Guard had faced, even after they had feasted upon the Cougar Manifest's strength. The Queensguard each rode at the crest of a poioumenonic wave that brought them victories, and the Royal Guard were unprepared for that manner of assault.

Like The Queen, Harkan was a vortex of powers. He rode at the edge of a massive network of energies crafted for the explicit protection of his person, which in turn had been recently crafted--just before the war--to network with the protective wards that kept the Allied forces on the ground. He seemed invincible, even unto himself. He took risks that paid off, because his power was so intricately tied to the surroundings that it would require more power than any had to dislodge him.

Save, perhaps, The Queen. And she knew it. Ennasrion could see her silent command take effect. The forces parted, clearing a path between her and Harkan...

...During the Eschatonic Wars, Jerus had distinguished himself as a hero in the eyes of mortals. This altered his story, and soon, he became a separate entity in the fey courts. The Queen did not mind; it allowed her more time to pursue her other interests, including other lovers. The two sometimes traded lovers in those days, but eventually, they found each other again. In the Time Between, they toured other worlds. For some reason, Shem had been home for longer than most, and eventually, when the Divines reformed it, The Queen and Jerus returned.

He had taken meeting his counterparts well enough, in the past and during the Time Between. Exclusivity was a long forgotten idea. Besides, more than once, they came to a world where his counterpart had died, and he in turn absorbed those worlds, becoming King over many realms. This gave him even more duties to attend, and his story altered more. In time, he seemed a stranger to The Queen, an amalgam of many she had loved, but so different. He still enjoyed his hunting; he still wore his antlers. But he was more than Jerus.

They grew apart for a time. It was not until the chaos of the Manifestation Wars that he truly returned to Shem, and by then, he seemed to have settled into a pleasant confluence of Kings. Besides her first husband, Jerus might well have grown to be her favorite. Certainly her favorite in a long time, since the stars were young and before the Rending. He had an open heart, a good nature, and a vitality to him. He was neither dour nor cruel. He could support her without seeking to overshadow, and he could serve in her absence if need be. Despite his changing, she once more found room for him in her heart...

...Her valet handed her something. To those watching below, it looked like he had handed over something small, but to Ennasrion's eyes, all of the glamours were revealed.

The valet had a spark of flux and paradox within, and Ennasrion knew him to be the trickster Robin Goodfellow. The object he handed over was not small, but invisible, the Obiefune-forged sword Unseen. The spark of paradox existed in it, too. Thus far, no Obiefune blade had been tested against Godsbane.

The Queen's gestures might have seemed strange to those who could not see the blade, but Ennasrion saw her raise the thin, razor sharp sword high and charge forward...

...During the Age of Mantles, the renaissance of the Seelie Nations meant the two of them, though they might wish it otherwise, spent more and more time apart, attending duties across the realms. The Queen perhaps saw him only a handful of times per year, and the business of the court meant that neither of them had much time for leisure. More and more, they sought their relaxation apart as well, given how rarely they both had free time when the other did. He went hunting quite a bit; she took to visiting distant parts of the realms. When the Age of Mantles ended, he thought they might have more time together, but she had taken up with a new lover, a much closer one than usual, on a distant world. He secluded himself in his hunting.

Eventually, Starfall happened, and the next War of the Gods on Shem occurred. During this upheaval, Lyrilla was formed and Tir Na Og shifted away from Fasune--now blasted to shreds and called Starfall. Esaria focused herself on the war, facing a Divine threat to her sovereignty. Jerus focused on running the Empire in those times. When it was over there came another period of bliss, when the two ruled together and shared a bed. For many centuries, they had been closer than ever, but time as it did pushed them apart as duties arose. The Fox Wars took her attentions while he focused on local politics. And then, the Red Master had arrived, and this new war...

...Their steeds rushed over the intervening space in seconds, and their swords came together with a ragged clang. At first, it seemed the Obiefune sword had survived. It was impossible for most observers to say, for The Queen's sword was aptly named. A second pass came as the two circled on their steeds, and their blades came together in a clash that proved the fuligin blade triumphant. The rasping clatter of breaking metal preceded the thin, impossible sword's appearance. The blade whirled off, bright white shrapnel slashing into the crowd, while the hilt remained in The Queen's hand.

Undeterred, she drew on her magical might. A bronze burst of light surrounded her, and lightning erupted in a torrent of light and heat, staving off his next attack. She followed this swiftly with a tapestry of raw dream energy, indigo and green light that she woven around herself, creating another barrier along with her exquisite empowered oneirium armor. Harkan arose from the scorched earth, smoke rising from him, the second steed dead in as many days. Enraged, he swung is blade, and The Queen reacted with another spell, this one matched with a cerulean aura, causing the sword to miss wide. She then seemed to split into three selves, each of which began to cast different spells.

Harkan whirled, swinging madly, disrupting the illusion of one of them. The Queen took advantage to send another spell his way, a black blast that send a wall of force over him, knocking him back and seeking to crush him. A gesture from him broke the spell's power, however, and before The Queen could send another, he swung and disrupted her second glamour. She managed another spell, a russet shimmer that brought with it a blade to her hands, a sword of strength and fey legend. She brought it up with skill and strength, but Harkan drew on more immediate sources. She proved too slow, and his blow was certain to bring her death.

And then the stag collided with the King.

Jerus, riding a massive fey stag with six sets of antlers, charged full tilt into the Pit-King, bringing to bear on him all the might of a hundred Faerie Kings. Wielding a lance cut from the World Tree itself, he sought to spear the Black Monarch through the heart. Instead, Harkan felt the lance through his shoulder, the antlers through his face and arms, and the weight of both fey king and stag atop him. They fell to the dust in a shower of bone and blood, and a moment later, Harkan twisted the antlers in his hands, snapping the stag's neck.

The Queen raised her sword again, moving to aid her husband. Harkan lashed out with Godsbane, in a single arc knocking The Queen back and bringing the sword around across Jerus's chest. The Queen screamed in rage, hurling herself at the Pit-King, bringing the fey sword down upon his already wounded shoulder. He roared, hurled her off, and staggered to his knees. In real pain for the first time since... since Starfall... he turned to flee. The faerie king stood up, bleeding, dying, and wielding the jagged remains of the World Tree lance. With the last of his strength, he cast the splintered shaft at Harkan's back. The Pit-King fell forward, the lance opening a deep wound in his side, but before any could react further, the Royal Guard pressed in and whisked him away, riding forth on swift Pit-monsters and snatching up their leader.

Jerus collapsed, and The Queen staggered to his side, weeping...

...The call of magic steadily drew her.

The spells The Queen cast were of enormous power, equal to the might Rindacsa felt now every day. Previously, she had only been vaguely aware of The Queen's magical skill, but witnessing it first hand, she knew it to be both impressive and primal. In the heat of battle, The Queen had not time to direct her energies effectively. Using her staff, Rindacsa had devised just the right set of spells, or so she hoped.

Azure magic would form the bonding base. Sienna magic would make up the most of the spell, but the vermilion Kizadhi spells would bolster its effectiveness in combat. Vesaritian magic would make it go straight to his Name, and Erewhonian and Cerulean magic would add layers of power and effectiveness, along with Wathite magic to make it even stronger. More than that should be unnecessary. If it failed to destroy him, more spheres would not be the solution. Her time with Nas--as a logos--had helped her think in terms of pure energy. She need not have an intended effect; with her power, she could just direct energy in its rawest forms.

With the Pit-King wounded, there was no better time. She took a horse to preserve her energy, and she rode toward the front. Behind her rode several vala'bran warriors and a few Iniselis who had taken up as her guards. She smiled to them and let them follow. They could keep off any distractions, if necessary. She rode behind the lines at first, then moved through them at just the right spot, letting her guards do most of the fighting. Coming to a small, short breach, she rushed through and then used one of her prepared enchantments to track Harkan. She needn't be too close, but the closer she got, the more power would hit him.

She managed to get much closer than expected. Her guards, nervous, had been asking her for over and hour to turn back, but she told them she was on a special mission. She came upon his actual tracks not long after that, and that made her nervous. She stopped, and then she began to draw the stored magic out, preparing the triggering spell. Azure glow, then sienna, then vermilion, then orange, then iridal and cerulean, then lead grey. The air thrummed with power, and her guards watched in awe as reality began to bend around her. The vala'bran with her wept at the beauty and might she drew in.

And then, the Royal Guard were upon them. The fight lasted long enough for the spell to cast, and the bright explosion of magical force rocked the world.

What the spell met, however, was unexpected. Instead of hitting the baal-black King's heart, the spell hit a wall of impenetrable energy, a vast, impossible matrix of Divinity corrupted into fuligin energy, of msawhat and curses and Names and souls and magic and poioumenon. The magical onslaught she subjected it to simply got absorbed, and then, Harkan arrived, Godsbane drawn, stronger than ever...

...Kyel Ennasrion watched his wife's spell, and he knew that what she cast was one of the strongest single spells ever cast on Shem. And he knew, too, it would not work. He reached out, ready to save her...

... Nas knew that it would have been so easy to fold space to send her away. Even with the anti-teleportation matrix, and the accompanying strain it brought him to overcome, it just made sense. It was as natural as walking. In a sense, his entire body was a space manipulation, and walking it through the desert was what seemed exhausting. He'd learned that it wasn't worth the energy to simply ignore it. And breaking it was out of the question as well. At least, from here, it was simply impractical. So he'd been planning more creative options.

One look at Harkan, however, and he knew not to bother this time. A tiny gesture, and he sent Harkan to the grey moon. He had been studying the energy matrix for weeks and it was an exact match to Harkan's, or more like it's mirror image, or it's chiral mirror. Harkan could slip through. Centuries of refinement made him that way. So Nas just gave him a nudge. He was back almost immediately, but Nas's intention wasn't to remove him from the fight, only to get his attention, and in this he had succeeded ...

...On the distant sruface of the moon, Harkan paused.

Unexpected. Harkan placed Godsbane's point in the ground. But well played.

Drawing in the aether around him, corrupting it into his own power, Harkan scratched a line on the ground. It split open, creating a gate. He stepped through, and he was back on the Fuligin Field, a mere mile from where he last stood. With a slash, he cut the connection between this world and the moon that he had created, sundering the gate. The release of power that created flowed directly into the King.

More. He thought. And more came. From all around The Pit, the King summoned power. Those freakish, unnatural Monsters that the Survivalsmith had drawn from Echidna. The souls of the dead. The void bomb wandering for a place to unleash. The plague crippling now both sides of the conflict. The mana from the Valhonian Consequent's rampage, and the void from the Vewelian's. The treasons and injustices. The curses. The Names. The forgotten dead of the Nullman. Gustav's released runes. Broken Gifts. Chaos of the Mouth. Echoes. Miracles. The Champion's Song. The many sacrifices.

They flowed.

Godsbane pulsed with the power from all over the field. The logos was focused on his wife; Harkan drew in the power, and he unleashed it in a wave...

... Nas had had a lot of time and opportunity to study blasphemy. It was the void to faith's mana, monochrome against a rainbow. There were many, many other energies available to him, even here. Faith would work well as a weapon, but make a poor shield. A better shield would be almost anything else. In general, in defense, the options are superior strength at the point of impact, or force applied deliberately to the attacking entity, to alter its attack in a way that prevents it from succeeding. In other words, a shield or a parry. A shield would be relatively expensive to construct out here, and it would be of little use later on. There was no guarantee that his next opponent would use the same weapon, and he didn't have the luxury of making a universal shield right now. It would have to be a parry. It would have to be his smarter force against Harkan's more reckless force. And it would have to be energy taken from the environment.

There was precious little energy here, to a mortal eye. Rindacsa's mana came from a bottomless well, but drawing too much, too fast could kill her. Harkan's own blasphemy was stronger and maybe even as limitless, but he couldn't be harmed by that. Space, time, and gravity (being a special case of space and time) were covered by the restriction matrix. So Nas ignited a fusion reaction between oxygen atoms in the air between Harkan and himself.

Astronomers called it the "oxygen-burning process", but it was a nuclear reaction, not a chemical one. It occurred naturally in stars that had already fused all of their lighter elements, one of many steps toward supernova and stellar death. He used a parcel of air the size of a golf ball, plenty to divert Harkan's attack, but not enough to stagger him. The blast was trivial to Nas - even the Trollfather wouldn't have flinched - but everyone else in the area felt it. An intense sudden heat, a shockwave, the smell of burnt sulphur as all the oxygen atoms fused into newborn sulphur atoms, which then immediately exploded, forming sulphur dioxide and then burning on the way (and this was a chemical reaction). Some onlookers believed that a demon had been summoned, but they did so on their backs, as only Nas and Harkan could withstand it ...

...Harkan lay in the sand, bleeding.

Godsbane was cracked.

King could sense the nearest people, all of them somehow whole. The logos' power contained the blast, somehow, leveling it only at one target. Me.

Harkan tried to stand and couldn't. His bones and muscles were universally broken. He had no strength left, no power. All of it, gone. He tried to speak, and blood rattled in his lungs. He coughed, and tried again. I hardly use them anyway.

"Bogquohep,"he managed. Around him, the world trembled.

Harkan sat up, feeling stronger. He spat blood and managed, "Eneya."

Shem shook, violently. Miles away, the edges of The Pit began to crumble. "Medfax."

People screamed in horror as the fuligin sands melted, turning into torrents of burning blasphemy. Around The Pit, the world /flowed/ toward it, liquid fuligin drawing the Allies and the Grey and the Fuligin into the oblivion of the Wound. "Fhrallta."

Harkan stood, stronger still. He felt death take most of them, and worse surrounded the unlucky. "Yuh."

"Inmek." The skies rippled as the blasphemous Names of the Gods of The Pit were unleashed. Harkan summoned their might, and the matrix of power flowed again around him. His armor reformed around him, and Godsbane reforged.

One more Name, and he would be once more the invincible Pit-King. He laughed as the Rim began to dissolve, eating hundreds of thousands of lives. "Millua'a..."

... Nas sensed the weakness in Harkan's stance. His attitude was different than in the battle up to this point. More defensive. Once or twice The Queen had cornered him like this for an instant, but the difference was steady. Had that tiny blast rattled him? Perhaps some tiny shred of civility could be salvaged here.

Harkan the Black, he intoned, echoing throughout the rim, In the Name of Mother Shem, and in accordance with the will of her denizens, you are bound by the Law of her Gods and Goddesses to stand down, to order your armies to surrender, and to relinquish all blasphemous powers and artifacts to be destroyed. You will then stand trial for your crimes and pay your debt to society. Otherwise, you will pay the ultimate price, here and now.

The king let him finish, smoldering with rage, and then gave his answer, charging the Logos with all his might, the shadow of his fuligin armor seeming darker than ever in the heat of Nas's oppressive light.

Throughout the battle, Nas had seemed impassive. Distant. Indifferent. To both armies, it seemed that he was an alien creature, here to watch, to menace, to do something terrible, and then to leave. It was mostly true, but while his body had been still, other parts of him had been quite busy. He still hadn't been present in his own galaxy, but his power there was such that he instinctively knew its shape, the names and dispositions of all who dwelled there - only Logoses at the moment, but they had much to offer him. At his request, they shared with him their own energies, which he channeled through the conduit of his bright avatar down to Shem. And he had asked other things of him. To visit other worlds that did have life, to share some tiny fragment of their own strength, whatever they could spare. Few agreed, but many in Shem's own Milky Way galaxy did.

So when Nas stood his ground against Harkan the Black, and when onlookers for miles around saw Harkan seem to attack a impossibly huge galaxy, that was in a very real sense what he was doing. That vision fueled the faith of thousands of allied soldiers, which in turn made Nas even stronger when he channeled all the faith available to him into a single knuckle, and planted that knuckle it in Harkan's chest, striking with the speed of a bullet and a force far greater than that of the nuclear reaction a moment earlier. There was no shockwave, no blast, no burst of light. It was a perfectly efficient attack, one Nas had been preparing for for a long time, and nothing was wasted. Harkan got everything. He was lifted into the air about six feet before crumpling into a fetal position on the ground. For the first time, Harkan seemed to need to breathe, and was unable to do so, as if organs he had not used for centuries had suddenly become very important.

"Wait," he rasped, raising a hand weakly to defend himself, black blood leaking from his mouth. But it was too late for any of that. His armor was cracked, and Nas wasn't confident enough to offer a third chance. Instead, he crouched down, peeled the rest of Harkan's armor off, tossed it aside, stripped him of his weapons and talismans, and then Nas began using his hands. First Harkan's limbs were broken, then his face smashed, and when the Logos stopped punching him, it was only to begin the strangulation. When the last bit of life left Harkan's body, Nas burned it. When his soul began to depart for its journey to the afterlife, Nas caught it, captured it, and bound it into the sword Godsbane, the dead king's black blood streaming down its length ...

...The reports flew in. Enemy lines were crumbling rapidly. Sweeping victories across the Rim. Thousands dead on both sides, but overwhelmingly since Harkan's death, it was the Grey and Fuligin armies in defeat. The Grey were rallying in pockets, but without Harkan's dominance, the Harkanians were breaking their alliance quickly. They didn't much like the undead either. It wouldn't become a matter of Allied and Fuligin against the Grey. Ghef'fhardim had given strict orders on that point. Anyone, anyone violating it would be brought up on charges. With the tacit approval of The Queen and Ennasrion, he knew he could back that up.

He turned to Maradir, "Is this what victory looks like?"

"We got them to The Pit. Victory rests in their hands now," the old fey replied.

The worm marshal sighed, and Maradir nodded. "You want to go down there with them."

"Too much to do up here," he responded. "I can't abandon my armies in hostile territory."

Maradir said, "It's odd to fight so hard to get here, then organize a retreat."

"All of this as cover for what amounts to an assassination," Ghef'fhardim said.

"It would not be the first such war," the general responded. "But you and I both know it was more than that."

Ghef'fhardim glanced at the activity of the camp, then back to Maradir. Watching the gathering of the dead, he sighed again. "Let's hope Mother Shem is grateful after all of this..."

...Mollin cringed.

The men and women gathered to watch were almost all known to him, but fortunately, he had not the leisure or reason to expose them. Ultimately, the why of his actions was obscured, but evidence suggested it was a matter of slaving debts. Edela did not care. He had betrayed the Seelie Empire, and for any reason at all, this meant death. She looked to the others gathered and nodded. They nodded in return. Nothing needed to be said; the apology in endangering them came in the form of what came next:

Edela stepped forward, walked behind Mollin, and wrapped a steel cable around his neck. The touch of it burrned Edela's hands, but she held it tight around his throat until the life choked out of him. When she was satisfied that he was dead, she released and stepped back. Speaking a charm, she ignited his body into indigo flames. The traitor burned.

Around the stinking fire, the other spymasters gathered in silence. Haniqa of Tara'hin wrapped her robes about her tightly, seeking to stave off the stench. Vessera of Evernorth gave no sign of discomfort, nor would she if she felt any. Ansley Mac Boon sat back a few paces, watching quietly. Fhedek'khim of the Iniseli slithered closer. Tobu of Obusingye, Aramek the Guardian, Lilette of Galdun, Lucrezia of Talune, Arjuna of Vimala, Bannat of Malhuin, Lucas Tove, Eneg of Tohoniuk, Ji'im of Fano, Marquim of Jenil, Tso-lung of Unbul, Itrius of Maraddon, She Who Watches Beneath of Stonedelve, Danikrim'karannos of Dunmarsh, Ari Riverkin, Pol Hyrase, Handsome Sam... To greater or lesser degrees, these were the master information gatherers in their ranks. Their best agents stood attendance with them, and most of these, Edela could not name, nor would she recognize them after this meeting, she knew.

"Well, we are gathered," Edela said. "Perhaps we should have the debriefing now."

Ji'im smiled, slightly, and his or her face (Edela had her guesses) rippled. "We shall coordinate reports, yes." His accent was a put-on, clearly fake, but crafted to mask his true voice, and crafted well.

"What have we discovered, truly, that we did not know before?" Aramek deamnded. The others ignored his gruff tone, for it was not masking his intention to hide as much as he could.

"Much. We learned much in the abandoned temple, and much more in the ranks of Fuligin," She Who Watches Beneath responded.

Lucas Tove said, "Less so from the Grey, but in a way, there was information to be gathered there."

Handsome Sam nodded, her grizzled old face creasing as she spoke, "I shall start. We learned that Lilith stole the Name of the World."

Bannat nodded, "Yes. And that she birthed the Worms of Law with the Arbiter."

"And that she had knowledge of Echidna that the Bone-Champion did not," Arjuna said.

Eneg said, "We learned that the Gods of The Pit are being used to fuel the power of The Pit."

Itrius said, "And that Harkan was a Kearin lord before Starfall."

Lucrezia said, "We knew that before."

"Well, it was confirmed here," Tso-lung replied, smoothing over the wrinkle.

"We learned that the Bash Tchelik King of Kael'Ras was raised as an echo," said Marquim.

"We verified that all echoes serving the enemy thus far came from the Age of Legends," Ari Riverkin put in.

"And that the World Tree is still actively fighting The Pit," Fhedek'khim said. "With some connection to the Red Master."

Vessera said, "We learned that Harkan learned how to wield energies not long before we approached."

"As a response to the logos," Danikrim'karannos said. "We suspect."

Haniqa nodded, "Did anyone find out how he learned it?"

A nameless agent from an agency Edela could not identify said, "From the Champion of Bones, or rather, the undead Arbiter via the Champion of Bones."

"Is that proven?" Edela asked.

The nameless agent said, "Verified through accepted interrogation tactics."

Edela nodded, then began her next fact...

...The bodies burned in a massive pyre. Around them, drinks were flowing. Paul sat and watched. He'd seen too much loss to celebrate such a victory, and he knew too well that it wasn't over, even if his part was done. He sipped a bit of cold water; in the desert, it tasted better than the best elven wine. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of celebration lull him.

He came awake not long after to a sudden embrace. Instinctually, he reached for his Staff, but as his mind became alert, a soft, familiar aroma alerted him to the fact that his "attacker" was Viollca. Her laugh smoothed his surprise, and he smiled and kissed her arms as they entangled him. For a quiet moment, the two let their affection glow between them. Viollca had changed little in the Ages since they met. Her hair still held its original color (a touch of grey here and there added some gravitas), and her face, when she smiled, made her look like a twentysomething. Without a smile, she seemed ageless, but a little older. Power emanated from her; as an archmage, she always seemed to draw in the world around her. Something about that much magical power in a soul left a mark.

"Matrim and Emily snuck into their tent when no one was looking," Viollca whispered.

Paul nodded, watching her closely, "It's been a long war. They need rest."

"Oh, yes. And I think you might have exerted yourself a bit, too," she replied, smiling impishly.

"I was just appreciating the lights," he said.

Viollca pulled him closer, "I think you need some rest."

"I don't feel that ti--" he cut off as she kissed him. As she paused for breath, he said, "You know, I could do with some rest..."

...The pyre was the size of a castle.

Ewah, the Cougar Manifest, burned. They had had to get dragons to set her ablaze, but she burned. It would have been nearly impossible to carry her back; her ashes would be distributed among the soldiers of Tohoniuk. Tecumseh watched the flames, and inwardly, he raged.

He said a silent prayer not to his own gods, but to his friend, "Poacher, if you watch, if you listen, heed me. Such wars are a waste. There is better we can accomplish, with guile and strength, than with butchery."

He got no reply; he never did. Not directly. But months later, when they hunted together, she would reference his thoughts. They would speak of strategy and plans, and he would come away with insights. She would perhaps gain something as well--he never was certain.

But he knew this: if she had been riding here, even she would have found this blasphemous foe distasteful...

...Raven helped Tam Lin up. He offered his hand, angled up. "That was some show, mate."

Tam Lin looked at the hand.

Ansley stepped up behind him. "Like this." She took Raven's hand and pulled him into an embrace. "That's how we do it." She offered her hand.

Tam Lin smiled, seizing her hand, and accepting her embrace.

"My man." Haystack offered the handshake next. Then Trace, with a nod, and Timojin with a wry smile.

"We snogged 'em off in true Inverray style!" Timojin gave Tam Lin a friendly shove as they parted. "You're alright, Tam Lin."

Gerrick, now tended by the healers, sat up in bed. "That was a bang-up job, laddies. We did the impossible."

"Shame we dinnae have any Glen Ray left."

Trace looked down.

Ansley took her hand.

"It's not fair." Trace looked away.

"It never is." Ansley gave her hand a squeeze. "His soul is safe. I had the priests see to them. We're gannae pipe 'em home as heroes. They willnae be forgotten. An' they're waitin' for us, with seventeen thousand who went before."

Trace sobbed. She nodded.

Raven patted Tam Lin on the shoulder. "Gerrick, he followed us home. Can we keep him?"

Tam Lin looked sad. "I...wish I could. I'm already in the service of the May Queen."

"So?" Gerrick shrugged. "Doesnae stop ye from bein' one of us."

Tam Lin smiled.

"I have a proposition for ye, laddie."

Tam Lin perked up. "If ye should find yerself in need of a place, ye come tae Inverray. I know a man, a Thane in Innesmoor who happens tae be descended of ma brother, who has more land than he ken what tae do with. He needs help. He's recently acquired the estate of Carterhaugh, but he has nae sons to help him. His wife died bearin' him only daughters."

"And you need a changeling prince to help him," Tam Lin guessed.

"Aye. Nae just for him, but it would give us a Troublemaker in Carterhaugh, someone we trust. Ye'd be doin' both of us a favor." Gerrick shrugged. "Just a thought."

Tam Lin nodded. "I could do it, if I could be guaranteed that the May Queen would always be welcome in Carterhaugh."

Gerrick smiled. "Aye. That we can do..."

...Sulfur and Hasulakh fought together. For such opposite souls, they worked together flawlessly. There seemed to be a connection between them that made them almost like the one person they once were.

"Admit it. You're hot for her."

Sulfur blushed. "Don't talk that way about Inelle. She's been through a lot, and our relationship is complicated."

"Ha. Look at you being all respectful and shit. Just show her the sausage, she can choose to take a bite or not. Worst that can happen is she tells you to fuck off."

Sulfur looked horrified. "I will do no such thing! Inelle Schiell is a highly skilled doctor with a unique skill-set. She has earned respect."

"And what are we? Stale crackers?"

"Respect is earned, and I haven't earned it!"

"Well I have." Hasulakh glared. "And you know what else? It's gonna be a kick in the balls to you if she chooses me over you because you got self-esteem issues."

"Come on, me, be reasonable. In what world are you--in what world am I even close to what she wants?"

"You don't know," Hasulakh said, "because you won't ask. You're a pussy. You roll over before the battle's even started. But you know what? I will ask." He walked off.

"You insult her, I will fill you with pie!"

"Try it, shortstack!" Hasulakh walked up to Prax and stared up at him. "Wow. I am the foulest tempered thing this side of The Pit, and for some reason, I still like you." He slapped Prax on the flank. "Okay guys, line up! The fun's just gettin' started! Roll call! Who's here!"

Sulfur sighed. To Prax he said, "Don't mind him. He's having a bad hair life. How'd you make out, pal?"

Prax blinked. "Aparently only half as well as you did. Literally."

Sulfur nodded. "It's good to see you."

Prax nodded. "and likewise, it is good to see...both of you."

Sulfur laughed.

Inelle jogged up. "Mudpie!"

Both of him looked up. She jogged to a stop, staring in confusion.

Hasulakh walked up with a serious expression. "That was quick thinkin', doc. You're the best in a tight spot. You sure you don't have any ammoniac hunter in ya?"

Inelle grinned a bit in spite of herself. "I'm not quite short enough."

Sulfur blushed. "Oh no. Don't you say it."

Hasulakh smirked. "You want some?"

Sulfur grabbed him by the ear, blushing furiously. "Sorry. I'll take care of him."

Inelle watched them go, an indeterminate expression on her Kerupene face. Prax looked at her and laughed quietly.

Inelle sighed. "Shut up." She walked on...

...He ducked and roughed the body, looking for something.

He rifled through pouches, pockets, and belts. Small bits of jewelry vanished into his pockets, coins, papers, odd artifacts slipped out of dead hands and bags, into his idly nimble fingers. But they weren't what he was looking for. Fuligin knives, spearheads, and small, sharp objects were what he sought. Many, many of them.

Cork had waited, perhaps too long, to start gathering. It would have been inconvenient to pick them up and carry them for miles, but now, he had a need. Spikes. Something sharp enough to jab into the rock wall.

They had a long, dark climb ahead of them...

...His mind flickered through the two heroes'. The judge was what she seemed, but the demonslayer was certainly an echo. See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil smiled at the knowledge, but said nothing. He simply watched as they approached the edge of the Rim.

"M'lady, are you certain this is the path?" Alan Caer asked.

Na'Amah looked down the treacherous steep, "I can sense His presence. This is the way he was drawn in."

"Then so be it. We shall continue to follow your faith," the paladin answered.

"I can be of some service," the Cultist sent into their minds. Both of them turned in surprise.

"I apologize for the intrusion. I have been seeking a way in. I feel I can be useful to you," he projected.

Na'Amah considered him, and he knew she was using her faith to analyze him. He did not flinch. She frowned, then turned to Alan. "I know you won't like it, but he's the Balance I spoke of..."

...The four women stood on the edge.

sykri held her rat, Unati, in her arms. Her senses were entirely based on emotional resonance, and therefore, she did not need to look at him. She simply expressed through empathic channels her command. He leapt down, then scurried off toward a safe wagon. He would not be useful in The Pit. Beside her, Polyhymnia held tightly the sword she had captured from the grey saint. It emanated the certainty of death, and sykri knew that its power was great in her comrades hands. Maagu knelt and prayed, seeking a final piece of guidance. Her faith was always searching, angry, and on the verge of desperation, but it was deep and profound. That left, Tour, the youngest, the girl-child whose power surpassed that of all the others. Her command of the mysteries of the Gates was such that she resonated in sykri's senses as utter, complete calm.

Together, they bore the Name. If the Elf Incarnate or the Silver Messiah failed, they would succeed. The undead abominations would not be allowed to continue...

Breginthresh 25 / Fysirym 11, 1003:

Mudpie(s), Prax, Da'sabash, Nas, Rindacsa and a few dozen others gather at the Rim a short distance from the ingress discovered by the judges of Zurash. It's a narrow ledge that gently slopes down to a flat, wide balcony of fuligin stone that ends in a finely cut stair. With you at the ingress are Wactawa, Lamaera, Cork, Ybraulk, Thannas (holding a silver bunny rabbit), Tam Lin, the Erlking, Aleel'aqallah, Vessera, Katha'ane, Khal'maqua (around Da'sabash's shoulders, as usual), Daenil, Endhathef, Noinalla, the Hunters, 'Anamel, Kohae'nuadhakiero, Jheshemirath, Sewael, Rodaxana, and the Dollmaker.

"Where are the judges?" Cork asks, nervously glancing around. Something about the Zurashis made the sandy-haired young thief nervous. His slender form and non-descript clothing seemed to suggest to any onlookers to look elsewhere. He did not seem /shady/. Just dull. His eyes took a furtive cast as he subtly scanned the area. About him, Nas, you sense ambrosia (pure Divine energy) in two forms. One is common, and you recognize that he's carrying a Gift (Mastered, it seems, to Entropy, which is ever present around him). The other is strange, raw, and focused. You don't know what he carries that is a religious artifact, but whatever it is, it's immensely powerful. Da'sabash, the boy is adroit and intelligent, but he has no harm in his heart for you or your allies. Rindacsa, he does not seem especially magical. Shara, his lifespark is moderate, normal. Prax, his story is familiar to you, of course. Mudpie, you sense the same energies around him that Nas does, but you recognize the second source of ambrosia to be the numen.

"They already began their descent," Wactawa answers. Her dewlap quivers as she speaks, glistening with platinum light. As she turns her head, the spines on her back wave with the motion, emanating similar energies. Upon her brow, a yellow spot of scales gleams. Throughout her being, green, orange, and platinum light shimmers. Da'sabash, from her you sense not merely a lack of antagonism, but outright peace and care, compassion. Shara, her ashar level is above normal, but not equal to the Last Elves'. Rindacsa, she has power within her, but it's not particularly magical. Nas, Mudpie, she is a fount of Elysian energies and radiance, but this is hardly a surprise, for her title is Warden of Miracle. Prax, her familiar tale is a thing of beauty, as it begins in sorrow then spikes into moments of wonder after her Mastery.

The massive blackfang troll Ybraulk walks up next to Cork and leans down, whispering to him. Ybraulk's aura is menacing, and Da'sabash, you sense that he is on the verge of violence at all times. He's simply holding it back, leashing it. You realize that he has a certain protectiveness about him for a few of the people here--Cork, Prax, Wactawa, Mudpie. He's not going to lash out at you, unless you threaten them. If you do... Well, you are confident of your abilities as a warrior, Da'sabash, but this troll has some sort of strength within him that might give you pause. Rindacsa, there's potential for magic within him, but he's ignoring it. You realize it's coming from his Gift in a way, his Gifted Mail, black as onyx. He's a Consequent, but only because his Gift gives him that power. His race is still very much alive. Shara, you sense no ashar within him, but you realize that that's because the Gift wrapped about him is blocking your senses. It is a thing of Death. Prax, the story he bears is long and simple, and one you're well aware of. Mudpie, Nas, from Ybraulk there comes a sense of might, of raw power. He is shebvic in power, mostly, and Mudpie, you know that came from the Sons of Shem. His Gift is ambrosial and shebvic, Mastered to the hunters within it. His spear is apparently partly paradoxical, and might be forged by Obiefune or his apprentice.

The thief-prince nods and gestures, and three other men arrive as if from shadows. Two are old thieves, one shemir, one... probably human. The other looks human, but seems bent and slightly crazed. All are slender and lithe. Doholom is one, the old, black-skinned shemir. Louis Mansel is the crazed one; the Seeker of Paradox. The other is unknown to you all, even Prax and Mudpie, and Cork makes no effort to introduce any of them. Da'sabash, you sense the two thieves are slightly menacing, and though they have no intention of harming you at the moment, that could change with a whim. The shemir is skilled but not particularly violent; the other, nameless one is a full mystery, and his potential for violence is vast. At the moment, merely at the moment, both are calm and unlikely to attack. The Seeker is... unreadable, erratic. Rindacsa, Doholom has a little bit of magic in him, and you realize he's a minor spellcaster. The other two you genuinely can't read, which says a lot about them. Shara, they all have average, normal amounts of ashar, unremarkable. Prax, the stories borne by each are strange. Doholom's stretches back to First Shem, and you realize he's one of the very first thieves the world ever had. The Seeker's story is repetitive and recursive, a loop that slightly bends each time. And the other man's story is completely masked. Mudpie, Prax, from each of these figures you sense a subtle infernal power, nothing truly momentous. Just a hint of evil energies. Doholom is also Foundational, being a shemir. Louis and the stranger both, however, has sparks of paradox within them. Louis's is uncontrolled and wild, and this is a result of his life in a weird time loop. The other man's is reined in, and the meaning of that is clear: he's a samfie of some kind.

They say nothing; they merely gather behind Cork.

Wactawa ignores them and speaks to Lamaera, "Did the last of them get onto the wagons?"

Lamaera, Duillial Manifest and skilled healer, smiled warmly at the iguanawoman shaman. Small and rose pink in skin-tone, she has the look of a nymph or dryad, but the patches of tree-bark on her face and arms, the fact that her hair is a glorious mound of bright green leaves, and her eyes are pockets of green light, reveals her to be something different. Da'sabash, the warm familiarity of Lamaera has not changed; she only wants to help and heal. Shara, her ashar is magnified by the Name within and the Manifesthood she bears. She is fecund and great in life. Rindacsa, she has always had the spark of potential magic within her, but she's not tapped into it. One day, perhaps. Prax, her story is one of the simpler tales among the Last Elves. Mother issues forced her down a path to healing, and healing brought her to the Chanting of the Name, the event that began the Elven Quest for Salvation. She spoke the Name of the Silver Mother, and she became a Last Elf. Her role has ever been as tree-shepherd and healer, and when her race--the Arboreal elves--were evolved, she became the Manifest of the new race. Mudpie, Nas, Lamaera is a potent mixture of greenlight aether--the power over plants--and ashar (or what they call qi in Dabusen, Mudpie). She says, "Yes. All of the wounded are on their way back."

Thannas smiles at both of them. The three worked the medic tents during the war, and they formed a small bond. The young Ailanean elven lord's silvery skin is unusual for his kind, but not surprising. As the Silver Fisher King Reborn, he is almost ashar incarnate. Da'sabash, you sense no violence in him and, indeed, nothing but life-granting peace and comfort come from him. Rindacsa, he is powerful but not magical. Shara, in his arms you rest at the moment, in your bunny form, ignorant to all but the lifesparks around you. Thannas is brighter and warmer than the sun. Prax, his story is strange. He seems to have no beginning, and the end of his tale comes in the middle, when he died. He is born again, anew, in a silver aura, and from him comes the power of miracle and life. Mudpie, Nas, Thannas is the most potent source of energy besides The Pit itself that you have /ever/ sensed. Stronger than the Sons of Shem. Stronger than other logoses. He is Elysian energy and ashar (qi) blended into perfect union, and the only thing keeping him from reshaping the world in his own image seems to be his own refusal to embrace his non-mortality.

The rabbit is clearly more than a rabbit. Da'sabash, you're aware of Shara's predicament, and in rabbit form, she's no more hostile than out of it. Rindacsa, you sense no magical skill within her. Prax, her story is strange. She is an elf--the most quintessential elf there is--raised in a human environment. She lacks every bit of elven cutlure possible, but yet, she is the nexus of it now, mystically induced by Gift Mastery. She is the crux of breaking their curse--which might well become moot. She is fated to either slay the world's most powerful undead or revive the Mother of Life (Thannas will do what she does not). And she suffers from many traumas in her past. She is nestled in Thannas's arms. He scratches the bunny's ears and says, We now move on to a greater patient. He pauses, then turns to Mudpie, Your companion, Dr. Schiel, was a truly gifted healer. I am pleased she agreed to lead the wounded wagons back. She will take close care of them.

Before Mudpie can respond, the Erlking says, dryly, "It only took, what, half a year for her to come around?" He smiled easily, and the dark hair falling about his shoulders seems to reflect the indigo of his eyes and his armor. His face is fair and handsome, but there's always a touch of sadness to it, even in his warm smile. Da'sabash, you sense echoes of violence about him, but in the present, he is a respectful and charming soul that only resorts of the violence during a hunt, and then only out of necessity. Rindacsa, he is poioumenonic, which resonates with your magical senses, but he is no mage. Shara, you sense a slightly stronger pulse of ashar within him than average. Prax, his story is so intricate and ancient and wrapped up with your own that at times, it's hard to tell which thread is his and which is yours among the recent tales. Mudpie, Nas, around him is dream energy and poioumenon most ancient and powerful.

Beside him, a fair-haired young fey prince laughs. He is slender, and at this side he wears a Gifted Sword. His green and white clothing is tattered with the travails of war, but there is finery still visible there. Da'sabash can sense in him an easiness of nature and a core of hardened steel. He is the Erlking's gentler brother in temperament, ready and able to fight, but not always willing, and touched by sadness. Rindacsa, he feels like the Erlking to you as well, poioumenonic but not magical, and Shara, he has the same, similar level and nature of ashar. They aren't interchangeable, but they are closely fashioned from their tales. Prax, his story, of times with the May Queen, of imprisonment, of his mixed fey and mortal nature, and of his recent understanding of brotherhood are all clear and familiar to you. Mudpie, Nas, he too is poioumenonic, but the dream energy within him is less than that of the Erlking's. He also has ambrosia and arnum rising from his Gifted Sword. He says, "You weren't even around when they met her!"

"Neither were you, but we've both heard the stories," the Erling returns. Before their banter could escalate, the Dollmaker intrudes. The old, strange fey is wrapped in cloth and obscured. About him tiny dolls dance and jingle, but there's a menace to them. This one is less friendly, Da'sabash, and the dolls about him are alive, enslaved, hungry for blood. He is not /evil/, exactly, but so alien, so fey that his standards are skewed. His loyalty is to the Hunt, and he bears with him memories of darker times. He would enslave you with barely an excuse, but he's smart enough not to try it with your friends around... and as long as you pose no threat. That said, you think you could take him if it came to that. Rindacsa, there's poioumenon and magic within him, ancient and dangerous. Shara, his ashar is strange but powerful. Prax, you've come to know his odd, dark tale a little, but he keeps it to himself as best he can. He is a being of secrets and manipulations. Mudpie, Nas, he is poioumenonic, and he bears deep wells of dream energy, but he also has infernum, arcanum, and arnum within him.

He interrupts, "Enough you two. We have better things to attend before we descend."

For once, the two old campaigners accede to his interjections and begin helping the remaining Hunters prepare. With the loss of both Aisling and Mara, the Hunters now number ten. Mudpie, Nas, poioumenon and dream energy pervade them all, and each has a little bit of some other energy: shebv heya, mostly; some ashar, some arcanum, a few other, stranger ones, like Foundation. They are individuals, but they are tightly knit. Da'sabash, their loytalty to the Red Master, Prax, is the hinge of their intentions. If he is endangered, they will fight for him. Shara, they are longlived but otherwise normal in ashar. Rindacsa, a few of them use magic, but most don't. Prax, their stories are a constant mantle about you. They are a crew mixed in appearnce, save for the antlers or horns upon their brows.

As they prepare, Aleel'aqallah says, "I have seen other ways down, though without a stair. Will we all be taking this one path?" Her tone was dry and harsh, but she did not give off antagonism in her slender, elven body. Golden skinned, dark haired, she was Iniseli, the embodiment of their race, now its bearer of Consequence. On her back hung a great sword, but it was a distraction from the many knives hidden on her person, lost in her loose but carefully controlled desert robes. Da'sabash, she feels the same as the day you met her, coiled to strike but fiercely loyal. Only now, her loyalty is split between Shara and you. She never did really accept Nas as a leader save as de facto due to Shara's strange journey. Rindacsa, she has the magic all Consequents bear, that of their people, and she actively engages some of it to her advantage. Shara, she has slightly low ashar due to being a Consequent. Prax, her story is one of rising from orphanage to elite assassin to loyal blade of greater and greater women. She bears the history of her people in her mind and soul now, the very last of her kind. Mudpie, Nas, she is radiant but tempered by a hard life in the desert, shebvic and harsh. Her sword, being Obiefune-forged, has a spark of paradox within it.

"There are precisely eight paths," said Rodaxana. His humble form is very close to his original Stonedelver elven form, but he is slightly smaller, and his skin is craggier and more silver in hue. His voice is softer, gentler than the harsh stone-on-stone rasp of Stonedelve. He is a khardantal'has now, and his power seems to derive from his service to Thannas, to whom he remains close. Still, his knowledge of the subterra is without reproach. If he says there are eight paths down, there are eight paths down. Always in the shadows, always behind the powers that be, he has no sense of self anymore now that he is a khardantal'has, Da'sabash, for his idiom seems to be complete subservience to Thannas. He poses no threat to anyone not threatening the Messiah. Rindacsa, his power is non-magical, whatever it is. Shara, his ashar is as strong as any bearer of Her Name. Prax, his story is sadder than you expected: his parents died of the sickness that killed so many elves; he worked hard to bring air and life to his people; he was sent above with a delegation and got Chosen as a Last Elf; he began to come out of his shell and form friendships; and the day he became an Apostle to Thannas, he let everything else go. He is subsumed by his service to the Silver Fisher King. it overwhelmed him. At evolution, he became an Aeonian known as a khardantal'has, or the embodiment of some aspect of the beneath, the underpinnings, the cavernous below. As an Apostle, he became the embodiment of service to a Messiah. Mudpie, Nas, his is Elysian because of this, and ashar because of his role as a Last Elf, and aetheric because of his origins as a Stonedelver.

In answer, Khal'maqua, draped about the neck of her sister, wearing the form of a giant worm with an Iniseli face, says, "Almost all of us will take this path. It will branch off below, and then we will decide on splitting. Only the thieves have their own path to take." Her deep eyes were dark pits of prophecy, and her statements rang with certainty. So bound up with Da'sabash is she that the two do not sense each other's intentions so much as feel them themselves. If Khal'maqua ever had ill feeling for her sister or the Last Elves, it would mean Da'sabash did as well. Rindacsa, she is not a mage, but a seer, and you cannot sense her other powers. Shara, she has the ashar of a Last Elf, a bearer of the Name. Prax, her story is that of a twin sister, twin to Da'sabash. Though they had independent paths, they have come together even more powerfully upon becoming shared Manifests of the new race, the hul'tessaq, the sandworm folk. She is a seer, and her story is more firmly set than most. Mudpie, Prax, she is radiance, shebv heya, and a touch of paradox, as all seers are, but she is breeming with ashar (qi), due to her Manifesthood and the Name of the Silver Mother.

The thieves make no response, and after a pause, 'Anamel says, "I saw two other groups go down different paths already. Them weird Death-worshippers and an odd trio. One was Riverkin, one was that mad leader of the Mouthists, and one was that fella with the great big sword." The Windkeep Elf Consequent is a little older, slightly shorter, and much more ornergy than your average Windkeep Elf. She has wispy grey hair and a face like crinkled paper, but she isn't as old as she looks. Most of that is the weathering of years as a mercenary. She is ever-practical, and her vicious streak is directed entirely away from the Last Elves, toward their enemies, Da'sabash. Rindacsa, she has tapped very little magic from her Consequence. Shara, she feels like a Consequent, with slightly lowered (for an elf) ashar. Prax, her story is a long one of wars fought in far off lands, of loving the freedom of wandering, of enjoying the wind when she could, and of mixing practicality and impulse with measure. She is Consequent, last of her kind, by choice. The rest became sylphs, beings of the winds. Nas, Mudpie, she is a being of winds aether, of ashar and shebv heya, and of yearning for freedom.

Jhseshemirath nods, "That odd trio seems to have been involved in a lot of tales themselves. I hear they lost two of their own in the war here. They helped with the Vulpine Nexus in the Collective Subconscious, and they were instrumental in breaking the Alliance of Twenty's power in Jesenya before the end." The Elder Elven Consequent had grown young in the ceremony that transformed him, and his neat brown beard stood out as strange on an elf of such young years. His tawny hair was long and bushy, unkempt but not in a wild manner. Merely a neglectful one. He had a deep frown at all times, and his eyes bore many histories. Da'sabash, his previous betrayals were long forgotten, and he now had seen so many elves transform that elvenness no longer determined his loyalty. He was an Apostle and a Last Elf. Rindacsa, he bore some magic from his Consequence, and he used it well. Shara, he had a strong level of ashar for a Consequent, for he also had the Name of the Silver Mother. Prax, his story is a longer one than most elves. He was an astronomer, a recorder of vast, cosmic histories, and a deep traditionalist. He became a Last Elf seemingly by accident, having only visited the Silverwood to take advantage of its tall trees for viewing the stars. His tradionalist beliefs lead him to betray them after some dark accidents left their leader seeming un-elven to him, but the strange journey they followed after that brought him back to the fold. Mudpie, Nas, he bears ashar and Elysian energy, as well as temporal aether.

Sewael, Bright Elf Consequent, frowns as well. "The man with the sword is a legendary demonslayer, Alan Caer. Perhaps he will be of aid below." Her golden white hair seemed to be made of flame in the morning sun, and her rich golden skin glistened. Her armor, white as cloud and snow, gleamed almost as intensely as the holy sword she wore. Tall and proud, the last of the Bright elves had gravity and sorrow around her. Da'sabash, she is righteousness elvenified, and she has no ill intent for any that do not threaten the meek or mild. She watches the thieves, Ybraulk, Vessera, and Endhathef warily, but she is not outright hostile. She seems to have mixed feelings about Aleel'aqallah, but there is trust there. Rindacsa, she has the magic all Consequents have access to, but she is stingy with it, not trusting anything not outwardly blessed by her Goddess. Shara, she has the low ashar of a Consequent. Prax, her story is old and sad, as she did not choose Consequence. Her people died without her, and she, a legend among them, survived without her closest sister even to keep her company. Her only goal now is to complete this mad quest, then go and revive her people as something new and beautiful and holy. She is the first ever Defensatrix Fidei, given power by the Mountain of Trials to defend an entire Pantheon (Alabaster Shield, Defender of the Weak). Mudpie, Nas, she is heghnic and heavenly, protection and purity, with a touch of ashar and shebvh heya.

"I know that name of old. Is he named for the demonslayer from First Shem?" Daenil asks. Last of the Dwonnic Elves, Daenil is dark of skin and hair, but touched with silver and white light throughout. Within him, Da'sabash, are those that would kill you all, but he has them well under control, beaten back by his Apostlehood. Rindacsa, he dares not tap them for magic. Shara, he is of normal Consequent level of ashar. Prax, his story is painful. A mild fisherman in his day, he left his people after too many deaths from the sickness around him left him without anyone. He was always milder and kinder than any of his race, anyway, and he never fit in. When he became a Last Elf, he became an unlikely leader among them until he agreed to be Consequent of his race. Bearing every Dwonnic Elf that ever lived within him was a great burden, but the trouble was that the Webweaver himself had once been a Dwonnic Elf. Daenil was consumed into shadow, and if it had not been for a miracle granted by the power of the Messiah of Silver, he would still be there. Now, he is Thannas's most active Apostle. Mudpie, Nas, he has infernum and shadow locked away within him behind a prison of Elysian energy and ashar.

Endhathef, Consequent of the Vewelian Elves, shakes his head, "I actually think him to be an echo of that man. The Riverking judge with him made reference to it." His skin was jet black, and his hair was thinning out. The long months of this journey had left him balding. He wore simple, neat clothing that clashed with his voiddark dermis. Like Daenil, he bore within him those of his kind that wished ill on all around, especially Rindacsa, but he had them under control, as Da'sabash could sense. Rindacsa felt an odd sense from him, as within his void was indeed an odd spark of magic. But mostly, he was a great oblivion where no magic could be. Shara, his ashar was very much lower than most due to his Consequence. Prax, his story is one of struggle, and he, too, did not choose his Consequence. Indeed, though he was a Last Elf, his people chose to exclude /him/ from their grand plan. They became robotic and hive minded, and he became the Consequent when they killed the last that refused to join them. Mudpie, Nas, he is deep void and powerful with it, but there's also ashar and Elysian power due to his Apostlehood and the Name of the Mother.

"It looks like everyone is here. What are we waiting on?" Noinalla, the Ysian Manifest asks. Her strange, blue body glistened with water, mystically wrapped about her to protect her from the air and sun. Her hair streamed behind her like waves as she moved. The quiet Kesanese had long walked with the Last Elves, spending most of her time bringing soothe and comfort to the sick while the others investigated and fought their enemies. Da'sabash felt no reserves of animosity in her whatsoever, nor had she ever done so, save a few spare moments beneath the waves as she struggled for her rightful place. Rindacsa, she is non-magical, but there is power around her. Shara, her role as Last Elf and Manifest makes her, too, a powerful source of ashar. Prax, her story is one of being in the shadow of others, of following greater elves into dangerous situations, and of surviving and helping those she could. She is a healer and a mystic. Mudpie, Nas, she is ashar and currents aether in vast amounts, and she bears a Gift that is lunar aether as well.

The sharp, cold voice of Vessera, the Evernorth Elven Consequent, responds, "We wait for Ghef'fhardim." Her ice-blue skin seems stained with a reddish hue here in the hot sun, and you realize she is sunburnt. She seems to not be discomfitted by it, but remains impassive. She feels neither compassion nor disdain for any around her, Da'sabash, and her intentions remain unreadable. Still, she has proven loyal all these months. She has some magic within, Rindacsa, but she uses it sparingly. Shara, her lifespark is lower, typical of Consequents. Prax, her story is long and full of intrigues. She is a legend, or was a legend, among her kind, and now she is the last of them, a political genius to the end. Mudpie, Nas, she is brumal aether, hoary msawhat, and other dark energies masked by the shebv heya and a touch of ashar (qi).

"I did not know he would be coming," growled the Lemurian Manifest, Kohae'nuadhakiero. His ochre fur and heavy mane dripped sweat in the high heat, but he seemed unfazed. Stretching slightly, he shook the sweat off his long, sleek, stooped body. Since his transformation, Da'sabash, there has been an animal intensity within him, but no antagonism whatsoever toward any Last Elf. He has no magical powers, only aether, Rindacsa. Shara, he is powerful with ashar, like any Name-bearing Manifest. Prax, his story is that of one who once was a simple gatherer, not even a warrior or hunter in his tribe, rising to be the leader of his entire people. He is observant and strange. Mudpie, Nas, he is bestial aether and asahr.

"I will not be going into The Pit," Ghef'fhardim answers as he arrives. Bursting with sol angelic aether, ashar, and shebv heya, the Marshal of the Allied Forces stops and bows to you all. He pauses and salutes Da'sabash and Katha'ane (whose Gifted Armor is mastered to pattern aether, whose story is one of undying love for his nation and his friend Da'sabash). Ghef'fhardim looks to Nas and says, "Break this protective snare as quickly as you can when you get in there, and I'll start flying and teleporting everyone out."