Daneera walked.

She did not walk through the boundless æther that surrounded the worlds, nor did she walk through any of the countless, unknown planes of the Multiverse, wandering, exploring, dueling those of her kind that refused to pass in friendship. No, Daneera walked in silence through a tranquil glen she had walked many times before. This was a magical place, a place where even the beasts and the birds hesitated to come without the consent of the deepest forces of nature this plane could wield. This was a place of meditation, of solitude, and of peace. Located on the disputed border between two warring nations, neither side would dare disturb the sylvan sanctity of this place. This was the Grove of Omens, and it was the only place Daneera truly felt at home.

Daneera had not been born to the plane of Arbagoth, but it was far more home to her than the desolate and dying world she had known in her youth. She had grown to womanhood feeling a deep and powerful connection to a nature that had not existed there in ages. Throughout her childhood years, she had cried herself to sleep in the nights dreaming of colors long since stolen from her world. But she had never given up her hope that one day she would find it, buried deep beneath the dead stone caverns or smothered under the emotionless streets. Daneera had spent her entire life wishing that those heartless stones would crack, and in their place would grow the mighty trees that only her storybooks had talked about. But they were only dreams.

The young planeswalker shook herself from her ponderings as she realized she was growing cold. It was late spring here on the massive island of Volbog, home to this miraculous Grove of Omens, and the cool breeze that blew across Daneera’s skin felt immediately out of place. Even winter in the Grove was never much worse than chilly, and as summer approached, it should have been sweltering, yet still Daneera shivered. From the moment she had first discovered this place, the Grove had welcomed her as a favorite child, and she was honored beyond expression that few others would have even been allowed to tread there. But it also meant that she knew the Grove better than anyone, and she knew something was wrong.

Daneera continued to walk around the interior of the Grove, waiting for whatever omen it might offer her. As she walked, she reflected deeply on how nearly everything had been going wrong recently. It was not so long ago that the Oakumbra Duchy had asked her help in eliminating the damnable Poacher-Mages who had been operating in the Farwood. The Farwood was vast, larger than any other forest on the entire forested plane, and even with Daneera’s considerable skills, it had taken months to track them down. When she did, they proved more of a match for her than she had expected, and had nearly killed her. She escaped by planeswalking away, although the wound from their æther arrow stayed with her even into the Blind Eternities.

After that, things had gotten even worse. After drifting aimlessly and nearly dead through the æther, Daneera had found herself on the small plane of Lefkos. Her wound left her bed-ridden and in the care of a kind, simple family. Unfortunately, her arrival also drew the attention of the Rulus, two powerful planeswalkers who had styled themselves gods, not only of Lefkos, but also of the other shards of the Wheel. They had dominated and subjugated the planes of the Wheel for centuries, and had no love for other ‘walkers in their domain. Daneera’s struggle against them had carried her to each of the planes of these Dual-Walkers, but eventually, she had been able to use their own power, and their fear of her nature magic, against them, defeating them in their stronghold and escaping with her life.

Things had not gotten much easier after that, however. She had stopped off briefly in Lefkos to return young Lem, an integral part of her deliverance, back to his family, who had been so kind to her. She returned to Arbagoth and finished off the Poacher-mages with a particularly vicious stampede of beasts, and then left again. It was some time after this that she had met Fisco Vane. Her memory was still unclear about exactly how he had captured her, but after dealing with him for a while, she decided it was likely best she didn’t know. Fisco had captured her at the behest of the Dual-Walkers, but fortunately for Daneera’s continued existence, Fisco had his own plans, and thanks to them, she again escaped from the clutches of Syl and Chardis.

But Daneera lived by her instincts, and her instincts were screaming that her troubles with the Dual-Walkers were far from over. The time she had spent in the presence of the Rulus totaled less than an hour, but that was plenty. A part of her felt like she knew them as well as if she had spent a lifetime studying their depravity. They would not stop at a single failed attempt at vengeance. She was convinced of that. But what could she do? A lifetime in the forests of the Multiverse had taught Daneera much, and she knew that strength, power, and cunning resulted in survival for a time, but there was always something at the top of the food chain. Daneera was strong, she had power, and she was clever enough to survive things that would claim most others. But the Dual-Walkers were a different sort of beast. Daneera was not delusional. In the jungle that was Dominia, Syl and Chardis were apex predators.

The cool breeze turned into a sudden gust of cold wind, and Daneera shivered. Something was coming on the horizon, something frightening and unstoppable. The planeswalker looked upward at the verdant green of the surrounding trees. She gasped in horror as a leaf grew suddenly brown and dropped off the branch. Several more followed, turning a variety of dead autumn colors as they fell to the ground of the Grove of Omens in late spring. No one knew the Grove better than Daneera, and she knew an omen when the Grove gave her one. Death was riding on that wind, and was approaching fast. The fallen leaves formed the pattern of a simple arrow, pointing southwest, toward the coast.

Daneera nodded. She had no idea what it meant, at least not specifically, but she knew the omen was telling her to follow the arrow. There was nothing else she could do. The Grove of Omens was a home to her, in some ways even a mother. It had never led her wrong before, but it had also never spoken so clearly or with so dire a portent. Something was coming, and Daneera would only find her answer by heading southwest. She knelt down momentarily and caressed the grass, as if telling the Grove that everything would be alright. As Daneera made her way out, she wondered just how wrong she was going to be.

The old, dirty bed creaked loudly as the convalescent rolled from his left side onto his right. The noise irritated him, but more than that, it confused him, because he was reasonably sure the bed had never had anything resembling a spring in it throughout its existence. It must have just been the old boards casually draped across the frame that moaned at his movements. The sound was dreadful, the room was poorly lit, and the stink from the tavern was constantly wafting through. All in all, it was a hellish environment, and Antine was reasonably certain he was in hell.

He could hear the burning wind knocking against the boards that comprised his window. For reasons he could not begin to explain, the tavern owner, Muck, had felt it necessary to board up the windows on both sides, claiming it was impossible to know just what was trying to get inside. Unfortunately, he had done a much better job with the interior boards, which were solidly affixed to the wall. The outer boards, on the other hand, seemed universally loose, and knocked against the wall and each other ceaselessly whenever the wind blew. And a hot wind was always blowing in Jakkard.

Antine rolled over again, and this time his bed’s sorrowful creak was answered by a thundering pounding on his door. He could hear Muck screaming about something on the other side, and although he could not quite make out the words, he knew what was being said. Muck wanted his money. He had been saying so for nearly a week. It wasn’t that Antine didn’t care. He did. But there was nothing the young foxfolk man could do about it. He had only regained his strength enough to walk on his own two feet four days earlier. Even so, all of his money was gone, and there were no jobs in a town like this for an educated foxfolk from the hills.

The pounding came faster and harder as Antine buried his snout into what passed for his pillow. It had been nearly a month since he had first ridden into town. When he thought about himself then, a whisper-thin dust-covered clerk who fancied himself a gunslinger out for revenge, he had to fight the conflicting urges to laugh or to weep. Only now could he see how pathetic he had been. He had never even fired a gun before in his life, and yet he had somehow convinced himself that he could outdraw Vam, the rascal Viashino who had stolen his girl. Of course, he realized Mea had never truly been his girl, but none of that seemed to matter much now.

“Open up, ya rancid steak of dog meat! Where’s my money?”

Antine flinched, both at the insult and the threat. When Vam had shot him weeks earlier, he was convinced he was going to die. It was not the less-than timely intervention of a drunken doctor that had saved him, but rather the pure luck that the shot had missed anything vital. The wound still hurt like hell, though, and worse than anything he had ever felt. He had managed to return to his rented room, where he again convinced himself that death was inevitable. He attributed his survival to the merest of luck and fortune, or perhaps some sort of cosmic punishment. With Muck screaming at him from behind his weakly barred door, Antine wondered if there was anything left to save his life this time.

The young fox-man felt awful, and not just because of his imminent death. It also had little to do with his failure to obtain the revenge for which he had given up his entire previous life and set out to this forsaken wasteland. For reasons he could not explain, his revenge didn’t seem to matter much to him anymore. He felt awful because he hated cheating Muck. Sure, the tavern owner wasn’t much of a man; he was a cheater, a liar and a swindler, but it was the morality of the issue. By cheating Muck, Antine felt he was no better than Mea had been for cheating him.

Sadly, there was nothing he could do about it. When Antine packed up and sold off his life in Dayko to follow Mea and Vam, he took everything he had and converted it into a single, impressive sack of gold. After Vam shot him, Mea had taken everything that remained. Antine was broke, in more ways than one. For the first week, Muck left him alone, bringing him food and drink as part of the cost of his room. After the first week, he came asking for more, and Antine had managed to convince him that he was overcharging the wounded man, so he bought himself another week. When that was up, Antine had to sell his last possession, the leotau he had ridden through the wastes with. That had bought him the third week. Now there was nothing left.

The pounding on the door was suddenly replaced with an exceptionally loud bang. Apparently, Muck was no longer pounding with his fists, but with something much heavier and undoubtedly much more deadly. Antine had no idea what that could be, but he knew he didn’t want to find out. Unfortunately, it did not seem as though he had a choice.

“This is yer last warnin’, ya snake-suckin’ mound of demon dung!”

Antine sneered. It was bad enough that Muck was going to kill him, but did he have to be so vile in his insults? If Antine still had his gun, maybe Muck would be kinder in his speech. Probably not, though, knowing him…and this town…and Jakkard. Antine found himself wishing he could just leave, just slip through some crack like the mice that scuttled around his floor. Of course, he also found himself wishing, as he had when he first arrived in town, that he was a great gunslinger, a pure duelist of great speed and skill, who could face his opponents in one on one combat, a noble endeavor in a far-from-noble land. As he heard the bar to his door strain against the shots from without, he wondered if such a place existed.

Antine was suddenly aware that the room was growing dim. No, not dim, but something else. It was dissolving somehow, almost like the walls were melting, or somehow slipping away. He was aware that the blows against the door were continuing, and Muck was still shouting, but he could not hear those sounds, at least not in a way he could easily identify as hearing. Antine was frightened as the world started to fall away from him. In desperation, he grabbed at anything he could reach, but there was nothing that seemed to be solid anymore, not his pillow, his bed or the nightstand next to him. Antine’s hands closed around nothing as Jakkard dissolved into darkness.

Yet somehow darkness was not the right word. This was something totally different from darkness. It was at once a complete absence of perception, and an overload of it. It was, in the same instance, complete and penetrating blackness, and yet also every sensation he had ever felt, or was ever likely to. It was confusion, pain, and blind rage, yet it offered a clarity of thought, peacefulness and tranquility unlike any he had imagined possible. The winds and tides of eternity crashed in on him from every conceivable direction, yet seemed to emanate from him outward at the same time. He was floating through a living incarnation of contradiction, yet everything seemed to make sense, at least until he tried to grab on to a thought, and then it vanished.

In terror, Antine moved to wipe the tears of joy and pain from his eyes, only to find that he had none. For a moment, this bothered the fox-man, until he realized that he also had no hands to reach for them. Fear became fascination as Antine plummeted down, or rocketed through, this swirling tempest of pure existence. Fascination turned to ecstasy as he felt a sense of direction finally take a hold of his form. Fascination descended into confusion as he remembered that he had no form to experience that direction. Confusion transformed into a barrage of countless emotions that Antine couldn’t even identify, and so, in his mind, essentially remained confusion. It was the single most terrifying, exhilarating, maddening, and calming experience of his entire life.

In time, if time actually existed any longer, Antine came to wonder if he were dead. Had Muck broken through the door and killed him, and Antine’s own failing mind had created this? Or was this the hell he had compared his tavern room to, a punishment from some higher power for believing things could not get worse? The young fox-man didn’t know, and his thoughts were too sporadic to even attempt to work it out. At times, those thoughts seemed too fluid to grab on to, and at others they were like solid objects, too heavy to hold. Antine vaguely wondered if he was going mad, but he doubted he would be that fortunate.

Without warning, the sense of direction he had felt intensified, and the fox-man felt a distinct sensation of falling. This perception grew with such intensity that Antine became convinced he was going to crash straight through the ground. It was then that the fox-man realized that he could see ground! More than that, he was certain that he could see a figure on that ground, one of the foxfolk, just like him. This other fox-man even had the same bizarre fur coloring, the odd light-gray shade, with tufts of white around the nose, ears and forehead and dark around the eyes. With a sudden shock, he realized that no other fox-folk alive had that coloring, and he was looking at himself, and cascading toward himself at tremendous speed.

Antine did not so much crash into himself as simply merge with the image he saw. He had several long, frightening moments to decide on how he would describe the experience as the swirling colors and darkness of that bizarre in-between world congealed into one of the strangest sights the fox-man had ever seen. Once his senses fully returned and he was able to look around, he discovered, to no surprise, that he was no longer in the small, filthy tavern room in a small town in the wastes of Jakkard. He was standing in the center of a massive structure, the likes of which Antine had never even heard of before.

In the center of this structure was a huge floor, apparently of dirt and sand, and at the edges were countless rows of seats that looked like rows of oversized stone steps. At one end, there was an area in the stands which extended further out and was decorated with ornate flags and drapings. Antine vaguely remembered talk of the fighting pits in some of the seedier districts in Verkell, but he had never imagined an arena this size could possibly exist. This place could almost be a town unto itself. It was certainly large enough to accommodate the entire population of several of the small settlements he had passed through on catback while traversing the Jakkard.

Antine suddenly found himself wondering where he was. He was certainly not in the wastes anymore, but he also knew that nothing like this existed in the city of Verkell, either. He still knew it was possible that he had died, but he had never expected the afterlife to have such pleasant weather. The arena was open to the sky above, which was also completely foreign to him. Gone were the vaguely crystalline sky and the oppressive, burning sun, and in their place was simply soft, blue clarity. There was a sun here, but it was merely warm, not searing. All in all, it was a nice place; Antine just wished he knew what and where it was.

Scattered around the floor of the arena were numerous large, metallic shapes that the fox-man assumed to be houses of some sort. They were certainly large enough, and they had doors that, while closed, appeared able to be opened, and so that was the only assumption Antine could make. Yet still, something seemed off about them. Antine could feel some sort of energy radiating off of them. It was a strange sensation, unlike anything he had ever felt before. The closest thing he could compare it to was the energy he had felt from the few Hushers he had met in Dayko. The energy they seemed to exude was somewhere between warm and cool, a gentle feeling of order and closeness. This, however, was a hot, burning, chaotic sensation that bristled his fur and caused his nose to wrinkle slightly. The only analogy he could think of was sitting a little too close to a fire.

As Antine made his way toward the nearest of the structures, a shadow fell over him. He looked upward to see what had caused it, and nearly fell over on his back as he saw another of those structures hovering above him and to his left. Antine’s eyes bulged, and in a panic, he darted for cover next to one of the stationary structures. The hovering shape was descending slowly toward the ground, and the young fox-man watched in a mixture of terror and awe as it eventually settled in, a short distance from him.

Antine realized suddenly that they were some sort of transport, similar to the cargo cars in the Jakkard, but instead of riding on rails, these seemed to float through the air, despite their enormous size and apparent weight. He briefly pondered on how these contraptions could revolutionize the mining industry in the Wastes, but his distracted musings were cut short when a large metal door in this newly-landed object opened downwards, forming a ramp to the ground. Antine held his breath and pressed himself against the metal wall of the transport behind him, hoping not to be seen.

Mere moments passed before two shapes appeared from the opening. Both were roughly man-shaped, perhaps five feet tall and thick about the shoulders, though shockingly slender at the waist. At first, Antine assumed that they were wearing masks, because their faces were smooth and nearly featureless, bearing only two red, glowing eyes and a tiny slit where a mouth should have been. But as they descended the metallic ramp to the dirt floor of the arena, Antine heard the unmistakable clang of metal on metal.

Antine stared in abject amazement. It was not armor that these figures were wearing, but the metal was their very skin itself! Antine had never seen or even heard of creatures such as these before. Surely, nothing like them existed on Jakkard, even in the richest and more decadent corners of Verkell. What were they, and where was he? Antine feared he was going insane. Perhaps while lying in that filthy tavern room in that small, damnable town, he had caught some sort of fever, and this was all some sort of diseased hallucination. The fox-man sighed silently as he doubted he could be that fortunate.

The two metal men paused momentarily as they reached the ground. Antine noticed that one of them was holding some sort of large, clear stone in its hands, and this one turned briefly to the other and spoke the word “Stay.” Antine cringed at the voice. It sounded harsh and unnatural, and even more metallic than its speaker looked. It reminded Antine of the creaking that a tin can makes when set too long over a fire. The speaker turned away and began walking off toward the distance while the other one stood there, utterly and unnervingly motionless. Even its glowing red eyes dimmed to a dark and frightening black.

Whether the other metal man failed to notice Antine or simply failed to care, the fox-man had no idea. Whatever the case, it passed a short distance from him and continued onward, walking toward the center of the gigantic arena. Antine looked in the direction it was walking and noticed a small pedestal, perhaps four feet tall, protruding from the floor. Stealing occasional glances back at the motionless figure to ensure that he remained so, the Jakkard fox watched the unfolding event with mounting curiosity.

When the metal man finally reached the pedestal, it seemed to pause, apparently looking at the skull affixed to the top. Antine was unsure of whether or not this creature had emotions, but if it did, this one could only be described as confusion. Antine could relate. Eventually, the metal figure seemed to dismiss it, and placed one of its hands near the closest side of the pedestal. After just a few seconds, a massive arc of lightning jumped from one to the other, although it happened so quickly that Antine could not be sure which one initiated it. There was a low rumble throughout the arena, and the ground began to shake. Soon, the dirt surrounding the pedestal began to fall away until it opened into a large spiral staircase heading downward. Without a moment’s hesitation, the metal man began to descend, quickly moving out of Antine’s sight.

For several long, tenuous moments, Antine remained perfectly still next to the strange structure, wondering what he should do next. His natural curiosity and desire for adventure begged him to follow the metal man downward, but his fear and instinct for self-preservation demanded he stay. Finally, he opted for a compromise. Investigating the staircase was clearly a dangerous prospect, but the immobile metal man seemed to pose no danger whatsoever at the present. With a sigh and a prayer, Antine took a step away from the metallic wall.

The metal man remained motionless. Antine took another cautious step forward, but again the figure did not move. He took a third, bigger step, moving outward from the transport behind him and inching closer to the metal man, but still his target refused to budge. Antine finally allowed himself to exhale when he realized that he had been holding his breath ever since deciding to move. The metal man’s immobility made Antine slightly braver, but only slightly as he moved at a slow crawl towards it. The process was long and tedious, but eventually the fox-man was right beside his goal.

It was the strangest thing Antine had ever seen. It was not moving, not even breathing, and it was completely metal from head to foot. It had no ears, no nose, and no hair. It was roughly the shape of a human, though with bizarre proportions. While its head was normal-sized, or perhaps a bit smaller, its shoulders and chest seemed exaggerated, and yet its torso tapered off into something he could have almost encircled with his hands. Then, at the waist, it widened again, and sharply, like two pieces that were not meant to fit together, and its legs and arms were so thin that Antine wondered how it could support its weight.

A low, thin groaning sound rolled over the arena, and Antine could actually feel it grow darker, as though the sun itself dimmed. The fox-man looked around, and although he could not see the source of the sound, he could guess it was from below, where the first metal man had gone. With the nearer one still motionless next to him, Antine decided to take a moment to examine this strange arena. On the far side, he could see what appeared to be a large hole or crater cut into the ground, although there was no evidence of what might have caused it. Most of the area was open and unobstructed, but along the edges, near the stands, massive pillars formed gigantic arches, that supported what may have been another section of seats above. With some confusion, Antine noticed a single word carved into those stone arches: Amphiseum.

Although the word meant nothing to Antine, somehow just reading it sent a shiver down his spine. He knew nothing about this place, nothing more than he had seen, anyway, and yet there was a part of him that blindly understood that horrible things had transpired here. Antine suddenly felt cold, the sort of cold he had only ever experienced in those frigid nights riding across the Jakkard when his fire had burned down too low. He closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the chill, but that was when he heard the whispers, vague recollections of voices that may have existed long ago, or perhaps not at all. Antine had never experienced anything similar before. He didn’t like it.

A sudden warning flashed across his mind, and his black eyes shot open just in time to see the first metal man’s head appear from the stairwell. Antine panicked, knowing the odds were excellent that the metal man would return in his direction. He looked around quickly for a place to hide, but his mind was only barely functioning through his fear. He got like this sometimes, an unfortunate handicap to his desire for action and adventure, and he found a spare half-second to curse his weakness before his body acted for him, moving for the nearest hiding place. Standing on the ramp into the previously floating structure, the nearest hiding place was, unfortunately, inside.

The structure had been a decent size, but it looked even bigger from inside. The door led to a very short hallway, and beyond that was a circular room, walls, ceiling and floor all constructed of the same metal as the outside had been. In the center of the room was a rectangular table with a mirrored surface, above which hung a sort of chandelier covered in a variety of colored crystal. Antine was momentarily awe-struck; this chandelier would have been the envy of the richest foxes in Verkell. He suspected that his former land claims office in Dayko could have sold every piece of land it owned for the value of this one piece.

His heart stopped momentarily as he noticed three more metal men standing in the circular room, near the far wall. He relaxed almost immediately, however, as he noticed they were motionless, their eyes dark and lifeless like the one just outside. Still, he decided it would be best not to stay there any longer, and moved toward the back, where he found another short hallway. As he moved toward it, he heard the sound of metal on metal, and instinctively pushed himself against a wall just beyond the doorway, and just out of view of the two metal men returning to the inside of this strange vessel.

Peering around the corner, Antine watched in frightened fascination as the two metal men approached the table. The one holding the stone indicated towards it, and Antine’s eyes bulged as he noticed it was no longer clear, but was pulsating a burning red color. The other creature carefully laid his metallic hands on the mirror and somehow caused it to rise. The first one stepped forward and placed the glowing stone into the table, although from his vantage point, Antine could not see how. The second one closed the top, and within seconds, Antine heard a deep humming that rattled the walls.

He also felt the difference in the energy. He knew that there had been power there before, but now it was different, almost tangible. It was that same sort of burning, singeing sort of energy he had sensed from the other, identical structures outside. He had no idea what it was or what it meant, but he didn’t like it. It was chaotic, uncontrolled. It had no sense to it, no order. Yet still it filled this flying structure and closed in around Antine like the oppression of the noonday Jakkard sun.

“Now we wait,” came that same, metallic voice, and Antine watched as both of the metal men slumped slightly as their eyes dulled and went out. In the same moment, he heard the door to the outside close with a disheartening crash of steel on steel. Cautiously, Antine removed himself from the wall and crept into the main area, past the two motionless figures, and toward the door, but there seemed to be no way to open it. Antine panicked again, but not so badly as last time, looking around for any escape. There was none. With a heavy sigh, the fox-man slumped to the floor, his back against the metallic wall. Antine was trapped.

The frigid wind leapt up suddenly, pushing the coarse snow and airborne ice in front of it as it swept across the barren landscape. The temperature was unbearable and the blizzard was blinding, but it hardly mattered. There was no one there to attempt to bear the weather, and no eyes to be blinded by the wind and its cargo. This was a dead place, an island that was once a tropical paradise that had enjoyed for centuries the warm embrace of a forgiving sun. Now, though, the endless winter had claimed the island of Sula completely, and few if any of those who once lived there remained to suffer the curse of the White Blight.

On the southern end of the island, the town of Saport lay silent and empty. Some of the people there had tried to remain after the initial onset of the White Blight, and they had allowed themselves a moment’s hope that one of them could have cured the curse, but he had failed and they had left, seeking a new home somewhere across the vast ocean. All that remained now were the wind and the snow, and the abandoned homes of those who had been betrayed. That was all Sula was now; a land of traitors and victims.

Both were housed within the Ivory Tower of the Shorecerers, standing like a tombstone on the northern shore of Sula, marking the grave of the life that once dwelled there. The wind howled as it struck the impressive structure, and the snow swirled around it in a ceaseless maelstrom. Inside the tower lived the Shorecerers, nameless, faceless wizards who ruled Sula with powerful magic and a cold, disinterested fist. The White Blight had been their doing, a mad, illogical scheme that was orchestrated under the guise of a gift. They were the only ones fooled by their euphemism.

Locked deep within that Ivory Tower, chained to the floor, silenced by spells, and tormented by the endless howling of the wind outside, knelt the miserable frame of Denner Fabellian. Denner was a planeswalker, usually capable of traversing the infinite planes, but the magic of the Shorecerers had him trapped not only within the darkened room, but also bound to this insufferable plane. He had been born to this plane, and to this island, and he had even returned here in his search for solace, but this was no longer the place he had loved. This was a frozen, perpetual hell.

Denner Fabellian had no idea how long he had been in the Ivory Tower, which was a telling truth. His mind was like a pristine tome, incapable of forgetting or altering any fact that was put into it. He remembered in flawless detail everything he had ever seen, and every conversation he had ever had. If his prison had included windows, or any way to mark off the passage of time, he would have known how many days had passed, but he was denied these luxuries. He knew how many times the Shorecerers had fed him, but they seemed to intentionally do so at widely irregular intervals. At times, he was certain they had withheld food from him for days, and at others, they had brought him a second meal before he had finished his first. They would also regularly interrupt his sleep, so that he could not even judge based on that. Denner suspected they were trying to drive him mad.

He feared they were succeeding. Apart from his occasional meals, the Shorecerers offered him absolutely no distraction. After the first encounter when he had originally arrived in the tower, they had never spoken to him, not even to taunt him. He was provided with nothing to read or create, and no other prisoners to see. Had they not magically silenced him, he suspected he would have started talking to himself. In desperation, Denner tried to mentally reread any or all of the countless books he had stored in crystalline perfection in his flawless memory, but it was little solace. He didn’t know how long he had been there, but he was even less sure of how long he would last.

Denner Fabellian was a Delver, or at least that was the term he used to describe himself. He had a natural ability to find things, wherever they might be, and he had turned this talent into both a lifestyle and, on occasion, a profession. But despite his abilities, Denner was completely unable to find a way out of his predicament. The combined magic of the Shorecerers was far greater than his own power, and the chains that bound his wrists to the hard floor were far too thick for him to break. The Shorecerers had silenced him both physically and magically anyway, and so even if he had known a spell to free himself, he would have been unable to do so. Even planeswalking was beyond his power while trapped here. For all his skill, talent, and power, Denner Fabellian was helpless.

Suddenly, Denner became aware that the light in the cell was increasing, the illumination coming from the balconied area above his head. At first, he assumed it was their arbitrary feeding time again. It seemed like less than an hour since he last ate, but he knew that meant nothing to the Shorecerers. Soon, however, he became aware of a growing presence, something he hadn’t felt since his first night in the Ivory Tower. The Shorecerers were gathering above him. Weakly, Denner looked up toward the balcony and confirmed his sense. The Shorcerers were beginning to line up around the railing overlooking the planeswalker. They were wearing long dark robes of various colors, and they all wore featureless masks over their faces. Denner shuddered almost as if he were outside in the cold.

For several long, tenuous minutes, the Shorecerers gathered above him without a word or a motion in his direction. The blank, dull-white masks that covered their faces only added to the feeling of unease they created. It was as though Denner were staring upward into a gathering of ghosts, phantoms whose only purpose was to torment their captive. Denner knew his appraisal likely wasn’t too far off. Still, he found himself wondering what the purpose of their visit was. They had not gathered like this since the first night, and that had been a miserable affair that had cost the planeswalker days, months, perhaps even years of his life. He dreaded what this gathering was going to cost him.

When the Shorecerers finally spoke, they did so in the same manner as before, with a single voice coming from one direction, only to switch to another speaker from another, yet speaking a single conversation. Like everything else in the Ivory Tower of Sula, it was maddening.

“Denner Fabellian.”

The Shorecerers waited, as if expecting an answer, yet knowing full well that their prisoner could not speak.

“You have been our guest for some time,” another voice continued.

“And you have behaved yourself well enough…” continued a third.

Denner’s expression soured as he thought, I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“…to be allowed a visitor,” finished a fourth voice.

“Do not mistake our generosity in this matter for trust, Denner Fabellian.”

“You will be allowed to speak,”

“…but you may not cast.”

“Nor will you be allowed to leave this place.”

“Unless we release you.”

“You may speak now.”

“But mind your tongue.”

Denner scarcely dared to hope that they might be telling the truth. “Why are you holding me here?” It had been so long since he had spoken that he barely recognized his own voice.

“You know your crimes.”

“This is no longer your trial.”

“You were found guilty.”

“Do not be insolent.”

“You have been allowed to speak for the benefit of your visitor.”

“Not for your own.”

“Mind your manners, or you will be punished.”

“We can make your stay with us unpleasant, if we so desire.”

Denner shook his head in abject irritation. “Do you mean to tell me that this stay hasn’t already been unpleasant?”

“Be silent.”

“We can make it far more so.”

“We have an honored guest…”

“Who wishes to meet you.”

“But we do not trust you, Denner Fabellian.”

“You are a Meanderer.”

“And Meanderers cannot be trusted.”

“Save for two.”

“And you are not one.”

Denner’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the masks of the Shorecerers above him. “But I suppose my visitor is, is that it?”

There was a low murmur from amongst the Shorecerers, and then a long silence before the young planeswalker got his answer.

“You are far too clever, Denner Fabellian.”

“Far too dangerous.”

“Perhaps your accommodations will need to be changed.”

“After your visit.”

Denner scoffed. “With a ‘Meanderer?’”

“We have warned you about your insolence.”

“If you are rude to our honored guest…”

“…your punishment will be indescribable.”

“Even for us.”

“Do you understand, Denner Fabellian?”

The Delver thought for a long moment. He wanted nothing more than to lash out at the Shorecerers, and right now, the only way to do that was with words, but he knew perfectly well how dangerous they were. The last undisclosed period of time he had spent within their walls had taught him well that he could not fight them, certainly not without the use of his magic. It did him absolutely no good to antagonize them now. Still, even if his mind had not been a flawless record, he knew he would never forget what they had done to him.

Finally, reluctantly, Denner nodded his head. “I understand.”

“Very well,” said one of the Shorecerers as most of the others began to move away.

“You will receive our distinguished visitor.”

“And furnish whatever answers are required.”

“What happens afterward,”

“And for the rest of your life,”

“Will depend on how you conduct yourself.”

“You have been warned, Denner Fabellian.”

With these final words, the last of the Shorecerers disappeared behind the railing. As they did, a staircase began to descend from the upper floor to Denner’s left, detaching itself from the balcony above until it gently came to a rest on the floor a short distance away. Several long moments passed before something moved on that staircase, which Denner watched with a cautious but fascinated eye. At first, he was uncertain of what that shape was, but after a few steps, it became clear his visitor was a woman.

She moved down the staircase at a very slow and methodical pace, giving Denner plenty of time to study her, for which he was immensely grateful. She wore a long, black gown that seemed to glimmer in a translucent blue with every movement she made. Apart from the color, the gown was simple, and hung fairly tight around her slender frame. She moved with a practiced grace, her hips swaying slightly at each step. She was thin, bordering on sickly, and yet she was still full-figured in the places Denner was most inclined to observe. Then he saw her face.

Denner had travelled to many planes throughout his young life as a planeswalker, and had seen many women of varying degrees of physical beauty. They had run the gamut from hideous to plain to stunningly gorgeous, and Denner Fabellian’s pristine, analytical mind had cataloged and categorized them all. When he had gone to Carghora in the hope of learning about love, he had met Dmana, and whatever else she was, she was the third most beautiful woman Denner had ever seen. The second had surpassed her only slightly, and the first only slightly more. The woman who was now walking towards him surpassed them all by an embarrassing degree.

Her face was flawless, not a single line or blemish to sully her classical beauty. Her skin was a bit pale, but it was smooth, and it created an effect with her jet-black hair that made it difficult for Denner to catch his breath. Her eyes were a dazzling blue that shone with an intensity that spoke to a deep intelligence that had been so lacking in the eyes of most of those beautiful women he had seen before. Her lips were a tantalizing red, and they curled up into a gentle smirk as she moved to stand in front of him.

“Greetings, Mr. Fabellian. It is truly a pleasure to meet you.”

Denner said nothing, lost in her beauty. Even her voice was enchanting.

She paused for a moment before she continued. “My name is Syl, Mr. Fabellian. I would have come sooner, but I am afraid I have only just learned of your presence here.”

Denner realized suddenly that his mouth was hanging open, but he could not quite muster the energy to remedy the situation. After a few more moments of silence, Syl shook her head, causing her hair to shake in an alluring manner.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she continued. “I was told they had removed the spell of silence. Perhaps I should return with one of them.”

Denner shook his head and finally managed to stammer a response. “No…they…I mean, I…they…I just…haven’t seen a…I mean…another person…in some time.”

Syl’s smirk deepened, but her eyes remained bright and locked on his own. “I understand, Mr. Fabellian. And please, accept my apologies for the way you have been treated by my friends. They are a distrustful lot, but they have been given reasons, over the years.”

“It’s not a…well, it’s not your fault. And please,” he paused, realizing where his gaze had gone and refocusing it higher, “call me Denner.”

“Very well, Denner, you are most kind.”

He smiled at her for several moments before she spoke again. “No doubt you are wondering why I have come to visit with you.”

Denner felt a twinge of embarrassment as he realized she had been waiting for him to ask that question. Never before had he been so dumbstruck by a woman. “Oh, yes. Of course. Is there something I can do for you, Syl?”

She took a step closer and gently laid her hand on his left arm. “I do hope so, Denner. I certainly do hope so. You see, the last several months have not gone well for me.”

Denner tried not to laugh. “Nor for me, I assure you.”

Syl smiled, and Denner melted. “No, I can see that. However, I have a proposition for you that I think may turn things around for the both of us.”

Even more than her appearance, this statement piqued his interest. “What did you have in mind?”

“The Shorecerers and I have a long history, and while they would certainly not have to, they might be willing to do me a favor.”

“A favor such as setting a prisoner free, you mean?”

“Precisely,” she agreed, withdrawing her hand. She began to pace slightly in front of him as she continued. “However, the Shorecerers distrust you immensely. They believe you wish to destroy them and their tower and conquer this island for yourself.”

“But that’s not true, Syl, I promise you! I came here to find out why they brought the White Blight to Sula, and to try to convince them to end it. I have no plans to destroy anybody! All I am interested in is learning, you have to believe me!”

“I do believe you, Denner,” she added as her smirk deepened. “But they do not.”

“You could convince them though, couldn’t you? You said you have a history with them, and they told me you could be trusted. They will listen to you.”

“I am afraid it is not quite that simple. They do trust me, Denner, but that hardly means that they will substitute my judgment for their own. They would need something more than my word before they were willing to release you.”

“What would they need?”

“They are concerned that I want you released only out of the goodness of my heart. They believe that I am naïve when it comes to matters of freedom and crime. They have told me that if I were to be responsible for you, that they might consider it.”

“Responsible for me? In what way?” Denner was afraid that some misstep on his part, perhaps even unintentionally, could eventually hurt her.

“I have been thinking about that. I think, perhaps, if you were to agree to work for me, even if only for a short time, they might release you. They will see that I am putting myself at risk, and trusting you with something that really matters to me.”

“You want me to work for you? Doing what?”

Syl’s pacing was growing as she spoke. “I understand that you are a man who knows how to find things, is that right?”

“That’s right,” he confirmed. “I’m a Delver. I can find pretty well anything.”

Syl stopped pacing and smiled at him. “Or, anyone?”

Denner nodded. “Yes. Is there someone you are looking for?”

She nodded, demurely. “More than one, actually. And if you were willing to find them for me, I would reward you very handsomely.”

Denner was beginning to grow concerned about Syl’s motives, but he had to admit this was his best opportunity to escape from the clutches of the Shorecerers. Besides, if the choices he had were to either work for a beautiful woman or rot in Sula’s Ivory Tower, that choice was impossibly easy.

“I don’t really think I have a choice, Syl.”

The woman’s smile faded suddenly. “Denner, I do not want you to feel that way.” She looked around, and then leaned in close to his ear. “Say that you will work for me, even if you will not. That will get you out of here. Then, you can work for me, or go on your way, whatever you want.”

He looked over at her, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you, Syl, but you misunderstand my tone. I have no real choice, but if I did, I’d have chosen you, anyway. Although I would like to know what sort of reward you had in mind.”

Syl backed away from him again and smiled. “I can certainly pay you, in nearly any form of jewel or precious metal you might ask for, but for a man like you, I think I have something far more valuable.”

“And what sort of man am I?”

“You yourself said that the only thing you were interested in was learning. It so happens that I know of a library. A very great library.”

Denner smiled. “I have seen libraries before, Syl. Hundreds of them.”

She nodded, with an irresistible look in her eyes. “You have never seen one like this, I assure you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there are no other libraries like this. In the whole of the Multiverse, this one is unique. The countless tomes within contain knowledge unknown to the rest of existence.”

Denner’s mind was reeling at the thought, but he hesitated. Not because he was trying to decide whether or not to accept her offer, but rather because he was enjoying the negotiation too much to end it. “Ahh, but now that I know this library exists, what is to stop me from finding it myself? I am a Delver, after all.”

“True,” Syl admitted, her familiar smirk returning to her enticing lips. “But very few are allowed within. I, of course, could get you a key, as well as all the time you could want within. What do you say?”

“And all for just finding a few people?”

“Three, to be precise.”

“What do you want them for?”

“Does that really matter?” Syl asked, but Denner said nothing, so she continued. “Two are old friends, and we would like to give them a surprise. The other, we have only heard rumors about, but we may have work for him, as well.”

“We?”

Syl nodded. “My brother and I.”

“Your brother,” Denner exclaimed. “Is he a ‘walker, as well? The other ‘Meanderer’ the Shorecerers spoke of?”

Syl laughed gently. “They were quite right when they told me how clever you were, Denner. Yes, my brother and I both bare the Spark. We are twins.”

Denner scanned his unchanging memory. “In my life, I have never heard of twins both ascending to ‘walkers. The chances must be astronomical!”

“We are one of a kind,” she agreed.

“Or two of a kind, as it were.” His comment drew a quiet laugh out of the woman, but Denner could tell she was humoring him. Her mood seemed to darken a little, although she gave no outward sign of it.

“So what do you say, Denner? Will you help us?”

“I think so,” he said, growing concerned for reasons he was not quite sure about. “How difficult do you imagine it will be to find your friends?”

She gave a minute shake to her head. “If it were easy, I would have done it myself by now.“

“What plane are they on?”

“I would have no way of knowing.”

“I see,” Denner said with a nod. “So they are, uh, ‘Meanderers,’ as well, are they?”

“All three of them walk the Blind Eternities, and in very different paths. I do not pretend to know how your talent for searching works, but I suspect this task will pose a challenge for you, particularly because my brother and I wish the search to remain a secret. We want to give them a pleasant surprise.”

“I see,” Denner said. “I don’t think that should be a problem.”

“So that is a yes?”

The Delver smiled broadly at her. “That is a yes. Get me out of here, and I will find your friends for you.”

Syl flashed a stunning smile at him. “I am delighted to hear you say that. I will see to it that you are released. We have much to do.”

Throughout the ceaseless expanse and the enumerable worlds of the Blind Eternities, the possible realities are as numberless as the worlds that stage them. Perhaps, tucked away in some forgotten corner of the æther, there might be some tiny, peaceful plane that has never known the bite of war. Perhaps the people of this place are pleased and contented, their faces set in smiles of true happiness, experiencing neither hatred nor fear as they wander through their lives of joy and peace. It is possible that such a world exists, but it was not Forculan.

On Forculan, war was unending. There was no country upon the face of this plane that had known a year without war in recorded history. It was tradition. Failure to ride off to battle was failure at life, and the dishonor carried by such cowardice was an eternal pox on a family and even a kingdom. Lands fought one another for any reason, or for none at all. War was fought for the sake of war, and that was what mattered on Forculan.

Of course, other pursuits were not forgotten on this troubled plane. Art and music abounded in Forculan, and writing and philosophy held a place at the pinnacle of society in most of the greatest cities. Culture was prized, and thought and wisdom were respected nearly as much as the greatest of military victories. Kings were expected to lead their armies, either charging first at the front of their lines or devising the strategies that led them to victory. It was a golden age of enlightenment and bloodshed, and it stretched hundreds of years into the past, and most probably would stretch equally into the future.

A land of war produces countless heroes, and a world of wisdom creates mentors of immeasurable prestige. A world of both results in several of each, but only one is ever recognized as a master of both. That one was given the honorary title of Sage-Marshal, a wise and powerful teacher, venerated by all and threatened by none. A Sage-Marshal retains his title until death or defeat takes it from him. Most die of old age before they are replaced. One, however, refused to allow even death to conquer him.

He was Tharandias, the Sage-Marshal of Forculan for well over half a millennium. How a human man had managed to live for so many centuries was a mystery to the plane. Some claimed that he must be a god, or perhaps the son of one. Others claimed that Tharandias was the living embodiment of the military ideal, and had never truly been a man of flesh and blood. Still others said he died long ago, but defeated the gods of death in battle and forced his way back to the land of the living. Only two men in all of Forculan knew for certain.

Those two men were sitting casually in the Sage-Marshal's villa, sipping on some Jarkillian Tea and discussing in conversational tones the Siege of Jarkill Vale. Tharandias sat in his high-backed chair, its burgundy cushioning faded and worn from age. Tharandias himself looked little better. While he looked nowhere near as decrepit as his age would suggest, he still had the appearance of a very old man. His frame was small and slightly hunched, his face wrinkled and pale, his hair and beard long, thin, and as white as the snow that capped the distant peaks. His eyes, however, were bright and clear, like that of a young man first riding off to glorious battle.

Across from Tharandias sat Sundar Elarion, the Sage-Marshal's pupil. It was customary for the Sage-Marshal to select a pupil, and historically, the chosen student usually succeeded his master as the next in that prestigious line. But Tharandias was old beyond reasoning, and he had taken countless students over the years, and most of them were dead, buried and forgotten while their tutor still lived on. Sundar Elarion had long since discarded his illusions about holding that title, and now he was content to simply learn from one of the greatest military minds in the Multiverse.

"The next pot is ready, Master," Sundar noted, hearing the steam escape from the other room.

The old man glared briefly at his friend and pupil, but smiled. "Your ears are sharper than ever, my friend. I hear nothing."

"A gift from my mother, truly." Sundar grinned. He was a rare case in Forculan. The plane was dominated by humans, nearly every kingdom populated almost solely by them. History spoke of other races, lost in the shadows of antiquity, that faded in the dawn of the Epoch of Wars. Only a few remained, a few who had grown strong enough to defeat the rampaging armies of the human nations. One of those races were the elves of Thornbristle Valley. Yet even their great power had been waning over the last century, and Sundar's mother left those woods in disgust at the weakness of her own people. Sundar's father had been a general in the neighboring human kingdom of Cyristaile, and they rode together at the head of the army that finally destroyed Thornbristle.

Tharandias returned to the room with two fresh cups of tea before Sundar even realized he had left. It was miraculous how silently the old man could move. His true age would have made movement impossible, but even the age he appeared to be should have made it a challenge, and yet he was so quiet that even Sundar's half-elven ears did not notice him. As he often did, the younger man marveled at his friend and mentor. He knew more of Tharandias's secrets than perhaps any other man alive, and yet there was so much he did not understand. Most of his questions went unanswered by his master, but nothing the Sage-Marshal could do ever stopped Sundar Elarion from asking.

"So," the old man began as he took his seat once more. "Why did the Siege fail?"

Lost in his private musings, Sundar barely caught the question. "I'm sorry, Master. What did you say?"

"Lose concentration during battle and you will not live to repeat the mistake." This was a common chastisement that Sundar was extremely accustomed to hearing. Tharandias sighed and continued. "Jarkill Vale. The army of the Salite Cultists had the position and the troops. Why did they fail?"

Sundar thought for a moment, then shrugged. "They were impatient. They had dammed up the Cerulean River and the Jarkill army had been without water for a day and a half, but then it rained, and the Cultists grew impatient. They charged into the Vale and were cut down with ease."

The Sage-Marshal clapped his hands together once. "Very good! Yes, they had no patience. The Salite Cultists had their foes contained, and instead of waiting them out, they stirred them up. A few more days’ wait would have brought victory, while a hasty action brought defeat."

"True," Sundar noted, "although the Jarkill army fell prey to the same mistake when they retaliated. They tried to strike at the Cultists from every direction at once, and spread themselves too thin. Had they the patience to attack one of the Cultists' strongholds at a time, with their full strength, they may have won. Instead, they attacked all at once, and the Cultists took the Vale that next summer."

Tharandias stroked his beard for a moment while he pondered his pupil's words. "You make an excellent point, my friend! In the future, I will have to remember to include that observation in my..."

Tharandias stopped speaking suddenly and seemed to stare past Sundar, what little color in the old man's face draining away as he did. Confused, Sundar set down his tea and looked behind him, his eyes focusing immediately on the ornate, two-pronged candelabra on the table behind him. He had seen that candelabra countless times before, but never before had it ever been lit. Sundar stared for a moment, knowing full well that it had not been aflame when he had first sat down. In fact, to the best of the young man's knowledge, those candles had never been lit. Tharandias had never explained why, but no one was permitted to so much as touch the antique, let alone light it. Yet now, somehow, it had ignited itself.

When Sundar Elarion looked back, Tharandias somehow seemed much older. It took the half-elf a few seconds to realize why. It was his eyes. Usually, Sundar was always struck by how sharp and youthful the Sage-Marshal's eyes were, but now they seemed old and tired, as if centuries had suddenly caught up to him. For the first time since perhaps the first few weeks he had known Tharandias, Sundar found himself worried about the old man.

"What is it?"

At first, he said nothing. He simply stared at the candles, occasionally gulping for a breath. Finally, Sundar spoke to him again.

"Tharandias? Are you alright, master?"

With a brief shake of his head, the Sage-Marshal refocused his gaze on the eyes of his pupil. He seemed to think for a moment, then spoke. "Sundar, I am afraid that I must leave for a time. I want you to stay here and look after the villa. I may be gone for some time...I may never come back. If I have not returned in a year, the title of Sage-Marshal will fall to you."

With a furrowed brow, Sundar glanced from the candelabra to Tharandias and back again. "I don't understand, master. Is this some sort of summons? This is against custom! If someone wishes to employ the Sage-Marshal, they must visit you, pose their claim, offer you the tribute! Please, master, let me go. I will teach them some manners."

With a sadness in his eyes the likes of which Sundar had never seen, Tharandias shook his head. "Circumstances are not quite so simple, my friend. This is a summons, but it is unlike anything you have known."

"That doesn't give them the right to ignore custom."

"Their customs are far different."

"Every kingdom on Forculan observes the customs of warfare, and there are none who do not honor the title of the Sage-Marshal."

"Yes," Tharandias agreed. "And what does that tell you?"

Sundar was beginning to lose his temper. "It tells me that someone has breached custom, master, and that they should be punished."

"Is there no other solution you can reach, Sundar Elarion?" There was something in his voice that told the half-elf he was missing something important.

"No, master. If you have been summoned to battle, and everyone on Forculan observes the customs, then..." He paused as his eyes grew wide. He looked back at the candelabra with renewed wonder, then back at his mentor. "Unless the summons comes from another world."

Tharandias looked as though he was stifling a laugh, yet he still looked despondent. "You should not be so surprised, Sundar. You have walked the planes, as well, and you were well aware that I have."

"Yes, master," admitted Sundar, "but this is hardly the same thing. I have never met anyone who could send signals across the Blind Eternities!"

"There is so much left unseen by the eyes of youth. In the days long before your birth, our kind had capabilities beyond your understanding, and I say that knowing better than any what your vast capabilities are. There were objects and magics created before the dawn of this age of mortality that yet retain some of their eldritch luster."

"Such as the candelabra?"

"Such as the candelabra."

"So, who gave it to you? Who is summoning you, and why?"

The old man shook his head. "That is no concern of yours, my friend. You must simply trust me when I tell you to stay here on Forculan. Mind the villa, and in my stead offer aid to those who seek it. I will return, if I am able."

"That is no answer, Sage-Marshal."

"Just because it is not the answer you wanted does not mean it was not an answer. Now do not be insolent."

"Master, you have told me repeatedly to never stop questioning, to never stop searching for answers. We are meant to be sages, after all."

"Seek wisdom above knowledge, Sundar. And it would be wise to shun this knowledge. This is a lesson I hope you will never have to learn."

"I’m sorry, but I cannot accept that. This is something I cannot ignore."

"I am the Sage-Marshal, Sundar Elarion. You are the pupil and I am the master, and I am telling you to forget this."

"I am also your friend, Tharandias, and that is an obligation that I take far more seriously. If you are in some sort of danger, it is my duty as a friend to help you, and I cannot help you without information."

"I have neither the desire nor the need for your help in this matter, Sundar. Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary."

"Very well, my friend. Then I will simply be forced to follow you through the æther when you leave Forculan."

Tharandias glared at his friend for several moments before he finally laughed and shook his head. "Why did I choose such a hard-headed man as my pupil?"

"As I recall, I insisted," Sundar answered with a smile.

The Sage-Marshal sighed heavily. "Very well, you win. I will tell you this story, but you must promise me that once I have, you will not join me on this."

"Tharandias, I can't promise..."

"I am serious, Sundar. As your mentor, I forbid it. As a friend, I can only say that it is important to me that you remain uninvolved. Please, will you make me this promise?"

Sundar considered this for a moment, but finally the look in his friend's eyes convinced him to agree. "Very well, Tharandias. You win. Tell me what is happening, and I swear to you that I will not join you in whatever fool's errand you are running."

Tharandias glared again, but nodded. "The candelabra was given to me centuries ago by the Dual-Walkers. Have you ever heard of them?"

"No, master."

The old man nodded. "I suspected not. Few these days have, I think. But long ago, they had quite a reputation in certain circles."

Sundar shrugged. "Who were they?"

"The most unlikely and unlikable pair that has ever blighted the Multiverse. Twins, a sister and a brother, both with the spark to walk the infinite worlds. Alone, each one was powerful. Together, there were few alive who could stand against them. I never saw anyone try and succeed."

"I see..." Sundar said with hesitation. "Why did they give you the candelabra?"

Tharandias lowered his head at the question. "Because I work for them."

"What? I thought you said they were a blight on the Multiverse, why would you align yourself with them?"

"The word 'align' is far too kind to me. But my reason is simple. Sometimes the strong and able must sacrifice themselves for the innocent."

"Don't shroud yourself in cryptic words, master. What do you mean?"

"The Dual-Walkers are that most frightening of combinations that makes a person truly dangerous. They have the power to destroy worlds, and they lack the heart to think anything of the action. They think of nothing beyond their own advantage, and yet they think of it so well that they plan for every contingency. Anyone with even the potential to get in their way is either subjugated or destroyed."

"So you feared destruction?" Sundar asked, confused. "But you are the Sage-Marshal! You have faced death numerous times, even in the comparatively short time I have known you."

Tharandias seemed to hesitate, but then shook his head. "You do not understand, Sundar. This is not about me. It is about the innocent. If the Dual-Walkers had been free to roam the Multiverse unchecked, they might have destroyed countless worlds! Think of the lives that might have been lost! I had to do whatever I could to prevent that."

"What are you talking about? How does your swearing loyalty to these Dual-Walkers keep them in check?"

"Do you remember what I told you about the Salite Cultists? The way they had the Jarkill army contained?"

Sundar nodded. "You imprisoned them?"

"Not in the traditional sense, perhaps. But the Dual-Walkers needed to be kept busy, distracted from a path of senseless destruction. There was only one way I knew of to accomplish that. If they had to concentrate on ruling a small area, they would have neither the time nor the compulsion to destroy others."

Sundar felt himself grow pale. "You helped them enslave an entire plane, didn't you!"

Once again, Tharandias hung his head. "Five planes."

"Five!"

"Long ago, I learned of a mysterious shard of worlds. One plane, circled as if in orbit by four others, each as different as the colors in a rainbow. This was the sort of world that the Dual-Walkers lusted after, the sort that would keep them busy until they were no longer a threat to the Multiverse. So I agreed to serve them. I lead them to the Wheel, as those planes are collectively known, and I helped them conquer them, one after another."

"You sacrificed the lives and the freedom of countless people, just on the hope of saving countless others?"

"The lives of those on a few small planes is nothing compared to the lives across the numberless worlds. I regret what had to occur, but they are simply collateral damage. Acceptable losses in the grand scheme of the War against the Dual-Walkers."

"But if you hate them so much, why not simply destroy them?"

"I told you, Sundar, they were two of the most powerful beings in existence. I lacked the strength to contend with them."

"But what about now? I'll come with you. Together, we can defeat them."

Tharandias shook his head in sorrow. "It is not that simple, my friend. The Dual-Walkers may lack the unfathomable power our kind once possessed, but if they are active again, they may be yet more dangerous than ever."

"You've told me about planeswalkers in the old days, Tharandias, the powers that you and others had. But those days are gone. There are two of them, and there are two of us. We can win."

"They lack the powers they once had, true. But if they have survived since the Mending, they must still be terribly powerful, and if they are summoning me, it means they are preparing for war. They will not be caught off guard, and the two of us lack the strength to oppose them."

"If you have taught me anything, Tharandias, it is that every force can be defeated. I never thought a Sage-Marshal of Forculan would so readily bow to tyrants such as you have described to me."

"I have known the Dual-Walkers for over a thousand years, Sundar. I have seen not only their power, but also their wills. I have seen them commit deplorable acts for nothing more than their vanity or their boredom. And seeing what I have seen, I shudder to think what lengths they would reach if they felt truly threatened."

"And you think they do?"

"They would not summon me if they did not."

Sundar Elarion was silent. He knew in his heart that Tharandias was wrong, but the tone in the old man's voice was growing harsher, and Sundar knew better than to press the issue. Sundar's spark and natural talent afforded him a certain degree of impudence compared with most students of a Sage-Marshal, but even he could only push things so far. Tharandias was still powerful, and should things come to blows between the two, even the brash Sundar knew he would fall. Tharandias had, after all, survived the Mending just as much as the Dual-Walkers apparently had. Something about that thought nagged at Sundar, though he wasn't sure what.

Sundar locked eyes with his old friend. "I can't help but feel there is something else, something you're not telling me."

Tharandias laughed, once. "Suspicion and paranoia have negated countless strategic advantages, my friend."

"That's not an answer," grumbled Sundar.

"You did not ask a question," Tharandias chided. The ancient Sage-Marshal sighed heavily, and then looked over at the candelabra, its two candles flickering as evening began to descend. "I had best be going."

Sundar slumped back in his chair. "I should be going with you."

"No," Tharandias said, annoyed. "You should not. We are friends, you and I, but I am still the Sage-Marshal and you are still the pupil. As long as that is true, I expect you to obey my commands. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Sundar said with a bit more venom than he had intended.

Tharandias nodded. "Very well, then. Stay here." He paused momentarily. "I hope to see you again. It has truly been an honor to know you, Sundar Elarion."

Sunder looked away and said nothing. By the time he looked back again, Tharandias the Sage-Marshal was gone.

On a field just outside the walled city of Caristine, the southern capital of a plane the locals called Yorthinandor, two armies were staring one another down, waiting with anxious glances for one side or the other to charge. The day was cool and bright, more suited for a casual picnic than a gory bloodletting. This battle was the culmination of a legacy stretching back hundreds of years, long before any of those standing on that field had been born. It was a legacy of tyranny and oppression, of hope and heroism, of the honorable and the dishonored. It was the reality of Yorthinandor.

But no one standing on that field was overly concerned with history. They had far too much to be concerned about in the present. The Caristine defenders had endured a spring and summer of brutal raids and a string of heartless razings across their farming lowlands. There was not a woman or man standing there who had lost neither friend nor family, and now they were staring down the full force of the perpetrators of that violence. In their eyes, the attackers were something other than human; they were demonic.

In truth, those attacking were no more or less human than the people of Caristine, and in far more dire straits than their enemies suspected. Some four or five hundred years earlier, their ancestors had ruled Yorthinandor with iron fists, but the reversal of fates had left them a disconnected array of bandits and vagabonds. Now, after centuries of disorganization, chaos, and in-fighting, they had finally brought themselves together. Embracing both their present and their past, they called themselves the Bandit Kings, and their reign of destruction was unprecedented in modern Yorthinandori history.

But the armies of the Bandit Kings had far more to worry about. Their combined size and policy of sheer, unrelenting destruction left them with dwindling resources. Their supplies of food and water were nearly exhausted, and their supplies for repairs were non-existent. They were on their final legs, and every one of them knew it. They stood behind cracked and broken shields, shrouded in imperfect and ill-fitting armor, praying to whatever gods they could name that their mortal enemy would not sense their weakness.

Only one person on that field stood without fear or concern. She was Nithka, and although she had lived no more than thirty-five years, she was a respected commander of the Caristine defenders. She was tall and lean, her light-brown hair long and disheveled as she stood a dozen paces before her front line. She wore armor of simple leather, and an ornamental short cape colored forest green and emblazoned with the image of a hawk in flight, clutching an arrow in its beak, the symbol of the lost city of Kahva. She stood alone and waiting, her left hand resting easy on the hilt of the ornate silver saber hanging at her side.

It was neither the army behind her nor the one she faced that gave Nithka such confidence. It was not her knowledge of history, nor her studies under one of the greatest, most legendary commanders in the whole of Caristine's existence that made her so self-assured. It was not even her planeswalker's spark, which made her spellcraft that much more potent and allowed her to walk the worlds of Dominia at will that kept her calm. It was nothing more than the saber that hung at her side, the very saber that her mentor Baracon had used to liberate Caristine and the rest of Yorthinandor from the ancestors of her enemies. She knew its power, and she trusted in it.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Nithka seemed to sense the army of the Bandit Kings were ready to charge. Calmly and smoothly, she withdrew the mystical sword from its scabbard and held it high in the air. The saber glimmered once, which drew a cheer from her troops and a howl of anger from her enemies. Nithka, however, remained still, merely holding the sword straight in the air and waiting. She was like a statue, a monument of pride and strength to her people. The noise coming from the Bandit Kings' army was growing steadily as they started to work themselves into a frenzy. Everyone knew that the battle was imminent, but no one seemed to want to make the first move. The moment seemed to hang there, just waiting to be unleashed.

Finally, the Bandit Kings could contain themselves no longer. They let out one final, collective roar and surged forward toward their ancient foes. Seconds later, Nithka brought her sword down quickly, signaling her counter-attack, though not a soldier behind her moved. They didn't need to. From half-way across the field, the air above seemed to shimmer, and a moment later, a hail of arrows appeared, careening toward the enemy lines. The invading army hesitated almost to a man, confused and frightened, but their hesitation only cost them more as the arrows hammered into them, piercing their piecemeal armor and felling dozens of them.

They tried to reorganize and charge again, but Nithka had already raised the saber high a second time. By the time the Bandit Kings were ready to charge, another rain of arrows was descending on them, decreasing their numbers and their morale. A cheer rose from the soldiers behind Nithka, but she ignored them, concentrating instead on her gruesome task. Again she raised her saber, keeping a constant and precise count in her head before bringing the blade down a third time, signaling yet another deadly volley into the helpless ranks of the army of the Bandit Kings.

Some of the enemy broke and ran after this third volley, realizing the futility of their cause and their situation. Most, however, roared in defiance and broke into a maddened rush toward Nithka and her army. The planeswalker remained passive and calm, raising her saber and pointing to a closer spot in the sky above. The air rippled and shimmered again, and when she brought her sword down, the arrows appeared from a closer location, still hammering viciously into the enemy’s front line. For the fifth volley, she hesitated just a few seconds, waiting until her target area was filled with foes, and the result was suitably deadly.

Their lines were broken and uneven, and several of the Bandit Kings’ soldiers were brawling with one another in an attempt to flee. But those who remained were drawing closer and closer, and Nithka was forced to pull back her aerial portal with increasing frequency. Archers were a powerful advantage, particularly when they could not be flanked or rushed, but battles in Yorthinandor always came down to hand to hand combat. Nithka knew that would be the case here, as well. But any advantage could mean the difference between victory and defeat, and while the defenders of Caristine had been outnumbered at the beginning of this battle, the odds were decidedly in their favor now.

Still, Nithka was hardly finished. The Kahvan Saber held incredible power, but she was far from helpless herself, and she knew a few tricks to extend her advantage. While holding the Saber high in her right hand, she held her left out to the side, closed tightly in a fist. She brought her sword down, releasing yet another volley of the deadly arrows, then immediately opened her left hand, sending a brilliant blast of light streaming across the battlefield. The light blinded her enemies, as well as several of her own soldiers, but it succeeded as they stopped dead in their tracks. The cascading arrows made them even more so.

The delay in the Bandit Kings’ advance allowed Nithka to launch three more volleys, decreasing the enemy numbers both by death and desertion. The battle was already becoming a massacre and the Caristine defenders had yet to move. A cursory glance told Nithka that her soldiers now outnumbered their ancient foes almost five to three, but the real battle was about to begin. She had hoped she could have spared her men fighting at all, and thus avoiding any of her countrymen losing their lives, but she knew this dream was just that. Of course, she still had time. The battle had yet to be truly joined, and Nithka had far more prepared than a simple flash of light.

Nithka had been quietly and calmly gathering energy all day, drawing in power from the vast and sprawling plains, the very plains these vile bandits had dared to trample on their quest to destroy Caristine. Her reserves were high, and her plan well-established in her mind. With a deep breath, Nithka allowed her mind to conjure the image of three beings of immaculate perfection, their young, flawless faces set in eternal, unending youth, their massive wings folded back as they cut through the celestial wind. Before Nithka even realized it, she heard screams of panic rise from her enemies. She allowed her vision to refocus on the battlefield as her three angels, her instruments of divine fury, celestial light, and vengeful retribution, tore mercilessly into the enemy's flank.

The angels ripped through the forces of the Bandit Kings like a sword cuts through a slow-moving stream. As they broke through the other side of the terrified foes, Nithka once again raised her sword high into the air and waited. She brought it down again as her angels passed halfway through the enemy on their second strafe, and the planeswalker's timing was immaculate. The cloud of arrows crashed into the bandits just as Nithka's angels flew out of their range. They tore through in a third attack, avoiding yet another phantom volley by an even narrower margin, but Nithka was careful not to risk hitting her favorite celestial allies. The effects on the armies of the Bandit Kings, however, were profound.

The fear and confusion in the enemy ranks had spread almost completely now, but both the angels and the arrows were becoming increasingly ineffective, simply owing to the distance the Bandit Kings' troops were putting between themselves in their muddled panic. A few of her foe's most elite troops managed to organize a quick and impressive counterstrike to the angels' charge, and inflicted a moderate wound to one of her host, though the other two made short work of the bandit bulwark. Still, the advantage was now firmly in the hands of the Caristine defenders, and Nithka had no desire to further risk the angels. With a quick thought and a thankful prayer, she dismissed her hold on them, and they faded back into the æther.

The troops of the Bandit Kings might have been inclined to think of this as a victory for their side, had they not already lost so many of their own to death or desertion. At best, they now numbered half of the Caristine army, and with the rate at which they were falling or fleeing, by the time they engaged their enemy, the Caristines would likely outnumber them three to one. It was a losing battle, and while brutal and barbaric, the Bandit Kings were neither stupid nor blind. They knew their position and their likeliest fate. But they remained, along with the strongest and most dedicated of their loyalists, and with a bloodthirsty roar, they charged once again across the battlefield.

The Bandit Kings knew that victory was nearly impossible, but so was retreat. After this massacre, the armies of the Bandit Kings could never regroup, at least not for a generation or more. But there was still one option, one last chance at redemption. If they could kill Nithka, the woman who had defeated and destroyed them, they might break the spirits of the remaining defenders. Even if the defenders stayed strong, Nithka's death could perhaps protect them from the eternal flogging by their ancestors once the Bandit Kings were sent forth into the Ninety Nine Valleys of Tarkai. It was an opportunity they could not pass up, no matter the cost.

Nithka had time to launch two more volleys before the remnants of the Bandit Kings' forces finally arrived, though just barely. Her own troops surged forward to meet them seconds before the final cloud of arrows arrived, but the lethal darts flew far enough that none of her own soldiers were near enough to suffer them. Just as she knew they would, the Bandits headed straight for Nithka, but she was ready for them with a final, desperate bit of spellcraft. Nithka was an accomplished swordsmaster, and there were few on Yorthinandor who could compete with her in single combat. Fortunately for the Caristine commander, foresight was an attribute she prized highly, and she was, as ever, prepared.

The first few attackers were either battered away by Nithka's troops or brushed aside by her own deft skill. Soon, however, their numbers increased, and the danger to her increased along with them. Then she caught sight of her first victim, one of the Bandit Kings themselves, if his garment was any indication. He was flanked on either side by two brawny men only slightly smaller than he was, and all three carried flame-bladed weapons, the Bandit King a flamberge, and his menacing guards the larger, two-handed flambards. Nithka was disinclined to deal with all three at once, and to even attempt to do so would have been decidedly foolish on her part. But one of them alone provided odds very much in her favor.

As quick as a flash of lightning, Nithka extended her free hand toward the approaching Bandit King. A beam of dull light shot out from her appendage, striking him in the chest but doing no visible damage. As the light connected with him, the world seemed to grow dim, and fall softly out of focus, while his features, and hers as well, seemed crisp and sharp. The sensation seemed reflected in her opponent's mind, because he immediately stopped his charge out of fear or confusion. His two comrades, on the other hand, continued to bare down on her, slashing with their massive blades from each direction. As the flambards struck her, however, they passed through her as though she were merely a spirit, a hollow and formless phantom.

The Bandit King's eyes narrowed at her, and he spoke, his voice ringing out like thunder against the now-muted din of the surrounding battle.

"You will die, witch. I, Karpox, heir of Gorhault, command it."

"Laur-u-laur, Karpox," she answered, citing the ancient Yorthinandor term for a hand to hand duel. "You have lived all your life without honor. I will force you to learn it in your death."

Even as she spoke, Karpox's brutes continued to hack away at her without effect. One of her own soldiers tried a similar assault on the Bandit King, with an equal amount of failure. Karpox howled in fury and launched himself at Nithka, and even she was slightly startled at his nearly inhuman speed. Still, Nithka had spent the majority of her life training for just this sort of combat, and she recovered with a subtle sidestep, casually knocking his blade away as he charged past her. He wheeled around instantly, slashing to her right, but she caught the blade with her saber easily, forced it to the other direction, then slashed back, opening a deep gash in his chest. Karpox staggered back a step from the pain, but blood was already seeping out, and Nithka pressed her advantage, stepping in and stabbing deep, ending the scourge of Karpox once and for all.

The moment the Bandit King fell dead, the world seemed to shimmer and return to its usual tint and luster. Karpox's guards had both already fallen to Nithka's troops, but still she had no time to rest. Other enemy soldiers were on her instantly, and three more of the bandits fell to her in magically-mandated single combat before a second of their vicious leaders engaged her, this one naming himself Frelk Bone-Breaker. Although Frelk fared much better than Karpox had, still the Bandit King fell to Nithka at the razor-sharp edge of the Kahvan Saber.

The battle wore on, and although their numbers had dwindled, the remaining forces of the Bandit Kings were proving formidable foes. Nithka shuddered at how this battle might have gone had the two armies met on even equal footing. Or she would have, had she had time. As it was, she was far too busy trying to stay alive. As the commander of the defensive forces and an obvious source of inspiration and power, Nithka was a favorite target of the enemy, and they came at her relentlessly. The constant fatigue of battle and spellcraft was beginning to wear on her, and it was only a matter of time before her strength gave out entirely.

Then she saw him. He stood out immediately on a battlefield of barbarians and brutes. He was short, perhaps the shortest man she had seen on the side of the Bandit Kings. His face showed the clearest signs of not only intelligence, but of understanding. He was a handsome man, and clean-shaven, unlike the majority, if not the entirety, of his comrades. He also moved about the battlefield with an easy indifference. His flamberge was unsheathed, but he carried it almost lazily in his left hand, the tip dangling near the ground as he walked. He used it only when he needed to, killing three of her men in quick succession with an expression that teetered on the brink of boredom. When he locked eyes with Nithka, he began to stroll over toward her like an old acquaintance.

Quickly weighing her options, Nithka decided to exercise the better part of valor, and directed her dueling spell toward a man to this new arrival's right, hoping the battle would claim him before she was forced to do so. But he was fast, as fast as the spell she cast, and he stuck his right hand out to his side, intercepting the light before it reached her intended target. As the world began to fade into the background, the man shook his head, as if admonishing a disobedient child.

"You cannot escape our entwined fate so easily, Nithka of Caristine. You have destroyed a People here today. You will at least hear their epitaph."

Nithka furrowed her brow as she tried to decide what to make of this man. "Who are you?"

"My name is Fershaw, and by your hand I am the last of the Bandit Kings."

"And by my hand, soon there will be none."

"Undoubtedly," Fershaw agreed, which truly surprised Nithka. But the young man continued before she could question him. "My death today is assured. Believe me, I have tried to avoid it. I begged, I pleaded, I even tried to reason with the others, but they wanted to press the attack. I knew it was foolish, but they would not listen. The cogs of this battle were set in motion centuries ago. I inherited this death from my father and his fathers before him."

"If you were so certain of your own defeat," Nithka began with a distrustful glance, "then why did you not run, like so many of your men?"

"And what then?" He scoffed. "Die of starvation come the winter? Die weak and enfeebled at the end of our conqueror's spears? If I am to die, I will at least ride into the Ninety Nine Valleys with my honor intact."

"And what does your kind know of honor? The Bandit Kings have pillaged and murdered across Yorthinandor for longer than either of us have been alive."

Fershaw shook his head. "I refuse to believe that the esteemed Nithka of Caristine is either foolish or ignorant enough to believe that her side is any more honorable than mine."

Nithka was offended almost beyond words at the accusation. "What do you mean?"

The Bandit King smiled a sad, broken sort of smile. "Do you know how I knew we would be defeated here?" She shook her head. "Because no conquered people ever rise above their conquerors by themselves. Only an outside benefactor ever breeds success in revolution. My people had no such benefactor, and now they are sprawled about the battlefield because of it."

"What does that have to do with..."

"But what of your people!" Fershaw interrupted. "Generations ago, you were the oppressed and my ancestors were your betters. How do you think your people cast them down? They made their deals with all the right devils, and now here you stand, trying to coat their shame in a husk of honor!"

This time, Nithka's rage stole her voice, and she could not respond. Instead, she raised her blade and rushed at her opponent, who simply watched her with cold, sad eyes. When she reached him, however, he sprang into action, his wave-bladed weapon dancing through the air almost faster than Nithka could see it. Miraculously, she evaded the attack, although her own strike was horribly and uncharacteristically off-target. Both combatants spun away from one another in a nearly identical maneuver, resulting in a strange sort of circling that caused them to exchange positions. For a moment, they both stood there, sizing one another up. Then, almost as one, they nodded to each other and advanced.

The ensuing barrage of strikes and parries was dizzying, and Nithka was growing concerned. Her dueling spell was a matter of advantage owing to her superior skill in single combat, but this was an unusual circumstance. Fershaw was a master himself, and was left-handed, which was decidedly uncommon on Yorthinandor. Further, the waved contours of his sword, a favorite design of the Bandit Kings and their elite troops, created an uneven vibration whenever their swords met. Nithka still believed she was more than a match for him on a normal day, but she was exhausted from exploits on the battlefield throughout the fight. Fershaw, it seems, had been taking it easy, waiting for this opportunity.

The real opportunity, though, arrived when a fatigued Nithka lost her footing, dropping to one knee. The disadvantage of Nithka's spell was immediately apparent to her. In order to draw both her own frame and that of her opponent far enough out of a world to ensure no interference, she was forced to tie a powerful, magical link between them. This link made planeswalking impossible, and even interfered with her usual, natural ability to draw mana and cast. She was not entirely defenseless when it came to magic during her duels, but it was far more difficult than usual, and natural human panic did not help the process. In that instant, Nithka knew she was dead.

But the sad-eyed Fershaw did the single most surprising thing Nithka had ever heard of a bandit doing. The moment the planeswalker slipped, the Bandit King stopped in his tracks and took one long step backwards, waiting for her to recover. Cautiously, she rose back to her feet and steadied herself before advancing on him again. He moved to intercept her, but she gambled and leapt to the right. Her wild bet paid off as Fershaw's sword sliced the air next to her while the Kahvan Saber lodged itself deep in his gut. They both looked down at the wound in disbelief, then back up at each other. The satisfaction in Fershaw's eyes was perplexing.

"Why?" Nithka asked in a low, haunted voice.

"Because," he began with a cough, straining to keep his eyes open. "Because I would rather die with honor than live without it. Because..." he coughed again, deeper and more disturbing this time, "without honor, there is no life."

Nithka swallowed once, and as she withdrew her mystical sword, the last of her enemies fell dead at her feet, the final Bandit Kings gone forever from Yorthinandor. The world returned to normal, and as the battlefield regained its focus, Nithka could see that the battle was won. The only bandits she could see were either fleeing or dead, apart from a few who had surrendered. The defenders of Caristine had suffered losses within their ranks, but those losses were mercifully few. Nithka's strategy had paid off and led to this final, desperate victory.

It was nearly two hours later when an exhausted Nithka made her way back towards her office in the citadel of Caristine. The battle was won, and it was the duty of other, lower functionaries to see to the cleanup afterwards. The planeswalker had stayed around long enough to get an approximate count of her men and give a little speech of thanks and inspiration to those who survived. It was unfortunate that any of her men had to die in the defense, but she knew that every one of them would have given their lives for the safety of their city and the final defeat of the Bandit Kings. She was simply thankful that so few had to.

As she opened the door to her outer office, Amm, her personal clerk and scribe, rushed forward to greet her. The small, simple, brown-haired woman smiled and pointed toward Nithka's inner office as she approached.

"There's a man here to see you, Commander Nithka. I think you'll want to see him immediately."

Nithka tried to stop herself from rolling her eyes, but failed. "Why is that, Amm? Let me guess. He must be handsome."

Amm smiled. "Maddeningly so, yes," she paused, meaningfully. "But that's not what I mean. He asked to see the Commander."

"A lot of people ask to see the Commander, Amm."

She started to turn away and walk toward her door when Amm answered. "He asked to see Commander Baracon."

Nithka stopped dead in her tracks at the mention of her mentor. She suspected that she must have gone a little pale, but there were no mirrors nearby to say for certain.

"Did you tell him?"

Amm shook her head. "It's not my place."

"Of course not," Nithka answered with another roll of her eyes, although she knew the woman was right. More right than she knew, actually. It was inconceivable that anyone on Yorthinandor did not know of Baracon's passing into the Ninety Nine Valleys. And to one such as Nithka, that could only mean one thing.

With a heavy sigh, she pushed open the door to her inner office and stepped inside. There she saw her visitor, tall, fierce and gorgeous, with broad shoulders, black hair and fiery eyes. He wore a simple white shirt, left partially open to reveal a small portion of his muscular chest, and trousers of a deep red material, probably some sort of leather. His face was chiseled and perfect, and he looked at her with an impassible sort of appraisal, like a farmer might survey an underperforming field. Still, had she been a bit younger and had she lacked certain pieces of knowledge, she might well had swooned over the look of him. As it was, she shuddered at what was about to happen.

"I am Commander Nithka of Caristine. How may I help you?"

The stranger looked her up and down, his expression remaining unchanged. "I asked to see Commander Baracon."

He offered no follow-up to this statement of fact, and for a few moments, there was an awkward silence as each expected the other to speak. Finally, Nithka did. "I am sorry to be the bearer of ill news, but Commander Baracon is dead."

The man stared at her for a while, blinking only once before cocking his head sideways and inhaling then exhaling sharply. "This is...unwelcome news, to be sure. When did the good Commander meet his fate?"

Nithka thought for a moment, trying to count. "Well over a decade ago. More than that, I think. Perhaps nearly two. He was a mentor of mine, although I did not succeed him directly."

"This is exceedingly inconvenient. Baracon and I have an arrangement, and he was yet to fulfill his portion of our deal."

Nithka looked over her visitor with a questioning eye. He had the appearance of a man in his mid-twenties, perhaps thirty at the most. "I doubt a dead man can be held to a deal made between him and a child, which surely you must have been when Baracon was still living."

The man smiled, then glanced down at the Kahvan Saber hanging from her belt. "Not he, no. But perhaps his heir and I still have business to attend to."

"Baracon had no children," Nithka remarked hastily.

The man smirked. "Some heirs are tied to the dead by far more than blood, and if you carry that sword, you are Baracon's successor in more than title."

Reflexively, she laid a hand gently on the Saber's hilt, feeling its power. "Who are you?"

The man's eyes narrowed at her. "I am not a fool."

"I did not ask what you weren't..."

A sort of fire seemed to spring into the man's eyes, and he took three long steps toward her, closing the distance quickly and sharply. He pulled up uncomfortably close to her, his right shoulder nearly pressed against her own. She could feel his anger radiating from him like heat from a campfire, but when he spoke, his voice was chillingly soft. "I am a dangerous man who is owed something."

Nithka quickly ran through her options. Baracon had told her certain things, and she knew more than she was letting on, but she knew instinctively that this man had not lied. He was dangerous, she could feel that, but a part of her needed to test him, despite the danger. "What is your name?"

As the man whispered his answer, Nithka could feel steam brush by her ear. "I think you already know. I want you to say it."

Nithka stared straight ahead and sighed heavily. She had been dreading this moment. Baracon had told her this might happen, and she had feared it for years, but there was nothing she could do. "Chardis."

The man stepped back and smiled. "I am pleased that Baracon has properly prepared his protégé. Now, I presume our dear Baracon would not have been so much a fool as to entrust that Saber to any but another planeswalker."

His bluntness surprised her, but from her mentor's description, she realized it shouldn't have. "I do possess that gift, yes."

Chardis sneered. "You are far too young to know the true gift. Now it is perhaps more of a curse."

"Baracon never thought so, not even as his death approached."

"Baracon was a fool," Chardis replied sharply. "A fool who made certain bargains. Do you know the history of that Saber?"

Nithka snorted at the question. "I do."

"I want to be sure," taunted Chardis. "A long time ago, this plane was ruled by a very different class of people."

"The Ten Tyrants," Nithka agreed, growing annoyed. "The ancestors of the Bandit Kings. They were defeated centuries ago, by Baracon himself."

"Hardly by himself," Chardis added as his smirk returned. "Baracon was born in a village called Kahva, a city prized for its archers."

"I already know all of this, Chardis. I have taken the emblem of the Lost City as my personal standard."

"Baracon formed a rebellion against the Ten Tyrants," Chardis ignored her, "and his Spark afforded him some initial success. So, to get at him, they turned their sights on Kahva. The town would have been destroyed, and Baracon was never very powerful. He needed help, and he turned to us."

"You and your sister." Nithka added.

Chardis gave a sort of half nod, and continued. "We were far stronger than he, and we were able to construct a solution to both of Baracon's problems. We ripped the village of Kahva from the very grasp of this plane, and deposited her in a self-sustaining pocket plane, separate but connected for all eternity."

"And then you forged the Saber," said Nithka, anxious to get to the point.

"Precisely," he confirmed. "The Saber is forever linked to the pocket plane, and when activated, creates a portal from the village. The price the Kahvans pay for their eternal safety is to man their bows whenever the Kahvan Saber calls them. It protected them, and gave Baracon the edge he needed to defeat the Ten Tyrants. And in exchange," Chardis paused to get her attention. "He bound himself by his honor to serve the Dual-Walkers. More than that, he bound the bearer of that sword to the same. As its heir, you are honor-bound to fulfill his oath."

"I know."

Chardis raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

She nodded. "Baracon explained all of this to me before he passed. He said he would never lock another into such servitude through deceit. I knew I was risking this from the moment I accepted the sword. I will obey your orders as I would my own Generals, regardless of how little you deserve such reverence."

Chardis's smirk deepened. "I care only for your obedience, not your reasons. Besides, we may yet become friends."

"Baracon told me much of you, Chardis. I doubt friendship is a possibility."

"Oh, no? And what if I ordered it?" The Dual-Walker laughed at his own jest, then shook his head. "We are not so different. As I arrived on Yorthinandor, were you not vanquishing a rebellion against Caristine? It is for an identical function that I have sought your assistance. I control a plane, and unwelcome forces have influenced some of my people. The most undesirable of them have begun a rebellion against us, and I need you to help me quell it."

"I have no interest in your politics, Chardis. I simply want to get this over with, and the quicker the better."

"Straight to business, I see. You are much like your mentor. When will you be ready to leave?"

She looked around her office, thinking. With the Bandit Kings destroyed, there was no reason for her to stay on Yorthinandor any longer. Even if she survived the plots of the Dual-Walkers, she had travelled little since becoming a planeswalker, and perhaps it was time. With her hand on the hilt of the Kahvan Saber, she looked back into Chardis's eyes and nodded.

"I am ready now."

Thick, black smoke billowed in the marshwood clearing, smelling of burnt vegetation and obscuring the melee taking place within. The sound of clashing metal and crackling flame cut through the evening air, accompanied by constant grunts of exertion and occasional screams of pain and fear from the dying. The sound was cacophonous and thundering, as if this one little skirmish must be heard across all of Skavlakur, perhaps all of Arbagoth. The dust of battle mingled with the smoke, resulting in a spectacular view of danger and confusion.

On the other side of the clearing, staring into the chaos, Lukas Harran stood and bit his lip against his own annoyance. This occurrence, or very similar ones, were becoming all too common a scene lately, and Lukas didn't like that. In his life, he had made his share of mistakes and hasty decisions, but that didn't mean he liked seeing others make those same errors, particularly when those erring were friends of his. This was the fourth time in half as many days that this sort of scrape had occurred, and Lukas was quickly losing his patience.

A sudden wind rose from the west and blew some of the smoke and dust away, which allowed Lukas to regain sight of his friend. In the middle of the fray was Kahr-ret-Taris, the deposed pharaoh of Skavlakur and a planeswalker of significant power but extremely limited experience. Despite being surrounded by several enemy troops, Kahr was half naked, a decision derived from his strange insistence that he be shirtless at nearly all times. In contrast, Lukas himself wore full armor which, although far lighter than it looked, afforded at least some protection.

Still, though, Lukas had to give credit where it was due. In all his travels, he had never met a more impressive and accomplished battlemage than Kahr-ret-Taris. Despite the countless skirmishes he found himself in, his rich, mahogany, heavily-muscled skin did not bare a single scar. For a man his size, he moved about a battle as nimbly as an acrobat. In his right hand, Kahr carried what he called a moorent, a bronze sword with a blade like a crescent moon. With this he slashed and parried with a grace that belied his size and personality. With his left hand, he flung his spells into his opponents, spells to delay, decay, and increasingly to incinerate his foes. His lethal combination of skills were usually enough to keep him safe.

This time, however, it seemed as though he was in over his head. He had thinned the numbers of this band of the Pretender's men, but he was quickly running out of energy, and Lukas could see that things would soon start going badly for the true pharaoh of Skavlakur. Lukas shook his head in his annoyance and sighed, then concentrated on the fetid marshlands that surrounded them in every direction. There was still a part of him that despised the oily, stinking mana that seeped through such environments, but he had been forced to use them for a long, long time now, as well as the dark things that feel most at home in them. One of those things would come in handy just about now.

While keeping one eye on Kahr-ret-Taris, Lukas mentally thumbed through the catalog of infernal beings he had conquered over the years, the imps, devils and demons he had captured in the hope of putting them to a nobler purpose. He sighed again as he hoped this qualified. Then he found the one he was looking for, a lesser demon Lukas considered even more expendable than the others, but who was also one of the more tamed of his thralls. With a surge of effort, Lukas opened a brief fold in the æther which surrounded and enfolded the worlds and summoned his demon into being, a creature bound unquestioningly to Lukas's will.

The link between summoner and summoned was such that no words were needed for this unleashed demon to understand his purpose. Almost without hesitation, Lukas's demon launched itself headlong into the fray, careful to avoid the magically enhanced moorent of Kahr-ret-Taris, and even more careful to avoid the jets of flame pouring from the pharaoh's hand. The demon was not a particularly strong specimen of his kind, but he was more than adequate to tip the scales of this small battle in Kahr's favor. The demon ripped through three of the enemy before the rest turned to deal with the new attacker, and in that instant, they were lost. Kahr's lifelong training as a battlemage made him a brutal opportunist in a fight, and even that momentary distraction was enough to spur him into a devastating attack. Less than two minutes after the demon had joined the fray, the skirmish was over.

Lukas sighed a third time, this one even deeper, and exiled his demon back to wherever such things are kept while Kahr panted for breath in the clearing. Lukas stood where he was for several long moments until the pharaoh finally moved over to join him, at which point Lukas turned and began walking through the Skavlakur marshwoods. Kahr caught up to him and uttered a whispered and breathless thanks, but neither of them said another word to one another as they walked onward. Lukas's outward expression was impassive and neutral, but inside he was steaming, and Kahr was wise enough not to press the issue. Time passed slowly as they walked, made longer by their mutual silence.

Eventually, they came to their camp, a ragtag collection of tattered tents and sloppy campfires. The guards saluted them with a deep and honest reverence as they approached, and two broke from their duties at the outskirts to escort the planeswalkers to Kahr's command tent, located at the back of the camp with one side against a solid stone outcrop. They saluted them again as Lukas and Kahr disappeared within, and although Lukas didn't bother to check, he presumed that they took up position as personal guards outside. This, of course, annoyed Lukas even more.

Lukas made his way directly to a small table set up against the left wall of the tent, upon which was set a carafe of Skavlakur wine and several goblets. Skavlakur wine was not particularly rich, but it was very strong, and Lukas usually cut it with water so as not to overly dull his senses. Today, however, he poured it straight and took a long drink before topping off his goblet again. When he finally turned around, he saw Kahr staring at him, the pharaoh's expression a merger of concern and confusion. Lukas took another big drink as Kahr spoke.

"What is bothering you, my sweet friend?"

Lukas was beginning to despise it when Kahr called him that. "Don't tell me you don't know, Kahr."

The larger man shrugged. "Your feelings remain ever a mystery to me, Lukas Harran."

Lukas rolled his eyes, perhaps more than he intended to. "Then suppose you explain to me what the hell that was back there?"

Kahr-ret-Taris's brow furrowed as he tried to grasp Lukas's meaning. "I am afraid that I do not understand your question. Do you mean the battle? They were forces loyal to the Usurper, Aap-ret-Syrris. They were our mortal enemies. They deserved their fate."

Lukas was shaking his head even before Kahr had finished speaking. "That's not what I mean, Kahr. Of course, they were our enemies. But why did you have to kill them?"

"Are you suggesting I should have allowed them to flee?" Kahr asked with shock in his voice. "They would have run to their vile master and told him our location!"

"You're not listening to me, Kahr!" Lukas retorted, raising his voice a bit. "I mean, why did you have to kill them? You, personally? They hadn't seen us yet! It would have been a simple matter to return to camp and order the troops out after them. Failing that, you and I are both more than capable of killing from a distance. Yet despite all of this, you charged into combat like a child to his first feast!"

Kahr-ret-Taris had his head lowered, but his eyes were quivering in something close to rage. "You wound me, Lukas. Do you truly believe I do these things because I..."

"I have no idea why you do these things, Kahr!" Lukas interrupted. "Explain it to me! Explain to me what we've been doing here. How long has it been, Kahr? Six months? Eight? What have we been doing here this entire time? Have we only been gathering glories for you?"

"How dare you!" Kahr exploded. Lukas was suddenly concerned he had pushed his friend too far. He had never seen Kahr this angry. "I am the Pharaoh! I am the god-king of Skavlakor! I cannot show weakness to my loyal subjects!"

"So it all comes down to what these people think of you?" Lukas yelled.

"Of course, it does!" Kahr screamed back as the tent flap flew open to reveal the two guards who had escorted them. They looked concerned, and eyed Lukas suspiciously. The foremost looked to Kahr as he spoke.

"Is everything alright, my lord?" They both fidgeted with their weapons as they waited for the pharaoh to respond. Kahr took a few moments to compose himself before he did so.

"Yes, my faithful guards." He paused, glancing back at Lukas. "Lord Harran and I were just discussing the Holy Revolution. I am certain you can understand our anger at the Usurper and his heretics."

Both troops genuflected in front of their pharaoh. "Of course, my Lord." They said in unison, their heads bowed.

Kahr nodded to them. "I thank you for your concern, however. You have proven yourselves vigilant and honorable guards. Please return to your posts with my thanks."

Both guards saluted and moved to obey, and Lukas noticed the obvious pride in their expressions at their master's praise. When they had left, Kahr took a big step toward his friend, his expression softer and his voice lower as he continued.

"Of course it comes down to what they think of me, my friend. Think of all we have seen in these past months. When you and I first arrived here from Helkavin, what did we see? Did we not see a people in peril? Did we not see a land raped and pillaged by the very pretender who claimed to rule it? Did we not see a people in need of hope?"

Lukas took a deep breath. He disliked getting so upset, but it had been a very long stretch for the planeswalker, and he was growing weary of the entire rebellion. He longed to move on, to continue his own search. He had stayed only out of his quick friendship with the perplexing pharaoh, and both knew that would not hold him forever.

Lukas sighed. "I won't deny that, Kahr. The tyranny of Aap-ret-Syrris and the rest of his family was apparent from the moment we arrived, and it was confirmed by everyone we spoke with."

Kahr nodded. "And have we not seen how the ret-Syrris family has oppressed and beaten down my people from the very moment they murdered my father and I?"

"They didn't kill you, Kahr," Lukas reminded him.

The pharaoh's eyes narrowed slightly. "You know my meaning, Lukas. These people, my people, have inherited a dark oppression for longer than any of them have lived. It is all they have known, apart from the fabled stories of the ret-Taris, the rightful god-kings. They have died and lived with the name Kahr-ret-Taris as nothing more than a hopeful legend."

"What does that have to do with you throwing yourself into hopeless battles?"

"Everything," Kahr said, surprisingly calmly. "I am a god to them. I must remain so."

"You are not a god, Kahr, you are a planeswalker. They don't know that, I know, but their belief won't keep you alive if no one is there to save you next time. You have to remember that whatever else you might be, you are their leader now."

"It is not that simple," Kahr insisted. "You know well our numbers, Lukas Harran. Our people are loyal and determined, but they are neither numerous nor well trained. Aap-ret-Syrris may be a despicable tyrant and murderer, but he holds the vast riches of Skavlakur in his coffers. His army is large, and the elite guards are some of the most well-trained and deadly forces on Arbagoth. We are outnumbered and outclassed."

"We do have advantages, Kahr. And we've been careful to avoid direct confrontation."

There was sadness in Kahr-ret-Taris's eyes. "You and I both know all too well that we cannot avoid it forever. Rumors abound that Aap-ret-Syrris has mobilized the entire Imperial army and is searching for us even now. Our people know this, as well. No mere mortal man could hope to keep their morale strong in the face of such adversity."

"But if their leader is a god..." Lukas began.

"As they believe me to be..." Kahr continued.

"Then they would have something to believe in," Lukas concluded.

Kahr sighed heavily. "When I came here, it was to regain my throne, and I would not disgrace myself as a liar to claim that I do not desire what was taken from me. But these are my people, and they were a people in dire need of a revolution. But alone, they could not have succeeded. They would have lost faith in themselves. No mere mortal man could have led them. But a god may keep their faith, and if they keep their faith, they keep their strength. I need them to regain my crown, but more than that, they need me to regain their freedom."

Lukas looked at his friend as if for the first time. He was a different sort of man than the one Lukas had rescued from the demon bloodrock on Helkavin. Every time Kahr had thrown himself into a near-death scenario, Lukas became increasingly convinced he was only worried about his own name, his own image. To hear the fire with which Kahr spoke of the plight of his people was not just reassuring to Lukas, but almost inspirational. Even if it was only just this one glimpse, Kahr had now shown himself to be not just a leader his people could follow, but a man Lukas could respect.

Lukas turned around and walked back over to the carafe of Skavlakur wine. Silently he poured two glasses, then walked over and handed one to Kahr-ret-Taris. "That's what I needed to hear from you, Kahr. I needed to hear that this wasn't all about you."

The displaced pharaoh took a long sip of the wine and smiled sadly. "Did you think that it was, my friend?"

"I feared that it was to you, yes." Lukas also took a drink of the strong, dull liquid. "You know, I've been thinking of leaving for some time now."

Kahr's mouth parted slightly, but then closed as he nodded. "I have suspected this. To search for your..." he paused, deliberately, "friend?"

"Gabrielle," Lukas confirmed, though he spoke her name more to himself than to Kahr. "Had your answer been less..." he paused as well, equally intentionally, "noble, then I would have left you and your rebellion to your own devices."

"And now?" Kahr asked, hopeful. "Now you will stay with us a bit longer?"

Lukas took another drink of wine and nodded. "For a while yet. Each day you gain supporters, Kahr. The fact that Aap-ret-Syrris has mobilized against us is a sign of his fear. We are a threat to him now. If we can avoid that direct battle for just a little while longer, our forces may grow much stronger while his grow exhausted chasing us. I believe we can win."

Kahr was grinning his refreshingly honest grin. "I thank you, my friend. You give me the strength I strive to give my people. I lament that I have kept you from your search for so long."

Lukas nodded. "It was my choice, Kahr. Gabrielle needs to be freed, to be released from her torment, but in life she would have wanted me to help ease your people's suffering first. Still, as when we began, I make no promises for how long I will stay."

"Nor would I hold you to one, Lukas Harran."

Lukas looked down at his goblet, nearly empty again. He had drunk far more than he usually did, and it was high time he retired to his own tent for the night. While still eying the dwindled contents of his glass, Lukas spoke. "I guess that just leaves one thing to say."

"What is that, my friend?"

Lukas raised his goblet toward Kahr. "Here's to Pharaoh Kahr-ret-Taris."

Kahr smiled, and raised his own glass to Lukas's. "To the people of Skavlakur."

They clanked their goblets, downed the remainder of their wine, and bid one another good night. As Lukas made his way to his private tent, staggering slightly under the strength of the Skavlakur wine, he glanced up at the moon hanging low in the evening sky. He thought again of Gabrielle, hoping he was right in his decision. He thought of Kahr, and hoped the pharaoh was right in his. But most of all, he hoped the people of Skavlakur would survive their decisions.

"Events are moving quickly, dear sister."

Syl looked up at her brother from where she sat, slumped in uncommonly poor posture in her cushioned seat upholstered in black velvet. A few stray strands of her hair were slightly displaced, another inconsistency with her usual, flawless countenance. Her eyes, for perhaps the first time in centuries, were more sunken than scheming. She would never admit it, not even to her own brother, but she was exhausted, and was beginning to show it.

"Yes, brother. Perhaps all of this will shortly be over, and we can return to the way things were for so very long."

Chardis turned around to look at Syl, his eyebrows raising slightly at this. "Do you believe that is possible now?"

Syl sighed, heavily. "No. The enchantments that were destroyed cannot easily be replaced. Not anymore, at least. But we cannot so much as begin to replace that which was lost until our people have ceased their...tantrums. The land cries out in chaos, and refuses to honor our hard-won bonds."

"Chaos has its uses," Chardis said, before echoing her sigh. "But you are right. For over a thousand years, these planes have known order! They have known peace!"

"And so have we, dear brother," Syl added.

"Until that insufferable planeswalker arrived. I have never wanted anything so much as I want her dead by my own hands."

The familiar smirk finally returned to Syl's pale, perfect face. "Oh, no, dear brother? I seem to remember one or two objects of your insatiable desire spring up over the last two millennia. Do you remember the citadel at Delus Ford?"

A rare, genuine smile crossed Chardis's face. He had not thought of that battle in several lifetimes. "My first conquest. That was a glorious battle."

"Our first conquest, dear brother," Syl said, pushing herself to her feet and walking slowly over toward him. "Have you forgotten how I procured you your first army?"

Her brother's eyes were alive with memory. "Ah, yes. What was that young lordling's name? Coryn? Cyrin?"

"His name is long since faded from my memory," she lied. "What I remember most is your lust for battle. For destruction. For conquest."

Chardis's smile transformed into the smirk the two Dual-Walkers so often wore. "I wonder if the citadel at Delus Ford still stands."

"It hardly matters, dear brother. That old fortress was drafty anyway. But it did get us what we wanted, and afforded us even greater conquests thereafter. It was nothing more than a means to an end, and a lesson we both learned well."

Chardis nodded. "Indeed. But still, as greatly as I wanted to take Delus Ford, as much as I wanted to gut that pompous man who held it, I do not believe my desire then can compare to my thirst for Daneera's death."

Syl considered for a moment, and then stepped even closer. "Perhaps not, but what of the Amphiseum? Never before had I ever seen you desire so much a thing most believed impossible."

Again, Chardis smiled, his mind stretching back through the centuries across countless memories of battles and blood. "Do you think there are any alive who can truly appreciate the genius of that place?"

Syl smirked. "None but we two, dear brother. Even we toiled and studied for a century before we created a plane that could survive almost anything."

The mood of Chardis darkened at this comment. "Even that abominable tragedy that struck down the gods that formed it in the first place."

His sister frowned, but continued anyway. "I remember well how you spoke of our genius, brother. Our accomplishment. Surely, not even the vaunted Thran of Dominaria understood the use of crystal artifice the way you and I do. There are likely none who have ever lived who could have so ingeniously melded artifice and enchantment into a plane that can eternally sustain itself."

"Until we choose to destroy it," Chardis reminded her with a smirk, which she mirrored.

"Until then. But still, I remember how you lusted for the Games. I remember the wild fire in your eyes as we sat in our pavilion, watching those gladiators in their vainglorious folly, killing and dying for us, all while laboring under the misapprehension that they were the important ones."

Chardis laughed earnestly at the thought. "I remember them, dear sister. Jari Sholandorin and Phreksha Barb-Tail."

Syl's laugh was more demure, and more venomous. "Keledon, and Morgezka Shanak."

"All thought our crowds had come to see them fight some exotic creature from a forgotten corner of the Multiverse."

"But they were there for our pleasure, dear brother. For our amusement. And I recall with crystalline clarity how you loved the Games, and how you hungered for the blood of those combatants."

Chardis scowled, his handsome features twisting into a far less appealing version of himself. "I still say I want our current enemies dead far more."

Syl turned away from him as her own smirk melted away. "And what of that little strumpet of a siren you always invited to the Games? The Alceme Isle harlot? Do not tell me your lusts never turned your eyes in her direction."

Chardis sighed mostly to himself. Although it had been centuries since he had even thought of the citadel at Delus Ford, he thought of Penelophine far more often. Chardis's upper lip curled as he spoke. "Even for me, some desires are never fulfilled."

Syl spun back around, her familiar smirk yet again plastered on her face. "Oh, that is a pity, dear brother. And is that why you seek Daneera so fervently? Do you hope she will look upon you with softer eyes than the siren ever did?"

"What!" Chardis yelled, his eyes nearly catching fire. "That common mouse? You know full well that I want her dead for destroying our connection to the planes of the Wheel. You know perfectly well that..." He stopped suddenly, realizing that he was of course correct. Syl did know perfectly well, and her all-too usual smirk was, in this instance, directed squarely at him. "Why, dear sister. Even after two thousand years, you can still tease me as you did when we were children."

Her smile shocked him, if only because it was entirely honest. There was silence between them for a time, until Syl brought the conversation back to where it had begun. "Are Baracon's whelp and old Tharandias in position?"

Chardis nodded. "Yes. All of our people are ready to move."

"When?"

Chardis simply shrugged. "Whenever this Delver of yours concludes his work. Are you certain about that one?"

"Of course, dear brother. The Shorecerers were quite adamant about his abilities, and a cursory glance into his mind confirmed their words."

"You did not conduct a full probe?"

"That one has some small knowledge of the magicks of the mind, and he draws his power from the same sources as its masters. He would have had no recourse to stop me, of course, but I could not have probed him thoroughly without risking his knowledge."

"That one is quite taken with you. It may not have mattered."

"It would have. Besides, he is a man of tremendous knowledge, but fortunately far less sense. I have never before met a man so knowledgeable, yet so susceptible to deception. And that is our strength against him. Our holds on Tharandias and this...Nithka woman, are far stronger than anything else we could produce for Denner Fabellian. Only deception will work against that one."

"As you wish, dear sister. I care nothing for how we treat the boy, so long as he fulfills his purpose and finds them."

"I believe he will. But I must ask again, why do we need his results before we move on the Mirrored Cities? Surely, if they were in the Wheel, we would know about it."

"I have no doubt that they are far from here, dear sister. That is not my concern. Is it not you who always preaches caution? Now that Daneera knows that we are not done with her, she may yet come after us, and what force in the Multiverse could guess at the actions of that interloper Fisco Vane? I want all my pieces on the board before I begin this game."

"This is far more than a game, brother. This is our lives. The rest of them. We cannot afford mistakes."

"Which is precisely why I wait. If we strike each of our enemies at once, they will have no time to prepare. We must negate our foes, retake the Mirrored Cities, and be prepared for trouble on Galanos, all at once."

"Galanos?" Syl scoffed, almost shocked. "Galanos is the only shard to remain loyal. Shurdyn, the Mirrored City of Mavros, is in the hands of those hideous Covus hags. The Igknighted, those ingrates of Kokkinos, control Bornkys, and even Lefkos's Yyrn is firmly occupied by those rebels and their pretender child-king. Only Ilym remains ours."

"We will take all three back soon, dear sister. But I tell you, I have felt a cold wind blow from your precious island realm, even here on Anissem."

Syl shrugged. "You have never liked Galanos, Chardis. I put little stock in your fears."

"Perhaps," Chardis said as if in warning. "But mark my words, there are eyes and ears on Galanos that do not belong to you, and we would do well to seek them out, and cleave them from the disloyal faces that wear them."

"Brother, we have enough real dangers to concern ourselves with. Do not fear the Islands. I command the hearts of the people there at least as much as you have any of your most faithful soldiers throughout all the centuries. We do not..." she stopped suddenly, looking quickly off to her left. "Mind yourself now, dear brother. Our Delver is on his way."

"He had best be carrying good news."

"Manners, dear brother. Remember what I said. We must show this Denner Fabellian only what he wishes to see."

His eyes narrowed at his sister. "I would rather you did not show him everything he wishes to see, dear sister."

Syl simply smirked at him and said nothing. After a few moments, a nearby door leading to a stairway flew open and Denner Fabellian strolled through, a wide smile on his face and two rolls of paper held in his hands. He spotted the Dual-Walkers immediately and made his way across the wide hall to join them, his eyes straying from Syl only occasionally. Chardis eyed Denner with suspicion, but stole a glance at his sister, who had, in the short time they had waited for the Delver's arrival, fixed her slightly skewed hair and composed herself to her usual flawless appearance. Denner smiled even wider, while Chardis fought back a scowl.

"Ahh, Mr. Fabellian," Syl began. "I trust you have found your accommodations with us to be satisfactory. Has everything been to your liking?"

"Everything has been spectacular, Lady Syl," he beamed, then nodded sharply toward the other Dual-Walker. "Chardis. But please, call me Denner."

"Very well, Denner," Syl answered with a smile, consenting to use his first name as she did every time they spoke. "So you have been enjoying your stay in the Mirror Palace?"

"Very much so," Denner admitted. "In all my travels, I have never seen a place like this before. But I must ask, just out of curiosity, you understand. Are there no windows in this place? I have yet to see one, or even a glimpse of the plane beyond."

The twins shared a quick glance, but Chardis was quick to answer the question. "Unfortunately, there is nothing to see beyond the Palace."

This surprised Denner. "Nothing? What do you mean?"

Syl stepped forward as she answered instead of her brother. "Denner, do you remember when we met, and I told you the past few months had not gone well for us?"

Denner Fabellian, who remembered everything with unalterable precision, tried not to laugh. Even if his were a normal mind, he doubted he could forget his first meeting with the beautiful Syl. "Of course."

"Sadly, some of that misfortune extends far further back into the past. Although the Mirror Palace retains its beauty and grandeur, the plane on which it sits is little better than a wasteland now."

"A wasteland?" Denner said, his brow furrowing. "Then, why stay here?"

"This is our home," Chardis said with his closest approximation of sincerity. "Our family has lived in this place for over a thousand years."

Syl tried not to laugh at her brother’s underhanded joke as she continued. "And we still feel like we can make things work. If we can find our friends, the ones you are searching for, we can perhaps return our lands to their former glory."

Denner lit up a bit at that. "Ah, yes! Your friends! I have some news about that."

Again, the twins shared a glance. Chardis took a step closer to the Delver. "It is good news, I trust."

"Mostly," Denner said, almost dismissively as he approached a nearby table. While he was turned away, Syl shot Chardis a look that cooled his temper at being spoken to in that manner. Wordlessly, Denner unrolled one of the two scrolls he carried.

Syl moved over next to him, and close. "Success so soon? Truly, Denner, you are a marvel. Please, tell me what you have found."

Denner smiled again, then pointed to the scroll, which contained several strange markings and a long, twisting line. "Well, I found the woman. She was pretty easy. Have either of you two ever worked with an aether map before?"

"Yes," Chardis said as he paced behind the other two. "Although I admit it was some time ago, and every map is drafted by a different hand, and a different mind."

"Very true," Denner admitted. "But this should get the idea across. As you both know, geography doesn't exactly exist in the Blind Eternities, at least not like we know it. But there are certain patterns of energy that can be followed, if you know what you're looking for."

The twins looked at each other, both fighting their natural urges at being told something they both knew better than the man telling them. He was, after all, only hinting at the most basic of principles they had used to construct the Amphiseum centuries earlier. Still, for the time being, it was best to humor the Delver.

"So, we can follow these patterns of yours straight to her?" Syl asked, more to get Denner to continue than actual curiosity.

Denner, for his part, seemed to enjoy his role as a teacher, and continued. "Well, not so much follow them, more use them as landmarks, so to speak. It will require a good deal of concentration while 'walking, but it should be easy enough."

Denner rolled up the aether map and handed it to Syl, who handed it back to Chardis while speaking to the Delver. "Thank you, Denner. This means a great deal to us."

"Oh, but I have more!" Denner said, unfurling the second scroll. "This one proved more difficult for some reason, but I was also able to find the Bird."

"Were you?" Syl said in her mock enthusiasm. "That is wonderful!"

"Where?" Chardis asked, simply.

With a wide grin, Denner pointed to a dull point on a second aether map. "Here. I have to admit, it took me a long time to pin him down. But there is no doubt he's there."

"Excellent." Chardis said, and this time his tone truly was genuine. Things were finally starting to fall into place for the Dual-Walkers. "And what of the Man? Did you find the third?"

Denner sighed heavily, and despite Chardis having asked the question, Denner looked to Syl as he answered. "I am very sorry, but for some reason, I can't find the Man. I don't understand it. I have always been able to find anything or anybody I have ever looked for, but for some reason, he's hidden from me."

Both the twins fought through their anger at the failure in order to maintain their deception. Syl was the first to respond. "Do not concern yourself with that, Denner. Perhaps we will find our old friend sometime in the future."

Denner nodded, frowning at the thought of having disappointed her. "I really don't understand it, though. Usually I feel at least an inkling of what I'm looking for. Sometimes it takes longer to find than others, like the Bird, but I always feel something. Maybe your friend is dead," he offered.

"I suppose that is a possibility," Syl admitted half-heartedly.

"Not that one," Chardis said. "He is a survivor, despite himself."

Denner simply shrugged. "I could try again, of course. Maybe if I concentrated harder, or if you could get me something of his..."

"Nonsense, Denner," Syl soothed. "If you wish, you can try again in a few days, but in the meantime, I believe we owe you your payment. All things considered, you have done an excellent job, and my brother and I thank you."

Before Denner could respond, Syl had turned around and grabbed a small, rectangular piece of deep-blue glass and handed it to the Delver. "This key will allow you access to the library I spoke of, on the plane of Galanos."

"Galanos?" Denner asked. "Where is that?"

Chardis could not contain his laugh, although he did manage to keep it civil. "I would have thought a Delver like you would have no need of directions."

Syl laughed politely as well, but gently laid a hand on Denner’s arm and started leading him to a nearby archway. "My brother jests with you, Denner. We both know you can find Galanos with little difficulty, but I will show you a way there that is much quicker."

Denner smiled, both at the light-hearted joke and the proximity of Syl, as she led him through the archway and into the portal room, where there stood four large mirrors set in ornate, colored frames, each perhaps eight or nine feet tall. She walked him up to the mirror framed in blue. She reached up to a small crystal set into a small hole on the side of the frame and paused before touching it.

"Recent problems Chardis and I have had with security have necessitated locking the portals from this side." Syl then grabbed the small crystal and removed it, causing the mirror to hum to life and shimmer, as if reality itself were weakened in that one, small piece of the plane.

"Portals?" Denner asked, slightly confused.

"Oh, of course!" Syl said. "I have not yet told you about our portals! They link us to other worlds, where we have certain dealings from time to time. This one, as you may have surmised, leads to Galanos. You will find a wizard on the other side who will happily direct you to the Library. He is relatively new, so do please bear with him. His successor met with a series of unfortunate and painful accidents, I fear."

She glanced back at Chardis, who had followed them over. He was trying to suppress a laugh when Denner looked his way. Chardis caught himself in time and shook his head in mock sympathy. "Tragic, really."

Denner nodded his understanding, thinking the Dual-Walkers serious, and turned back to Syl. "Thank you for everything, Lady Syl. For freeing me from the Shorecerers, for this opportunity to study in this library, for everything."

Syl nodded as humbly as she could manage. "I thank you, Denner Fabellian. With your help, my brother and I may yet see our wishes granted."

Denner grinned for a last time, turned toward the mirror portal, and stepped through. After a moment, Syl silently reached up and replaced the small crystal, causing the mirror to cease its hum and return to its ordinary reflective surface.

"We should have simply killed him," Chardis said, leaning casually against the archway. "It would have been easy enough."

"Nonsense," Syl said, moving over to stand across from her brother. "He is no danger to us. And he may yet prove useful. In all our years, dear brother, have you ever met another planeswalker with his skill? One who can find objects and even people across the eternal void? His is a rare gift, and I would rather it be at our disposal than lost forever."

"Perhaps, dear sister. But I say that man is more trouble than his abilities are worth, and Denner Fabellian on Galanos is a disaster waiting in ambush."

Syl sighed heavily at her twin, as if growing frustrated with a young child. "Chardis, Galanos is safe, Denner Fabellian is no threat, and you and I have far bigger concerns now. We know where Daneera and the Bird are, which means we have orders to give, and a trip to plan."

Chardis narrowed his eyes at his sister, but nodded. "Very well, Syl. You decide how best to deal with the Bird. I will issue my orders to Tharandias on Kokkinos and Nithka on Lefkos to retake the Mirrored Cities." He held up the first of the two aether maps that Denner had given them. "And of course, I will send my orders about her, as well."

"What about Mavros?"

Chardis shook his head. "The Covus are much more dangerous than the Igknighted or the Lefkos rebels, and they hold Shurdyn with larger and more powerful forces than the other Mirrored Cities are held. I want our strength at full and our enemies at their weakest before we retake Mavros."

"As you say, brother," Syl said, "but do not delay with your orders about Daneera. It will take some time for the pieces to move into place, and we cannot risk her 'walking to another plane."

"Agreed, dear sister. I will send them immediately. This ends now."

Syl smirked her agreement. "Yes, dear brother. Now we take back what is ours."

In a slight but stylized burst of flame and frost, Sundar Elarion pried himself from infinity and became physical on an unknown world. Over his chest he wore an ornate breastplate, crafted of the hardest, lightest metals the plane of Forculan had to offer, but inlaid with an intricate design of emerald and jade. The armor tapered down to partially cover his outer thighs without risking any restriction of movement. While Sundar preferred to stay as heavily armored as possible about his heart and neck, at his legs he prized unrestrained swiftness of movement, and thus wore only lightweight trousers of a deep brown color. At his right side, he wore a longsword with a hilt decorated to match his breastplate, and at his left was slung a large traveler's sack. Had anyone been around to see him, he would have stuck out like an inferno on a moonless night.

Sundar quickly scanned his surroundings and frowned. It was just beginning to snow, or perhaps the snow was just ending, because the ground was covered in the stuff. Sundar's frown deepened to a scowl. He hated snow. With a sigh that was visible in the cold, the planeswalker reached into his traveler's sack, dug around for a moment, and then pulled out a simple black walking cloak, rolled tightly to fit into the bag. For the best anyway, Sundar thought. I don't want to draw attention to myself, after all. Mentally resisting the urge to shiver, Sundar unrolled his cloak and slipped it on over his armor, disguising its glorious beauty from any eyes he might encounter.

Sundar wondered briefly about the name of this plane, but quickly dismissed the curiosity. It really didn't matter. All that mattered to the planeswalker was that this was where Tharandias had 'walked to, and so this was where Sundar had to be. He had tracked the old man here by the distinct trail in the æther the venerable Sage-Marshal left. Yes, Tharandias had ordered him to stay on Forculan, but Sundar's primary weakness as a military mind was his defiant dislike of orders. If what Tharandias had told him of these Dual-Walkers was true, then they should be stopped, not aided, and if the Sage-Marshal refused to do it, then in Sundar's mind, Tharandias had already surrendered the essence of that title.

Admittedly, Sundar felt bad about his own deception, but it was, after all, a game Tharandias had taught him. The Sage-Marshal had asked him to promise he would stay on Forculan, but that was not precisely what Sundar had promised. He promised that he would not join Tharandias in his mission, and the half-elf had no intention of joining his mentor. He was here to stop him. Tharandias was one of the greatest military minds the Multiverse had ever known, and if he was marching off to war, his opponents had little hope of victory. But the Sage-Marshal had taught Sundar a great deal of what the older man knew, and if anyone could help even the odds, it was Sundar. Perhaps, with his help, the Dual-Walkers could be defeated, and Tharandias could be freed from whatever hold they had on him. If not, Sundar had discovered one more option...

His musings were interrupted by a sound, which his half-elven ears picked up from some distance away. It was difficult to discern through the gusts of winter wind blowing over the mountainous terrain, but it sounded like people running. Knowing nothing about this plane, it was equally likely that they were his enemies as his potential and hopeful allies, but there was nothing he could do but investigate and hope for the best. It became quickly apparent that he would not have to wait long, as whoever they were seemed to be running almost straight towards him.

Only a few minutes of waiting brought his targets into view. The first to appear through the snow-dotted fog was a young man, who was running at full speed with wide eyes and heavy breath. The man was barely more than a boy, but Sundar had little time to study his features, because the moment the boy saw him, he shrieked slightly and wheeled off to Sundar's left. The second to appear was some sort of cat, female judging by her frame, who kept looking behind her as she ran. When she spotted Sundar, she paused slightly, then turned behind her again, yelling something that sounded less like a language and more like a signal. After that, she sprinted off to Sundar's right.

They started coming faster and faster then, always angling themselves to one direction or the other, and beginning to split further and further away from Sundar's position, as if they knew he was there and were simply hoping to avoid him. A few came closer than the others, but most of these seemed to be wounded in some fashion or another, and were barely paying any attention to where they were going. Sundar himself, always careful of being flanked, kept a constant lookout for those who had already passed him, in case they were to circle back around, but none ever did. Whatever they thought of Sundar Elarion, their curiosity at him was secondary to their fear of whatever it was that was behind them.

Finally, the eclectic parade of strange and fearful creatures seemed to slow to almost a trickle, and then stopped completely, except for one man. The last man in the long, dejected train was old, the oldest Sundar had seen here, though not nearly so ancient-looking as his mentor Tharandias. The old man's leathery face was set in an expression of pain, and he limped as he moved straight toward Sundar, his eyes glazed and unseeing as he walked. He wore simple clothing in an amalgam of dark and light browns, and he had a short gray beard made whiter by the snow. He looked as though he were going to collapse before he would even reach Sundar.

Before the old man had the opportunity to fall down, an ear-piercing shriek sounded from behind him. It was so loud and so sudden that even Sundar, rarely caught by surprise by any noise, flinched noticeably. The old man's eyes grew wide and he attempted to increase his speed, but he was simply too weak. He managed perhaps four steps before he fell to a knee, still trying to inch his way forward with only the remaining strength in his arms. Under his breath and to himself, Sundar muttered, "What in Deserter's Hell was that?"

Miraculously, the old man seemed to hear him, and with a tremble in his voice, he answered the planeswalker's query. "The Fire Flight! They took back the Ziggurat! I...I don't know how. All of a sudden, they were everywhere. It was... impossible."

Sundar nodded. "Tharandias."

But he had no further time to consider the event. Suddenly, the source of the sound stalked through the fog and the snow, beginning with a reptilian face and a long, serpentine neck. Its mouth was shaped almost like the beak of a predatory bird, but covered in the dull green scales that spoke to its true lineage. It was a decent size, at least nine or ten feet high even in its hunched and moving posture, and was likely at least twice that from beak to tail, and a wingspan to match. It was either a superior example of a mountain drake, or, more likely, a weak-blooded dragon whose pedigree was that of a once-noble creature now fallen and domesticated.

Astride the dragon was a creature of living magma. It was large but slender, and mostly covered in what appeared to be barely cooled, blacked volcanic rock. At the creature's joints, however, its internal fire seeped through, and that glow was never brighter than through the creature's eyes, crafted into an expression of permanent hatred. Amazingly, the creature seemed able to move its mouth, which it did to issue a short, abrupt order to its mount, causing the dragon to slow and eventually stop, its head swinging back and forth on its massive neck, just waiting for an opportunity to strike. After a moment's hesitation, the creature spoke again, but louder and to Sundar Elarion, its voice projected as though supernaturally magnified.

"That man is guilty of high treason against the Rulus. As their faithful citizen, you will hand him over to me. Now."

Sundar considered for a moment. He didn't know who or what the Rulus were, but simple deduction gave him a pretty good idea. Still, he approached this situation as he did any military conflict. He wanted to identify any potential danger, as well as any potential advantage. He took the opportunity his opponent's waiting silence provided to listen for others of his kind, and when his keen ears heard none, he looked down at the weak old man and indicated toward the rider and its mount.

"The dragon doesn't interest me. I don't really work with dragons, you know. Just as likely to cost you a battle as win you one. But that elemental is extremely well-made. I think I want one."

The elemental's eyes seemed incapable of movement, yet Sundar felt the distinct sensation that they were narrowing at him. "Human filth, how dare you speak to one of the exalted Fire Flight like that! I shall..."

Before the elemental could finish speaking, Sundar mentally triggered his favorite celerity incantation, and quicker than the dragon could blink, Sundar was moving. In an instant, the ornate longsword was in the planeswalker's left hand and he was moving, slashing upward and slicing effortlessly through the rough hide of the dragon's neck. It was not a clean sever, but the cut was deep enough to kill the large beast after a short and morbid fit of convulsing that almost knocked the elemental from its saddle.

Sundar had stepped back to where he had been standing, his sword slid cleanly back into its scabbard. The elemental was crouched on the side of his former mount, expelling steam with every exhalation. His eyes were flaring fire like a forge when put to bellows, and those fiery eyes were trained unmoving on the form of Sundar Elarion.

"So, you are one of those treacherous Igknighted! I knew it! You will die for this insolence, heretic!"

With a sudden explosion of flame from the elemental's feet, it launched itself skyward, flying in an arc directly at the planeswalker. He had apparently grabbed a weapon, a large single-bladed battleaxe that seemed crafted from a single piece of blackened metal, shaft, blade and all. A lesser man might have been intimidated by the sight of a walking inferno launched through the air on a collision path heading directly toward him, but Sundar was simply trying not to laugh. He knew the elemental's options for attack were decided limited in such a dramatic assault, and he calmly used it to his advantage.

As the elemental neared him, Sundar stepped to his right and drew his sword again, using it to lightly brush his foe's strike to the side. Bringing his longsword back suddenly, he slashed the lava-man across his arm, digging a deep gash that briefly spewed fire as though it were blood. Sundar had to admit to himself that it was a little unnerving that the elemental made no sound at the wound. It just kept coming on, swinging the menacing weapon wildly as he did. Sundar deftly stepped around or under the attacks, slashing and stabbing periodically, but making little real progress. In fact, it was difficult to tell whether or not his strikes were even affecting his opponent.

Sundar Elarion was nothing if not patient, but this elemental was strong. Unnaturally strong, even by the standards of elementals. Sundar's form allowed him to avoid most of the strikes entirely and deflect most of the force of the rest of them, but he was starting to tire, and it was beginning to seem like his opponent was incapable of doing likewise. It was a risky game Sundar was playing. He had more than a few tricks to defeat this enemy, but he wanted something from it, and it was a prize not easily obtained. He knew exactly what he was searching for, it was something he had felt countless times in his life, but he was beginning to fear this creature was beyond his abilities.

Just when he was about to give up and simply kill the elemental, he felt it, that deep sensation in the back of his mind that told him his foe was weakened. That was what he was waiting for, what he was hoping for. Preparing his strongest wards against fire and burns, Sundar darted in, deflecting a final blow in his direction and then dropping his sword as he leapt onto the elemental's back. Even through his protections he could feel the searing heat of his opponent's internal fire, but Sundar had to concentrate now. Swinging its axe and twisting its body around, the elemental tried to shake the planeswalker free, but Sundar had hooked his stronger, left arm around its neck while trying to grab its head with his right hand. It was a difficult process, but eventually, Sundar succeeded.

The moment Sundar Elarion's hand latched on to the top of the elemental's head, a bright white energy seemed to explode between the two, and the elemental flailed even more widely, trying to shake off his persistent attacker. The old man stared at the two in utter amazement as the struggle dragged on and on, but eventually that energy erupted again, and even more violently, forcing the old man to shield his eyes. When he looked back, Sundar was on his knees, panting and trying to catch his breath. The elemental of the Fire Flight, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.

The old man walked over to the stranger cautiously. Few strangers had ever proven good news to him or his people. "Who... who are you?"

Sundar took a moment, breathing heavily, before he met the other man's gaze. Finally, pushing himself to an upright but still kneeling position, he smiled. "The name's Sundar Elarion. Pleased to meet you."

The old man's mouth was still agape as he tried to decide how to proceed. "How did you... I mean, what did you..."

"Do to that thing?" Sundar finished for him, hoping to move this along. "I claimed it."

"Claimed it?"

"Well, that's what I call it anyway. I don't think I've ever seen a better crafted elemental, and I've known many, both natural and artificial. I didn't want to pass that up. I had to wear it down until it couldn't resist me, and then I claimed it. Not easy, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"It would've done me in, that's for sure."

Sundar rocked back and sat down in the snow. The effort of claiming that elemental had, in fact, taken more out of him than he had anticipated. He took another moment to collect himself, straining his neck to one side in an effort to crack it. "So, you are?"

"I'm Dyllyg, leader of the Igknighted, although," he paused looking back in the direction he and the others had come from, "this is not exactly our proudest moment."

Sundar shook his head sympathetically and moved to stand up, walking over to his fallen sword. "So, tell me what happened," he said as he wiped off his sword and replaced it in his scabbard.

The old man seemed to ignore the question. "But who are you?"

Sundar sighed. "I told you, my name is Sundar..."

"I know what you told me," Dyllyg interrupted, "but that's not what I asked. A man is not his name."

Sundar glanced over at him, then simply smiled.

When Sundar refused to speak, Dyllyg pressed the issue. "Are you an ally of the Rulus?"

"I don't know who or what the Rulus is, friend, but if they're related to the Dual-Walkers as I suspect, than no, they are no friends of mine."

Dyllyg moved over quickly to stand next to him. "You don't know who the Rulus are, and you know the name 'Dual-Walkers?' That can only mean that you are a planeswalker, too."

"Naturally," Sundar said, pretending that knowledge of his kind were somehow common. "And I surmise that you are not on particularly good terms with the Dual-Walkers?"

Dyllyg scoffed. "The Igknighted exist solely to free Kokkinos from their vile grasp."

"Kokkinos, you say? Is that this plane, then? Kokkinos?" The old man nodded. "Very well. Now that we have who we are out of the way, do you think you might tell me what happened that had you and your friends running this direction?"

Dyllyg's eyes narrowed at his new companion, but he relented. "We have been holding the Ziggurat and the Mirrored City of Bornkys for several months now, always managing to repel the Fire Flight when they tried to reclaim it. But today was different. Today they seemed to always be in the right place at the right time, and we were always out of position. It was as if we had a traitor in our midst."

Sundar shook his head. "I doubt it, Dyllyg. You were just outmatched. Tell me, how much experience do you have in warfare?"

Dyllyg shrugged. "Very little, outside of the last year or so. Before that, I was a sorcerer and a hermit."

Now Sundar nodded. "He would have torn you to shreds, then. Don't make the mistake of doubting your own people, Dyllyg. If you do, his victory is permanent."

"Whose victory?" Dyllyg asked, growing upset. "What are you talking about?"

"Tharandias." Sundar stated plainly. As Dyllyg's brow furrowed deeper in confusion and irritation, Sundar simply laughed. "You seem to know at least something of the planes, is that right?" Dyllyg nodded. "Tharandias is an unprecedented military genius, and if you think I'm exaggerating, let me stress that if anything, I am understating his abilities. On my home plane, he is known as the Sage-Marshal, the highest honor a military mind can achieve, on one of the most acclaimed military planes in existence. Have I properly conveyed who he is?"

Dyllyg nodded, growing impatient.

"Good. I have seen Tharandias take three dozen untrained peasants and hold off a seasoned army of ten thousand veterans. I have seen him successfully defend a fortress with nothing more than seven archers, a drummer and four hundred wine casks, and I have seen him topple an empire with three young children and a half-crazed badger. Now I don't pretend to know anything about your Igknighted or the forces available to these Rulus of yours, but trust me when I say this was nothing for him."

"How do you know this man so well?"

"He is my mentor, and my greatest friend."

Dyllyg's eyes narrowed in suspicion even as he took a step backwards in fear. "And so you've come to join him, then?"

"No," Sundar said flatly. "I have come to defeat him."

Dyllyg did not seem to believe the other man, but he pursued the option anyway. "Can you? Defeat him, I mean. Are you his match?"

Sundar Elarion hesitated for a very long moment before he answered. "No. I am not his match. But I believe I can defeat him."

"How?"

"As I said, I am his pupil and his friend. He has taught me much during my time with him. I am an accomplished tactician in my own right, and I know more about Tharandias than perhaps anyone alive."

"And what if you can't defeat him? What happens then?"

"If I can't defeat him in battle, if I can't help you and your 'Igknighted' defeat the forces of the Rulus backed by Tharandias the Sage-Marshal..." He paused here, deliberately, "then I'll be forced to kill him."

Denner Fabellian's mind was reeling. In his lifetime and throughout all his travels, Denner had seen, entered, and even studied in hundreds of libraries. He knew the exact number, but at the moment, his mind was busy comparing the quality of those institutions rather than thinking of their sheer number. He had seen humble libraries, like those in the small study-towns along the Sygoden coast. He had seen libraries only slightly less modest, like that in his home town of Saport, a token gift from the Shorecerers to their people, which they themselves had ultimately destroyed while trying to kill him. He had seen specialties libraries, pretentious libraries, and libraries with no equals on their own planes. But Denner Fabellian had never seen a library like this one.

His trip to Galanos had been just as the Lady Syl had assured him, quick and easy. He smiled as he thought of her, seeing her flawless, impossibly beautiful face in his pristine memory. She was his angel, his salvation from the cursed torment of the Shorecerer's imposed silence, his deliverance from the White Blight of his home plane, and now, the provider of an impossible store of knowledge, his fondest desire. Denner's smile deepened. He felt a certain sense of satisfaction that he had been able to help her and her brother. There was something about Chardis that Denner didn't like, although he could not quite quantify what that thing might be. Still, though, it felt good to help.

Denner felt a pang of guilt and self-pity at the thought. He had felt that same sort of positive feeling when he had first told his friends in Sula that he would try to convince the Shorecerers to end the White Blight. He had been so sure that he, as a planeswalker, could have made some sort of difference. He truly thought that he could have saved them and their ancestral home from the madness of those who owned the island. He had never been a particularly powerful mage himself, preferring the exploits of the mind over the force and violence that many of his kind embraced. He had never had an illusion that he would attack the Shorecerers. He wouldn't have. He had merely hoped to speak with them and perhaps show them reason. That was how Denner had hoped to save Sula.

But it had all been for nothing. Denner still had no absolute idea how long he had been a prisoner in that Ivory Tower. The Shorecerers had not told him when he was finally released. They had refused to even tell Syl, and she had apparently asked on his behalf. She had been able to learn that Denner's old friends had decided to leave the island after the planeswalker's disappearance. There had been no point in even returning to Saport to say goodbye. No one was left, Syl had told him. The tragedy of his former home had been nearly enough to make Denner weep.

He had been doing a lot of that, recently. Denner Fabellian was not a particularly emotional man, but the recent portion of his life had not shied away from heartbreak. His incarceration at the hands of the Shorecerers was maddening, and seeing his once-tropical homeland covered in eternal blizzard had been almost too much to bear. Yet his torment had begun even before that, on the desert plane of Carghora, with the beautiful and venomous djinn Dmana. He had gone there seeking knowledge, as he always did. In this case, he sought knowledge of love. Dmana had given him that, though the morsel she had offered had hardly been the flavor he had hoped. It had been a harsh and painful lesson, and it broke Denner's heart to know that such beauty could hide such ugliness.

Lady Syl had been the first sign of hope he had seen in a very long time, and now she had given him the gift he longed for most in the Multiverse: knowledge. From the moment he had stepped through the portal and into the plane she had called Galanos, Denner had found himself amazed. The room beyond was bright and spectacular, with walls, ceiling and floor that seemed crafted of translucent glass. Whether the clear, blue light that filled the room emanated from the glass itself or merely passed through it from innumerable angles beyond was impossible to know. Whatever its source, the light felt crisp and pure, offering a sense of mental clarity that Denner's active mind often sought, but rarely obtained.

The wizard on the other side of the portal had greeted Denner with a mixture of suspicion and disappointment, which Denner could understand all too well. Syl had mentioned security issues, as well as an accident to this wizard's predecessor, and so the suspicion was natural when anyone other than Syl or Chardis came through the portal. And because Chardis apparently never came to Galanos, the mirror was used almost solely by Syl herself. Having seen Lady Syl's transcendent beauty, Denner perfectly understood the wizard's disappointment at seeing anyone who wasn't her.

As it turned out, however, once the wizard saw the small piece of glass Syl had given Denner, he proved to be a very kind and polite man. Denner took the opportunity to speak with him for a while, and learn a little about Galanos. The wizard, who Denner learned was named Lithranam, belonged to an ancient order of wizards sworn to protect the Mirrored City of Ilym from all threats. One of their order is honored with the task of protecting the Portal room at the top of the Glass Tower, and that honor had recently fallen to Lithranam. Denner had asked what had befallen the wizard's predecessor, but Lithranam had given him only a vague answer, mumbling something about an accident. Denner chose not to press it, but only because he started to notice Lithranam growing annoyed with his questions.

The Glass Tower itself had been an incredible sight, easily a match in beauty and ingenuity to the Ivory Tower of the Shorecerers, though in a completely different way. The interior of the tower was constructed not of the remarkable glass he had seen in the room of the mirror portal, but rather of a variety of blue stone and marble. However, unlike the square or rectangular slabs of building materials typically employed in construction, the tower merged the stones in breathtaking and seamless spirals. A less observant man might have mistaken them for a single piece of the same material, but Denner noticed, and was amazed. Whatever forces crafted this tower were both powerful and brilliant, and with a profound understanding of simplistic complexity. Denner was impressed.

But the wonders of the Glass Tower were nothing compared to the Library. Located directly across a stone street from the tower, the Library was an utterly massive structure that dominated the cityscape for as far as Denner could see. He could feel his heartbeat increase as he realized Syl had apparently not overstated the size of this facility. It was, categorically, the largest library he had ever seen, even larger than the fabled Library of Philidia on the plane of Iydcrypt. Although Denner typically preferred evidence and experience to speculation and conjecture, he did allow himself a few savory moments of wonder at what such a grand structure might contain.

Moments after walking through the Library's front door, Denner was greeted by a tall, narrow golem constructed of silver, or some similar metal. The planeswalker could hear as its internal gears grinded and worked to push the construct away from its tiny desk in the corner to take two steps towards him. When it spoke, its voice was grating, as if its vocal vibrations came from two gears badly in need of oil.

"Greetings, distinguished visitor, to the Galanos Library. We are the storehouse of the wisdom of worlds. If you require assistance, please let me know."

Denner had thanked the golem, although he likely needn't have bothered, and moved passed the silver construct into the Library proper, and here was when Denner's mind began to reel. He had expected to see countless shelves of books or stacks of scrolls, just as he had in every other Library he had ever seen. But the only thing he saw beyond the golem's reception chamber was a darkened walkway leading to a platform about as wide in diameter as Denner was tall. This platform was lit from some dull, formless light source about it, illuminating a single pedestal in the center. The walkway had a high railing of ornate design running along either side, and, peering over the edge, he saw that the floor dropped off into impenetrable darkness beyond. What, if anything, was waiting below would have been impossible to know.

With some degree of trepidation, Denner crossed the dark walkway and stepped onto the platform and then up to the pedestal. As he did, the light emanating from above him intensified slightly, though not enough to be bothersome, nor, he suspected, enough to illuminate the darkness below and around him. Denner ran his hands over the pedestal, crafted of the same sort of silver or silver-like material as the greeter golem had been. Etched into the surface of the pedestal were three words in breathtaking calligraphy: "Seek, Learn, Live." Denner allowed his hands to rest on those words for a few scant moments, realizing how well they summed up his own philosophy of life. But still he wondered what they meant in the context of the Galanos Library.

Denner had only been thinking about what those words might mean for a few seconds when the platform he was standing on began to move. It slid effortlessly away from the walkway and out into the empty black air before him. Had the motion not been so smooth and controlled, Denner might have panicked, and even as it was, he was not comfortable. He had simple flight spells at his command, and could likely get back to solid ground should the need arise, but it was still a disconcerting feeling floating like a fallen leaf through the dark. At this thought, he realized that the intangible light source was staying with him, constantly lighting the platform as it descended in a slow, diagonal direction downward to Denner's left.

Although the platform did not seem to move quickly, his journey did not take long. The platform slid silently into another walkway, a very short one, and a portion of the light seemed to break away to illuminate the bridge. Denner took the hint and followed the light, and after crossing this new walkway, he finally saw what he expected from libraries: rows upon rows of books and tomes. At regular intervals between the shelves were large wooden tables for study, each lit by their own mystical light. The one that was guiding Denner, however, seemed to be almost a living thing, and led Denner down a short path and then suddenly stopped, moving to highlight a single tome at the end of the nearest shelf of books.

So excited was Denner Fabellian now that he did not even hesitate to pull the tome from its shelf and read the title: "The Galanos Library: Seek, Learn, Live." Denner looked back in the direction of the pedestal, barely visible now under the portion of the formless light that remained. Denner quickly grabbed the book and made his way to the nearest table. He set the ancient tome down gently, flipped it open, and began to read. The book was an explanation of the Library, everything from its purpose to the formation of the enchantments that allowed it to function. Denner was always a quick reader and a quicker learner, and in only a few hours had a deep knowledge and a profound appreciation for the simplistic complexity of the Galanos Library. Denner had found his paradise.

Now, of course, Denner had an entirely different problem, one he had rarely faced in his life as a learner. What should he learn? This library contained at least hundreds of thousands of tomes of knowledge, and likely far more than that. Denner's options were nearly limitless. Beyond that, Denner had all the time he needed in this truly wondrous place. According to that first book, the Library existed to cater to the needs of those studying within, and as such, all of his needs would be met during his stay there. The enchantments permeating this place would sense when he was growing hungry and would summon one of the numerous golem attendants to bring him food. When he was tired, he would be provided everything he needed to sleep, even if it was at the very desk at which he was studying. Denner Fabellian could spend a lifetime studying here. All he needed was a place to start.

In a rarity for Denner, he had so many options that he found it difficult to choose. His unaltered memory was already a gigantic storehouse of information, and he could conjure up those facts without trouble. And now his near-infinite catalog of knowledge had encountered another one, and Denner was momentarily stunned as to how best to merge the two. Typically, when he searched for information, he was looking for something specific, and his innate Delver abilities would simply lead him to his destination. This, however, was the opposite. He was already at his destination, but there was nothing specific to search for. For reasons he had never experienced before, Denner Fabellian was perplexed.

Indecision paralyzed Denner for quite some time. It must have been hours before he broke from his conundrum to eat a quick meal, brought to him silently by one of the construct custodians of the Galanos Library. The food was indistinguishable, and not particularly tasty, but Denner assumed the golems lacked anything resembling a sense of taste, and so the uninspired meal was fairly forgivable. Although the diversion eased his hunger, it did nothing to solve his dilemma. Denner couldn't help but feel like he was dying of thirst in the middle of a freshwater lake. He was beginning to think he would prefer a desert.

This thought made him once again think about his time on Carghora, the worst year of his life, lived in only three days. He had gone to learn the lessons of love, and those lessons had proven far harsher than he had hoped. His perfect, unaltered memory could still bring forth her beautiful face, both her true, blue-skinned one and her illusionary tanned visage. Denner could never decide which one was more alluring, nor could he choose which one was more deserving of his scorn. But whatever he thought of her, his mind always reminded him of her beauty. She had, at the time, been the third most beautiful woman he had ever seen, though Lady Syl had left them all behind.

Suddenly, Denner Fabellian brightened. He had always had a great appreciation for beauty, in art, architecture and in the female form. It had, after all, been a series of pursuits of beauty that had led him to the Galanos Library in the first place. His dealings with Dmana and her wicked tricks on Carghora had convinced him to head home, to his glorious island home of Sula. It was his desire to return it to its tropical splendor that had caused him to be captured and imprisoned by the Shorecerers, and it had been the exceedingly beautiful Syl who had led him here. What better way to start his studies in the Galanos Library than with references to physical beauty?

Denner quickly made his way back to the pedestal and thought about beauty, and the platform took off, slowly rising toward another walkway somewhere above. The first several books he was brought to were all storybooks that featured a beautiful character in one way or another and, while mildly interesting, they were not what Denner was searching for. He was looking for real women, women who had actually lived, or, if he were truly lucky, still did. With this in mind, the platform brought him to what appeared to be one of the top tiers of the impossibly massive library, and led him to a tome as big as he was from navel to neck.

The title of the book was "The Complete History of the Amphiseum Games, vol. II," by an author simply named Grimoire. Denner was exceedingly confused. Whatever the Amphiseum was, it did not seem like the sort of place to find one of the most beautiful women in history. However, the floating, incorporeal light that had guided him to the book was still hovering around, and as Denner flipped through the first several pages, the light continually intensified. When he turned to one particular page, it flared to life, but died slightly when he turned to the next page. Denner turned back a page, and again the light flared. Apparently, this was the page he was searching for.

The page spoke of a beautiful woman by the name of Penelophine, a siren who apparently was a frequent and honored guest in these Amphiseum Games. Denner was briefly curious about what those might be, but the author's description of Penelophine's beauty was more spellbinding than his curiosity, for the time being. He claimed that Penelophine was quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the Multiverse, and explained that she was a planeswalker who was gifted with the most endearing charms of the Siren race, including unsurpassed grace and alluring form. Her plane of origin was listed as the Alceme Isles, wherever those might be, but an addendum had been scratched in with newer ink. This addendum listed her new home as "a grotto on the coast of Veretna, on Arbagoth."

Denner Fabellian closed his eyes and mentally reread the description of Penelophine's unequalled beauty. He thought about her for a while, wondering what she might have been like. Suddenly, in the midst of his musings, he felt it. He felt that familiar pull that he always felt when he delved for something. Thinking of Penelophine and getting that feeling could only mean one thing: she was still alive. This book was clearly centuries old, but both sirens and planeswalkers had a tendency toward longevity, and so it was certainly possible. Denner looked around for a few moments, thinking. The access Lady Syl had granted him to the Galanos Library had been given no limitation. He could come back whenever he wanted. And if this Penelophine was truly as beautiful as Grimoire claimed, Denner had to see her.

A smile crossed the planeswalker's lips. He had made up his mind. His search for beauty had led him here, and without it, he could not even think of anything to research. No, this was his search now. He could always return to the Library later, anyway. Now it was time to delve. With an excited grin, Denner closed his eyes once more, focusing on the subtle pull in the back of his mind, allowing it to guide him as it always did when he searched for anything. The moment he felt like he had a lock on it, Denner grabbed a hold, and 'walked off into the æther, leaving the Galanos Library behind in his search for beauty.

Once, while visiting very wealthy relatives in one of the most affluent areas of Verkell, Antine had gone to the zoo. It had been a pleasant day, bright and breezy, but without the overpowering stench that occasionally wafted from the more destitute districts of that sprawling city. Antine had been very young, barely more than a pup, and the zoo had seemed like an amazing and wondrous place to his youthful mind. The variety of animal in the Verkell zoo was astounding, containing species that many in the poorer parts of town might have thought no longer existed. Even then, Antine possessed a sort of controlled desire for excitement and adventure, and the zoo proved to be the perfect place to experience it.

But Antine had another characteristic, even at this young age, one that, looking back, he cursed vehemently. Somehow or another, Antine always managed to get into places that no one else could get, and in many cases, no one should. Antine’s relations were conscientious guardians, but they were unaccustomed to having to keep a vigilant eye on a young child, especially an adventurous and curious kit like Antine. Eventually, without even realizing it, Antine managed to get separated from his watchers, and the Verkell zoo was a very large place.

Antine could not remember how long he wandered there, nor could he remember when he realized he was alone, but it was the earliest he could remember feeling that abject panic he sometimes felt when reality crashed in on him. At first, Antine had started to run, as fast as he could with no destination in mind. He didn’t know where he could go, he just knew he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere would do, as long as it wasn’t where he was. A part of him knew he was being foolish, that he was perfectly safe, and that he would find his family sooner or later, but these rational thoughts did nothing to control his body as it moved desperately to find somewhere safe.

Even when those relatives and the zookeepers asked him later on, Antine had no idea how he managed to get into the Baloth exhibit. All of a sudden, Antine had realized that he had stopped running, and was instead cowering in a small thicket of long grass designed to give the Baloth something that approximated a real environment. Young Antine had no idea where he was until he heard the blood-curdling roar the Baloth gave at its designated feeding time. Antine still remembered how his eyes had bulged so much they hurt. This time, however, his fear reaction was so great that he couldn’t even run, which was probably for the best. The Baloth had spotted its usual, planned meal, but had not yet seen the young fox.

As a frightened young pup, Antine had closed his eyes as tightly as he possibly could and stayed where he was, shaking in terror. He did not remember how the zookeepers had gotten to him, he only remembered the terrible commotion of the crowd and the fear, the concern and the relief in his family’s faces. The zookeepers had been thoroughly perplexed, because the Baloth cage had been completely enclosed, and there should have been no way for anyone, let alone a small child, to have gained access. They told Antine briefly the extraordinary effort it had taken to get him out, and how lucky he was that one of the other patrons had spotted him. Antine couldn’t think of any of that at the time. He had merely been relieved to be free.

But now Antine was a grown man. Things were supposed to be different now. Isn’t that what everyone told him as a kit? Yet somehow, for one small fox-man cast adrift from Jakkard, nothing had changed. Just like when he was a lost child in a zoo, Antine ran away from one problem and found himself in a much worse situation. Antine sullenly looked around the large metallic structure that was forming his cage, and at the metal men who stood still as statues inside it. This was certainly no thicket in an exhibit, and those constructs were no hungry Baloth, but Antine was no less trapped in a cage of his own making. Just like back then, he had no idea how he had gotten here. He still did not understand how one moment he could be lying in his bed in Jakkard, waiting to be killed, and the next he was in some arena apparently called the Amphiseum. Unlike back then, however, there was no one to save him. He had no family searching for him, no zookeepers to handle a hungry Baloth. Antine sighed heavily. He was alone.

Antine rarely cried the way he did that day back in the Verkell zoo, but he was seriously considering it now. Nothing had gone well for Antine recently. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he realized things had never really gone well for him, even when it seemed like they did. When he had first started working in the land offices in Verkell, he thought it was a good job, but it had degraded into hours of mindless and boring paperwork and no excitement. When the annex offices opened in Dayko, the largest of the cities to spring up in the wastes, Antine transferred there immediately, believing that the Jakkard would provide him the excitement he was longing for. It didn’t.

The only thing it did was lead him to Mea, or rather led Mea to him. Mea was the most amazing woman Antine had ever known, one of his few glimpses of hope in his otherwise uninteresting life. She was a gorgeous, vivacious, redheaded human woman, and Antine was convinced almost immediately that she was the love of his life. Other foxfolk looked down on the humans, thinking of them as ugly creatures, some even going so far as to think of them as little better than beasts. But Antine never felt that way, especially with Mea. To him, she was as beautiful and inviting as the loveliest vixens in Verkell. His kind may have looked down on him for his interest, but Antine seemed to have a way of getting into things that other people wouldn’t, or shouldn’t. More often than not, that thing was trouble.

Mea, as it turned out, was nothing but trouble. She and Vam had scammed him out of his life, to the point where he had been willing to steal and lie for her, something he generally despised and endeavored to avoid. And once their scheme had worked and they went scurrying off into the vast Jakkard, Antine had been left with little but vengeance to connect him to his old life. He chased the two of them all across the wastes, but eventually even his revenge was taken from him in a single instance, severing forever any connection Antine now had with Antine then. With his recovery finally finished and the whole of Jakkard melted away into whatever had happened to him, there was nothing left for Antine.

Nothing was left, that is, except for this strange metal structure and the motionless metal men who occupied it. Antine took another desperate look around the interior, just the latest in a very long series of desperate looks he had taken ever since getting trapped in here. He was beginning to know his private little cage remarkably well in the hours he had been here. Perhaps it was days now. Antine wasn’t sure. He had slept a few times, so it was probably days. He had found stores of water in a room in the back, though he was beginning to grow hungry, and he wondered why metal constructs, most of whom never seemed to move, would need water. It was just another of the strange mysteries surrounding his possibly eternal cell.

Antine was abjectly miserable. Part of his eternal desire for adventure was the longing to be out in the open. Something about being able to see the horizon stretching out in each direction was comforting to him. It was something he had never known while growing up in Verkell, and only rarely in Dayko. It was one of the only good things Antine had been able to feel while chasing down Mea and Vam through the endless wastes of the Jakkard. Everything else had been so terrible and frightening riding through the wastes alone, but each night when he settled down into a simple shelter for the night, he would spend just a few, quiet moments in thought, looking out over the impossible expanse of land while the whole world dimmed. Those precious moments served to remind Antine that the whole world was so much bigger than he was, that he was just one part of a magnificent whole. It allowed him to let go of himself and his vendetta, to remember that every person had their own place and their own concerns, and it was the whole that mattered. It gave him the chance, if only for a few moments, to let go.

His metallic tomb, on the other hand, was a claustrophobic nightmare. Each moment that passed made Antine increasingly desperate to see another open landscape, to see that infinite horizon in the distance one more time. But this strange structure was maddening for more reasons than its cramped interior. It was also cold, both to the touch and in the air, and even Antine’s fox-folk fur did little to ward off the cold. Strangely, though, it was simultaneously unbearably hot, but not in the traditional sense. It was a sensation Antine felt within, something to do with the strange, glowing red crystal the automaton had placed in the central table. Antine could not understand it, but it had filled the entire structure with that uncomfortable, unpredictable burning energy. It bothered him, perhaps even more than the enclosed space.

Suddenly, Antine heard a faint hum emanating from all around him. Moments later, the entire structure seemed to lurch, and the humming intensified. The foremost of the metallic men, the one who had descended into the hidden staircase when Antine had first come to this strange place, stood up from a slumped position and, for the first time since the door shut, moved forward. As quickly and quietly as he could, Antine moved back into the short hallway merging the forward circular room and what appeared to be a living area in the back. One by one, the automatons, motionless for the past several days at least, began to come to life. Antine watched in grim fascination as their eyes lit up, their bodies straightened, and they started to move, silent except for the scraping of their metal feet on the metal floor.

The metallic men moved to various places around the interior of the structure and started working, although what they were working at was well beyond Antine. As silently as possible, Antine moved back into the living area, which was equipped with several small, thick, circular windows, many of which overlooked some of the other structures littering the Amphiseum. While before, their walls seemed nothing more than solid metal and the occasional piece of glass, now they seemed to almost glow in a red light. Antine was growing concerned. He was beginning to wonder if they were going to explode. The only other time he had seen metal glow like that was in a blacksmith’s fire.

Antine then became aware of the sound of a voice, and not the grating, metallic voice he had heard when the automaton had spoken. It was the voice of a human man, coming from the circular room at the front. Was there someone else here? Perhaps he could help. Then again, he might be a danger to Antine. There was no way to know. As he usually did in these situations, Antine exercised caution, and carefully and slowly made his way back down the short hallway and to the front. There he saw one of the strangest and most awe-inspiring things he had ever seen.

The colored crystal chandelier that was hanging above the mirrored table was glowing in a staggering array of colors, raining them down toward the glass like water from a pot. The mirror was reflecting them back upward, and in the space between the two, Antine could see the profile of a human man’s face. Everything from the colors to the detail were so crisp and clear that Antine could have sworn the man was there in the room with him, if he couldn’t clearly see where the man’s neck ended. The young fox had never seen anything like it.

“…coordinated assault,” the man was saying. “You will be receiving the planar map shortly. Proceed as ordered, and do not return until it is destroyed. Understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the foremost automaton said, but his grating voice was echoed through the crystal projection by numerous other voices that sounded almost identical. The sound sent a chill down Antine’s spine.

“Good,” the disembodied head concluded. “Do not fail me.” The crystals began to dim, and as they did, the man’s haunting face began to disappear, first the tanned skin, then the jet-black hair, and finally the fierce, burning eyes.

Antine realized then that he had been breathing heavily, and he didn’t know why. But something about that man unnerved him deeply, and he found himself simply glad he was gone. For a few moments, nothing happened, but then the mirror on the table began to glow in a dull light before some sort of image appeared on it. Antine could not quite see the image from his position, but he was too distracted by the happenings to pay much attention. The moment the image appeared, it began to expand and grow, and eventually fill the space where the man’s head had just been. Meanwhile, the metallic men were moving around frenetically doing things that the poor fox couldn’t begin to guess. And the shape beneath the crystals made less sense to Antine than it did before he could see it.

Then Antine felt himself violently pulled toward the ground. With a significant effort, Antine was able to stay standing, and he was perplexed when he saw that there was nothing around him that could have caused the pull. He once again moved back toward the window, and looked out, which nearly knocked him over again, this time out of shock. The entire structure was floating in the air, several dozen feet off the ground, and apparently getting higher. The other structures around the Amphiseum were also beginning to take to the air, and below them, the ground was opening. It was difficult to tell from his vantage point, but it appeared like there were even more of the metallic shapes below.

Suddenly, Antine felt a drop in the pit of his stomach, and the humming surrounding him deepened to a sort of groan. The clear air of the Amphiseum beyond the small porthole began to dull and congeal, thickening into something like a heavy fog, but less discernable, less definable. Then, all at once, the Amphiseum disappeared altogether, and the window itself darkened to hide whatever remained of the fog beyond. Antine slumped down on a nearby seat, his eyes wide and unblinking. This was impossible, but then again, what wasn’t impossible about his life these past few days? Antine had no idea what was happening or where he was going, but there was nothing he could do but hope to be found in whatever Baloth’s cage he had wandered into. All he could do was wait and hope, once more nothing but a lost fox in the thicket.

The sun was young in the clear morning sky, its golden fire spreading like the dirt of a grave over the Brambleshale forest. Brambleshale trees were a curiosity, thick but malleable, with the appearance of volcanic glass but the elasticity of the healthiest jungle vine, and growing more like shrubs or bushes than true trees. The forest was incredibly thick, showing only the barest glimpses of any ground beneath, and yet the trees grew only as high as a man’s knee. The diminutive forest spread out for miles, its deceptive leaves and vines covering up countless sinkholes and peat bogs beneath them. Truly, this was the heartland of Skavlakur.

At one end of the forest, where the bizarre trees of the Brambleshale began to give way to the more recognizable foliage of oaks, willows, and marshwood, stood Kahr-ret-Taris. The planeswalking pharaoh, the true ruler of all of Skavlakur, stood nearly motionless, his eyes piercing the west even more than the light of the sun rising above him. Behind him, nearly every able bodied soldier in Kahr’s emerging army was gathered, armor donned and weapons ready. Only Kahr-ret-Taris, Lukas Harran, and the pharaoh’s most trusted advisors knew how many were there to the exact number, but they all had an idea: too few.

Across the sunken treetops, in a massive, sprawling camp that dominated the true pharaoh’s view of the forest, sat the vast majority of the imperial army of Aap-ret-Syrris, the pretender to Kahr’s throne. Their precise numbers were unknown even to Kahr, but several times his own troops might have been an optimistic estimate. The army had marched in late the previous evening, and the ret-Syrris vanguard had set up a wide perimeter, hemming in the rebels and forcing the forthcoming confrontation. Kahr and his tiny army could possibly have fought their way through and escaped, but doing so would mean running from the Pretender, and thus losing all credibility to both their cause and their god-king. Aap-ret-Syrris would win the war with little more than a skirmish.

Kahr-ret-Taris had been standing there, alone and unmoving, since dawn. He had refused both food and water, instead simply staring into the midst of the massive army preparing to bear down on him and his fledgling rebellion. As of yet, no one had approached him. The enemy watched him with a tangible apprehension, concerned that the rumors of his godhood were true and that their numbers would do nothing to prevent their deaths at his hands. Kahr’s own troops watched him with the awe of true believers, amazed by his presence and his courage. Lukas Harran, standing with Kahr’s chief officers, tried not to smirk. He could feel his friend drawing in energy, using the vibrant life of the forest around him to provide the sustenance he appeared to refuse. It was a clever deception, and so far, it seemed to be working.

The wait seemed to drag on forever, but finally a messenger pushed his way through the rebel army and moved to speak with the officers. The messenger spoke quickly to Opaq, the military leader of Kahr-ret-Taris’s Devout and Kahr’s top general, and then turned and left, disappearing back into the tall trees behind them. Opaq seemed pleased when he approached Lukas Harran, a wide grin plastered on his sun-darkened face.

“This is excellent news! Come, Pharaoh-Favored, we must tell his most Sacred Majesty what our scouts have learned.”

Everyone in Kahr’s army, in fact every supporter of Kahr’s rebellion, always seemed to call Lukas the Pharaoh-Favored whenever they spoke with him. Lukas would have preferred they just use his name, but it was all part of the mystique that Kahr felt was so vital to the morale of the troops. Opaq was one of the Devout, an ancient Order of priests who worshiped the true Pharaohs of Skavlakur fanatically. Lukas had first encountered them on Helkavin, where Kahr had recreated the Order, thinking himself in his own afterlife. There, a Devout priestess named Daedis willingly, even happily, gave her life to restore Kahr’s youth. The Devout here on Arbagoth were no less dedicated to the ret-Taris family, and had kept the memory of them alive through all these many years of ret-Syrris tyranny.

When Lukas and Kahr had first arrived in Skavlakur, they had sought out any remnants of the Devout immediately, but it was the Devout who had found them. Apparently, the fact that Kahr’s body had disappeared when the ret-Syrris assassins had tried to kill him was not unknown to the Devout, and they had been waiting for his return ever since. Knowing they were Usurpers and would therefore never earn the support of the Devout, the ret-Syrris family had destroyed the Temple of the Devout in the Imperial city of Vuur-bos-Skaduu the very day after the ret-Taris assassination, and they had made the worship of the ret-Taris a crime punishable by torture and eventual death.

Naturally, the reappearance of their god-king had reinvigorated the already simmering rebellion, and the Devout had immediately set to work organizing an army for Kahr. The end results of those efforts were gathered here now, at the edge of the Brambleshale Forest, praying that their returning god-king could deliver them from the wrath of the ret-Syrris Pretender. Kahr-ret-Taris was likely praying the same thing. Still, as Lukas and Opaq approached him, he looked as confident and powerful as ever. The other two men approached close, but each stayed a step behind him, Opaq on Kahr’s right and Lukas Harran on his left. Kahr did not look at either of them as he spoke. He merely stared at the Imperial army opposing them.

“Report.”

Opaq bowed his head briefly before replying. “Our scouts have confirmed your suspicions, my Lord. The Blasphemer Aap-ret-Syrris himself has taken the field, seated in your stolen war-throne.”

“Where?”

“As my Lord has predicted,” Opaq continued, “the Pretender has placed the throne with cowardice, and is seated at the rear of his army.”

Kahr scoffed. “The rat would never dare to face the true Pharaoh in open combat.”

“Never, my Lord,” agreed Opaq.

Lukas rolled his eyes. “You did say he’s at least seventy years old.”

Kahr nodded sharply, but did not shift his gaze toward his friend. “Were he a true Pharaoh, his age would not hinder his honor. Remember that I myself was born well over a century ago, yet here I stand in challenge to the Heretic King.”

Had they been alone, Lukas would have pointed out the flaws in this logic, but there was no reason to challenge Kahr in front of his Devout. Instead, Lukas merely said, “True.”

“There is yet better news, my Holy Lord,” Opaq continued. “Our scouts have confirmed that the Pretender’s progeny, Unk-ret-Syrris, is seated beside him.”

Lukas could see the corner of Kahr’s mouth curl upward in a smile. “Truly, my most sacred ancestors must be conferring their blessings on us this day. Both the Pretender and his insult-child, the only heir to his stolen crown, are within our grasp.”

“Insult child?” Lukas asked, confused.

Opaq looked over at Lukas. “Unk-ret-Syrris was named after Unk-an-Taris, a Pharaoh once of the ret-Taris line, but disowned from that holy lineage after his death, when it was discovered that he had defiled his divinity by murdering his god-king brothers.”

“Yes,” Kahr agreed. “Aap-ret-Syrris wishes to place a blasphemous name on a stolen throne. But Unk has yet to produce a child. They are the last two who can claim the ret-Syrris crown, and they have both dared to share a battlefield with me. Their hubris will be their fall. Today, we will purge Skavlakur of all ret-Syrris sins. Opaq, prepare the troops. The enemy will attack soon.”

Opaq dropped immediately to one knee. “Yes, my Lord. For the glory of the true Pharaoh, Kahr-ret-Taris!” He stood again and returned to the front lines to make their final preparations. After he was beyond earshot, Lukas spoke to his friend.

“Do you think we have a chance?”

Kahr still did not move, but his voice got a bit quieter, and a bit more human. “I was raised to be a great military leader. I was given the best training in warfare and strategy that Arbagoth could offer. As a battlemage, I excelled beyond anything ever seen in my ancestors.”

“And?”

Kahr sighed heavily, and when he spoke, there was a sadness in his voice. “We will need a miracle, my friend.”

Lukas nodded. “Hopeless?”

“No, not hopeless. Perhaps hope is all we have. There is still a chance, though. The enemy fears me, and I can smell their apprehension. The more they fear, and the more my people believe in me, the closer we come to that miracle.”

“So what do you think will happen?”

“I believe I understand Aap-ret-Syrris. He fears much more than the men gathered here. That fear is his weakness, and it may serve us well. He will attack first with a small wave of his weakest troops, and they will come straight for me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Lukas, you must understand Skavlakur. This is the first civil war in our history. The ret-Syrris assassination was quiet, underhanded, and even when my ancestors overthrew the vile Unk-an-Taris, it was a bloodless coup. This moment is something unknown in our recorded history, and Aap-ret-Syrris will fear it goes beyond me and my army. If he can defeat me with only a few troops, and only his weakest, he will send a powerful message to any other dissidents throughout the land.”

“That sounds foolish,” Lukas observed.

“It is,” Kahr agreed. “But fear can make a man into a fool. We must defeat his first wave quickly and decisively, and with as few of our own men as possible. It will contribute to their fear, and our men’s belief.”

“Then what?”

“Then he will send his elite, and that will be our true test. They will be few, but they will also be some of the best warriors on Arbagoth. If they defeat us, Aap-ret-Syrris can still claim that only a few of them defeated many of us. If we survive, he will send the entirety of his army against us.”

Lukas scanned the massive front line of the enemy army. “Can we hope to survive that many?”

Kahr said nothing. They stood there for a few moments in silence before they heard a loud horn blow from within the enemy camp. They were preparing to advance. Kahr still refused to take his eyes off of the enemy, but he spoke one final time, his voice soft and lyrical.

“Lukas, many men will die today. Do not be one of them.” He paused for a moment, and Lukas thought he saw a tear streaming down his cheek, but it was difficult to say from his angle. “Should the fortunes of battle turn against us, I want you to ‘walk away. Find Gabrielle’s soulstone, set her free, and forget about me and this place.”

Lukas was stunned for a moment. He had never heard his friend speak like this before. As a second horn sounded from within the enemy camp, Lukas turned around to join the officers at the front of the lines. He paused a moment before he started walking and simply said, “Let’s just hope your miracle arrives before that.”

When the third horn sounded, a company of the Pretender’s army broke into a run through the thick tangles of the Brambleshale trees. There were fewer of them than Lukas had anticipated, fewer even than Kahr’s own paltry army, but they moved as quickly as the ground allowed, heading straight for Kahr. At first, Lukas found himself a bit nervous. Although he was a seasoned planeswalker who had survived countless fights with all varieties of demonic entities, he had never been one for these full-scale battles. It always seemed like too much could go wrong. But even with his relatively limited experience in warfare, it was clear Kahr had been right about the first wave. Their own inexperience was already showing through as they tripped over the vines and one another to get to their enemy and possibly show their worth.

With a small, sinister smirk, Lukas thought of a small way that he could help matters. Kahr had already warned him against the use of demons in front of the rest of the army, as it might send the wrong message about what sort of allies Kahr-ret-Taris uses. Lukas could certainly understand that. If he had his choice, Lukas would not consort with demons, either, but their vile flavor of mana was all that was left to him now. Still, putting demonic creatures to more noble causes gave Lukas a certain ironic satisfaction, and it was certainly better than allowing them to move about the worlds on their own. But this unique landscape gave Lukas an idea to use his talents without endangering his friend’s cause.

Just as Kahr had been doing, Lukas had been gathering his energy all morning in preparation for the coming battle, and the vast peat bogs hidden under the Brambleshale trees seemed rich in dark energies. Lukas knew he would need most of his power for the latter stages of this conflict, but he could spare a little for his plan. Drawing on just a bit of his reserves, Lukas thought of the smallest and most annoying of his demonic servants. They were a diminutive breed of imp, thoroughly at home in the bogs beneath the tiny trees. Although they had the ability to fly, Lukas issued a direct mental command for them to stay hidden. Instead, they attacked the legs.

One by one, the advancing soldiers of the Pretender's army started being dragged down beneath the knee-high tree line. Several had already stumbled and fallen there on their own, but the occurrence was now much more frequent, and the soldiers were not getting back up. The imps saw to that, although no one from either army saw them doing so. Lukas’s mental commands kept them out of view, and also kept them back from Kahr, who was preparing to meet the first wave of soldiers even now. Lukas was beginning to wonder why Kahr’s army was not surging forth to intercept them, but when he looked over at Opaq, the Devout merely smiled knowingly. The imps made a dent in the oncoming force, but the bulk of them were closing quickly on the solitary frame of Kahr-ret-Taris.

Kahr, for his part, was eerily calm. He was an experienced and powerful battle-mage, his innate grasp of offensive and defensive magic heightened to the levels of a prodigy by his planeswalker’s spark. He had also spent his entire life before his ascension training as a warrior, from even before he was strong enough to raise a sword. All in all, Kahr was profoundly confident in his abilities, but he remembered all too well the skirmish in the clearing when Lukas had to save him. He had been overzealous then, and his opponents had been strong, some of the elite vanguard of the Imperial army. The soldiers who were now descending on Kahr were far less skilled, yet far more numerous. But Kahr’s one advantage in this battle was belief, and at any risk, Kahr needed to give the others who were there something to believe in.

Silently, Kahr drew his weapons, two twin swords he called moorents, which were short bronze blades in the shape of a crescent moon. Typically, they were more of a symbolic weapon than a practical one, but Kahr had always favored them, and was absurdly adept in their use. As he waited for the first of his enemies to arrive, he held the moorents out to either side, the blades pointing downward. As usual, Kahr wore no armor, not even a shirt, and his heavily muscled chest rose and fell slowly in the cool morning air. His long, black hair fell in thick strands over his massive shoulders, and his face was harsh and unchanging, a handsome statue ready to burst to life.

When the front line of the charging enemy closed on him, Kahr-ret-Taris did exactly that, he burst to life in his typical, extravagant manner. The enemy was no more than half a dozen steps away when Kahr flung his first spell. It was a wave of dark energy, almost like living shadow, and it knocked his opponents back a step, which was all the opportunity Kahr-ret-Taris needed. With a vicious howl that merged fury and delight, Kahr rushed forward, his moorents slashing this way and that, each swing dropping another of the Pretender’s fodder in a spray of blood and death. The first dozen died without ever lifting a weapon in parry.

The next dozen were barely more trouble, causing nothing more problematic for the enraged Pharaoh than a few clashes of metal on metal. Kahr moved like a living whirlwind, much faster than his frame would suggest him capable of moving. But he was also precise. Every slash, every cut, every twist of his body was done for a purpose, and usually resulted in the death of a foe. Had it not been for the staggering loss of human life, his brutal dance could almost have been beautiful. But Kahr seemed not to notice. He simply struck and moved, always directing his bronze blades to their next target while keeping his own body away from the swords and spears of his enemies. It was a frightening thing to watch, yet morbidly fascinating.

Kahr had killed thirty of his enemy before they started to overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers. Lukas once again glanced over at the Devout general, and this time Opaq was showing his concern. He needn’t have. A mere instant after Kahr was surrounded, he seemed to erupt into a wall of fire, which sent his attackers sprawling in every direction, each one dead or dying from the infernal blast. This impressive show made the next set of soldiers hesitate, and to Kahr-ret-Taris, hesitation in battle was like blood in the water. Kahr uttered a brief celerity spell and was on the next wave before they knew what was happening. As brutal as ever, Kahr-ret-Taris tore through the front ranks, dropping foe after foe, their bodies piling like trophies at his feet.

Lukas’s imps, meanwhile, were still thinning out the approaching troops in their subtle yet surprisingly effective manner. When combined with Kahr’s own individual effort, it gave the effect that Kahr was the unstoppable god-king he claimed to be, and that even the ground itself seemed to open up to see him victorious. This first, sorry wave of the Pretender’s army had already sustained heavy losses, and to their view, only one man had even joined the battle. So far, this was precisely what Kahr had hoped for. Lukas Harran, on the other hand, was less confident in their position. Even this first wave still numbered in the low hundreds, and neither Kahr nor Lukas’s imps could maintain this defensive forever. Lukas could already sense the loss of four of the dozen imps he had summoned, and their effectiveness was diminishing with each passing moment. Even Kahr’s impressive skill with moorent and magic could only do so much.

Sure enough, Kahr was soon forced to begin moving backward and fighting more defensively, relying more on parrying and dodging than his lethal strikes. His kills started coming less frequently, and he was forced to expend more energy and concentration on protecting himself than destroying the others. Similarly, the frantic flailing and slashing of the downed soldiers had nearly eradicated Lukas’s imps, and only three now remained under the tiny tree cover, and they had gotten too spread out to do much damage. Lukas considered summoning more, but he decided to conserve his energy, as well as his supply of imps, and instead released his hold on the few that remained, sending them once more into the æther.

Then Kahr went down. Neither Lukas nor Opaq saw exactly what happened, they just saw the Pharaoh down on one knee. It did not appear that there were many soldiers around him, but perhaps the fatigue of his constant effort had been too much for him. Opaq immediately leapt to action, calling on the most elite of Kahr’s guards, but before they could move, Lukas called for them to halt. It had taken him a moment, but he felt the surge of magical energy radiating from his friend. It seemed as though the forest itself was pouring energy into the deposed Pharaoh. Lukas held out his hand toward Opaq and spoke as softly as he could to still be heard.

“Stay back, General,” Lukas said, smiling. “You’ll only get in his way.”

Opaq hesitated, but the orders of the Pharaoh-Favored could not be ignored, especially by the Devout, and so Opaq relented, though he kept a worried and constant eye on his god-king. The enemy soldiers around Kahr seemed to have stopped, although it was difficult to determine why. At first, Lukas assumed something Kahr was doing was causing them some uncommon amount of fear. Then he saw one of them try to step forward, but his leg was entangled in some fast-growing Brambleshale vine. Kahr’s doing, no doubt. Lukas suppressed a laugh. The Pharaoh was certainly no fool.

What came next, though, surprised even Lukas Harran. Kahr’s entire body seemed to become suddenly encased in a dull, brown glow. His muscles strained and bulged, and he sounded a roar that was more akin to a massive elephant than a man. Then, Kahr-ret-Taris started to grow, his entire frame increasing in size until he was half again his former bulk. Several of the enemy, behind the front line of those caught by the vines, broke and fled at the sight of the now-giant warrior. Those still entangled never had the chance, as the massive frame of the enchanted Kahr tore through them with ease. After three more waves of the fearful enemy fell to Kahr’s might, they could finally take no more, and they broke and fled, abandoning both the fight and the field.

As Kahr-ret-Taris returned to his normal size, Lukas Harran and Opaq moved to join him. Opaq’s mouth was wide open in awe as he witnessed the grandeur of his Pharaoh, while Lukas tried not to laugh at the Devout. Still, even Lukas had to admit that it had been an impressive display of Kahr’s battlemage prowess. Kahr was breathing heavily as Opaq gushed.

“My Lord, never had I dared to dream that I would live to witness such a feat! Truly, even the vile Pretender himself can no longer doubt your divinity.”

“I thank you, my Devout, but I fear the Pretender’s blasphemy will not be so easily defeated, and neither will his army. Make the final preparations, Opaq. I have proven my worth to our enemies. For the next charge, it will be our army’s turn.”

Opaq genuflected once again. “Immediately, Lord Kahr-ret-Taris!”

He left to return to the line and prepare them for the forthcoming counter-charge. Once he was out of earshot, Lukas spoke quietly to the Pharaoh. “Are you alright?”

“I will live, my friend,” Kahr said, allowing his shoulders to slump slightly. “That effort was more draining than I had hoped. Your assistance, Lukas, is well appreciated.”

Lukas chuckled. “You noticed that, did you?”

Kahr nodded. “I could sense them. Thank you for not using your demons. It might not look right to our people.”

“I know,” Lukas said. “Still, though, if you are right about the upcoming charge, we might have to throw everything we’ve got at them.”

“Anything but that,” Kahr cautioned. “We risk defeating our own cause if my Devout see me indebted to demons. I would rather lose this battle than rob them of their god-king in the very instant I have given him back to them.”

Lukas sighed as he glanced over at his friend. “If you say so, Kahr. But don’t worry. I have some ideas that won’t tarnish your reputation.”

“Then perhaps you should ready them, my friend,” said Kahr, indicating toward the enemy camp with a gesture of his head. “They come.”

As Kahr spoke, another horn sounded from the enemy camp, this one lower and faster. Like a predator from the shadows, several dozen warriors split off from the Pretender’s army, moving quickly and effortlessly through the Brambleshale towards Kahr and his army. They moved with fluid bounds, no more hindered by the tiny trees than if they were crossing an open field. Lukas shuddered. These were unquestionably the elite Imperial guard Kahr had warned him about. The next few minutes would very likely decide the fate of Kahr’s rebellion.

“Good luck, Kahr,” Lukas said, backing away. “Stay alive.”

The space between Kahr’s hands, clenched into fists where they held his moorents, was already congealing into some sort of liquid fireball. “And you, Lukas Harran.” As he finished speaking, Kahr thrust his hands forward, launching the fireball across the Brambleshale forest and toward their deadly foes. The Imperial guard scattered, and although Kahr’s spell erupted into an impressive fiery display, no more than half a dozen of the Pretender’s elite fell to the attack. Kahr, however, did not hesitate, and with a powerful war cry and raised moorent, the deposed Pharaoh called for the first of his men to charge.

With Opaq in the lead, the troops still faithful to the true Pharaoh surged forward, past their god-king and toward their deadly foes. Kahr’s own elite guard stayed back, instead surrounding the Pharaoh in case their comrades’ charge was broken. The moment the two forces met, their decision was proven wise. The front line of Kahr’s army, while decently trained and completely dedicated to their cause, were no match for the Pretender’s elite, and in the initial clash, the elite won the battle almost to a man. Inwardly, Kahr winced at the death of those brave soldiers on his front line, but those behind them did Kahr and Skavlakur proud. They neither balked nor even hesitated, and crashed into the enemy’s elite with furious abandon. Their success was better than their fallen friends, though only marginally so.

Although the Imperial guard lost several of their men in the initial confrontation, they were the decided winners, and they tore the front lines of Kahr’s army apart with relative ease. Kahr was not about to give up on his magic, however. With an exaggerated gesture, Kahr brought his hands down to his side, and then quickly upward in front of him. With a gust of heated wind, he summoned forth a small flock of blisterbats, denizens of the nearby Skavlakur Fire Fens. Responding to their master’s mental commands, the blisterbats took off immediately for the nearest of the Imperial Guard.

The guards’ reputation as one of the most elite fighting forces in all of Arbagoth was well deserved. Even while still engaged with the remnants of Kahr’s force’s first charge, they effortlessly responded to the new threat of the blisterbats. Unfortunately for them, they failed to take into account the spray of blood from their fallen foes, which erupted like lava whenever a blisterbat was wounded. The first of the elite deftly cut one out of the air, only to fall himself as its blood sprayed across his face like acid. The next three blisterbats found their targets without any trouble, and the next took two Imperial guards down with one fatal purging of its scorching lifeblood.

But the Imperial Guard was very, very good, and they learned quickly from every mistake made by one of their own. With almost unearthly agility, the Imperial Guard began to pierce the blisterbats from the side, thus almost entirely avoiding the deadly spray of blood. Only two more Guards died from the burning blood, and three more died to the last of Kahr’s troops engaging them. Their numbers were dwindling, though not nearly as quickly as Kahr had hoped, and so the Pharaoh called back the survivors of his charge and prepared to meet the renewed assault of the Imperial Guard.

Lukas watched with a mixture of relief and sympathy as Opaq rejoined him at the front of Kahr’s reserves. He had grown to respect and even like the man during his time on Skavlakur, although he thought little of the Devout’s beliefs. But still, he could see in the general’s eyes an empty broken-heartedness, the kind that only comes from self-perceived abject failure. Kahr-ret-Taris had instilled in his people a belief in an ancient theocracy, validation of the life-long religion and obsession of the Devout. He had done this as a way to fortify the morale of his troops as they faced nearly impossible odds, but the tactic also carried a dangerous disadvantage. Nothing was quite as demoralizing as feeling like you have disappointed your god.

Lukas would have said something to comfort the Devout warrior-priest, but the battle was far from over, and Kahr was just getting started. Again tapping into the mana of the vast forests around him, he summoned a massive tree directly in the Imperial Guard’s path. Lukas was a bit confused by the choice, until the tree moved to crush the foremost of the elite troops. Of course the plane of Arbagoth would have its share of treefolk, thought Lukas Harran, though he had rarely seen such creatures before, and never one so large.

The treefolk lunged and swatted at the smaller humans, intent on destroying every last one of them, but again, the Imperial Guard adapted with frightening ease. After only a few of their brethren had fallen, the Guard silently sheathed their swords at their sides and drew the battleaxes slung across their backs. In a frightening display of cooperation, they formed a pattern of advance and retreat, hacking at the treefolk’s bark from one direction, then falling back while another moved in from its blind spot. The treefolk howled, although whether it was from anger or pain, Lukas Harran couldn’t tell. The massive treefolk warrior killed a handful more, but eventually it fell like common lumber.

Without a word, the Imperial Guard replaced their axes and again drew their swords, advancing cautiously but without rest toward Kahr-ret-Taris and his personal entourage. Lukas was beginning to grow concerned. He wanted to do something, wanted to cast or summon some sort of answer to this elite menace, but he could not think of an answer. He knew almost instinctively that his imp trick would not work a second time. The Imperial Guard learned too quickly and moved through the Brambleshale too well to be surprised by such a trick. The vast majority of Lukas’s other options were too big or demonic, and would violate Kahr’s wishes. Still, if it meant his friend’s life, he knew he might have to do just that.

When the Imperial Guard met with Kahr’s line, Lukas feared tragedy. What he got, however, was an inspiring surprise. In the first encounter, Kahr’s protectors held, every last one of them. They were outnumbered and, by all appearances, outmanned, but they held strong, and cut down several of the Imperial elite, enough to force the enemy to fall back briefly and reform their lines. When the Imperial Guards rushed at Kahr again, the true Pharaoh’s men again threw them back, this time losing one man to the Imperial’s eight. As the Guard fell back a second time to regroup, Lukas thought of a spell he could use, and he hoped Kahr would not take it as an affront. But this was the first time Kahr’s guards had seen any semblance of hope against the enemy elite, and they needed to capitalize on that advantage immediately.

Closing his eyes, Lukas bit back the all-too familiar wave of self-disgust whenever he invoked the darker rituals. Although his heart and his mind belonged always to the light, his curse was that his power could come only from the darkest of sources. But this was his life now, and if he could use that darkness for a noble cause, to end the tyranny of Aap-ret-Syrris, then he had to try. Within the caverns of his mind, Lukas Harran uttered the secret words from secret planes, and called forth one of his most dangerous conquests, a being he had fought perhaps harder than any other to control. Lukas shuddered again as he felt it appear. Even on his home plane, they refused to give this demon a name. He was an evil without form.

Until he took one from the dead, that is. And although it had been one of the most dangerous, most frightening battles of his life, Lukas Harran had conquered him. Now, he could finally put him to use. With a silent but powerful command, Lukas Harran directed the demon into the body of Kahr’s fallen soldier. Even within the disciplined ranks of the Imperial Elite, seeing their enemy effortlessly rise from a lethal strike made them break out in nervous whispers. Attempting to overcome their fear, they charged again, killing two more of Kahr’s guards, but losing many more of their own, most to either the newly risen soldier or Kahr-ret-Taris himself. They were just about to charge yet again when Lukas’s demon’s influence spread, and the two other fallen men rose back up to defend their Pharaoh. Lukas kept his concentration locked tightly on his demon, but he spared himself one moment to see the fear growing in the enemy.

A loud horn blew from the enemy camp, and even Lukas Harran could read the fury in its sound. Its message was for the Imperial Guard, and it was surprisingly clear: “Kill them now, or do not return.” Caught between the supernatural wrath of their enemies and the infamous cruelty of their master, the Imperial Guard had no choice, and they launched themselves into an all-out attack from which they would never retreat. The fighting was bloody and fierce, and three more of Kahr’s personal guard fell and rose, but they held the enemy at bay for a time. Kahr continued to fling spells in every direction, slashing and parrying when the opportunity arose. It seemed like the melee lasted an hour, though it was likely only minutes, but finally the Imperial Elite earned their advantage, and fell all of Lukas’s demonic corpses so severely that even the demon’s power could no longer hold them together. With a considerable effort, Lukas sent his demon back where it had come from, defeated.

Things were bleak for Kahr and his guards. They were holding their own, but they were purely on the defensive now, focusing all of their attention on protecting themselves and their god-king. Kahr was still doing some damage, but even his reserves of energy were being depleted. Time was running out, and Lukas was out of ideas. It looked as though defeat was inevitable after all. That, however, was when Opaq charged back into action. The main bulk of Kahr’s army was still waiting for their orders, and Opaq had kept them back because that was what Kahr had told him to do. Now, however, the situation looked bleak, and, in a move that truly impressed Lukas Harran, Opaq disobeyed his god-king in order to save Kahr’s life.

With one mighty shout, the Devout general called a charge. The majority of Kahr’s army, all but forgotten by the Imperial Elite, swept forward and around Kahr-ret-Taris and his valiant protectors and straight through the Imperial Guard. The enemy, exhausted from their continuous charge and too concerned with their mortal fear of Kahr and his god-king powers, met their brutal end with no more fight than the Pretender’s expendables had. Assuming his life was forfeit anyway, Opaq made the bold decision to press the charge, although it was doubtful even he could have stopped the rest of the army at that point. They rushed across the Brambleshale forest and towards the still much larger remains of Aap-ret-Syrris’s army.

Before Lukas realized it, Kahr was beside him, breathing so heavily that Lukas feared the larger man’s chest might cave in. “Clever trick, my friend,” he heaved. “Well done.”

Lukas nodded. “It’s all I could think of. All things considered, that went pretty well.”

“Far better than we had a right to hope,” Kahr agreed. “Did you sound that charge?”

“No,” Lukas said pointing at their army half-way across the Brambleshale Forest. “That was Opaq’s decision.”

Kahr nodded. “A wise man. He knew precisely when to disobey.” Kahr paused for a moment, growing pensive. “I truly hope he lives through this folly.”

“I hope we all do,” Lukas said, looking up to the sky. His eyebrows furrowed suddenly, noticing something for the first time. “It’s getting dark, Kahr. Is rain coming?”

Kahr shook his head as he looked upward as well. “No, it does not have the feel of rain. I…” He stopped, his face losing all expression and color. “Something is very wrong.”

“What is it?”

“I do not know,” Kahr admitted. “But I sense…” he stopped again, searching for the correct word, “calamity.”

From the endless, numbing expanse of the Blind Eternities, the Dual-Walkers stepped into an endless, frigid night. The cold was instantly oppressive, and neither Syl nor Chardis were dressed for winter travel. In a bygone age, concerns such as temperature would have meant absolutely nothing to planeswalkers, and both twins reflected bitterly on that fact as they struggled to establish their wards against the chill. Syl’s elegant, glimmering gown was low cut, thin and sleeveless, and her pale skin already showed the first signs of frostbite before she veiled herself in her wards. Chardis’s shirt was thicker, but still his sleeves covered only half of his thick bicep, and he had to summon his internal fire to keep the ice from his veins. His tanned skin almost seemed to glow, occasionally giving off small wafts of steam into the chill of the night. Neither of the twins knew which plane they were on, but both disliked it immediately.

The wind was blowing fiercely at the Dual-Walker’s back, but the blackened sky was immaculately clear. There were glints of distant stars shining through the night, a moon floating lazily to their left, and what appeared to be the light of another one in front of them. Syl and Chardis were standing at the edge of a mountain village of some kind. The buildings were large, thick-walled structures, full of points and angles to cut the wind, but stylized and grand with shingled roofs and chimney stacks to heat the homes inside. The street beneath them was worn cobblestone, though mostly covered in snow and ice.

Chardis glanced briefly in every direction, then frowned. “Where shall we begin, dear sister? Even if we are on the correct plane, our search could still be daunting.”

Syl shook her head. “I believe we are close, dear brother. The map Denner Fabellian provided us was very specific. I am certain this is the plane, and I would be willing to wager that the Bird is somewhere in this very town.”

“I have known you since our birth, dear sister,” Chardis began, “and I have never known you to gamble on anything that was not a certainty.”

“That is the point precisely, Chardis,” Syl soothed, looking around. “Even through my wards, this place is cold. We should begin our search, but please, brother, be careful how you deal with the Bird.”

“You have warned me of such things before, Syl, and I grow tired of it. Was it not your suggestion that led us to hire Fisco Vane? And he nearly killed you. I will not see it happen again.”

“Your memory is growing weaker, brother,” Syl shot back. “Fisco Vane might well have given us precisely what we wanted had you been civil to him.”

“I resisted the urge to incinerate him on sight. If that is not civility for one such as him, I do not know what is.”

Syl turned to Chardis suddenly, her expression serious. “Chardis, answer me this: Do you believe we truly need the Bird?”

Chardis sighed. “The witches who hold Shurdyn are dangerous enemies, and they are firmly entrenched in the Mirrored City. If we wish to take back Mavros from them, we need the Bird, or one with similar skills.”

“There are none with similar skills,” Syl replied sternly. “So we must not antagonize him. Be careful around him, because my sources tell me he is exceedingly dangerous, and not just for his skill.” She paused here, shivering slightly, though from the cold or from her words, Chardis did not know. “So please do not lose your temper. There is absolutely no telling how this one will react, but it cannot end well for us. We need him, and for as long as that is true, we cannot afford mistakes.”

Chardis stared at his sister for a long moment, but then he sighed, his breath spreading in a thick fog as he exhaled. “Very well, dear sister. I will ‘watch my temper,’ as you so often say. But the sooner we are finished here, the better.”

“Agreed,” Syl smirked.

Without another word, the twin planeswalkers set off down the icy street and toward the center of town. The streets were lined with small obelisks that must have served as markers of some kind, and strange, lighted towers almost like a coastal lighthouse. The flickering light coming from them seemed almost alive in the endless night. At first, the place seemed deserted. No one was walking about, no lights burned within windows, and no sound could be heard beyond the constant howl of the wind. As they approached a sort of market square, however, they saw their first signs of life on this frozen plane, and it was certainly a strange collection of creatures indeed.

As Syl and Chardis approached a central statue in the shape of a giant astrolabe, they saw a trio of foxfolk circling around it from the other side. They were short and thin, with gray-white fur reminiscent of the snow foxes common on Kokkinos. They wore thick clothing made of leather and fur from some far less attractive beast, but they seemed completely unbothered by the cold. When they spotted the Dual-Walkers, all three stopped suddenly, scanned the newcomers up and down, and then quickly moved away, talking to one another in hushed tones. Syl and Chardis moved on, walking in the direction the foxes had come from, only to find themselves face to face with a gigantic creature. Standing more than eight foot tall on two hind legs and massively muscled, it was completely covered in thick, coarse, white hair. Its eyes stared down at the twins with a piercing, intelligent gaze. Syl and Chardis both tensed slightly; they had both seen Yeti before.

“Move!” The Yeti spoke clearly though deeply as the surprised twins stepped out of his way. He was completely naked, except for small, colored ties holding his long braids in place. He moved away quickly in long, flowing strides, heading in the same direction as the foxfolk. Before Syl and Chardis had even fully turned around, another lumbering figure began to move in their direction, or, more accurately, two figures, one atop the other. The lower creature was a massive bear, tufts of its stark-white fur showing only occasionally through the heavy iron armor it wore. Astride the gigantic beast sat another iron-clad form, this one in the shape of a man. He sat tall and regal in the bear’s saddle, turning his helmed head only slightly in the twins’ direction as he rode past them. The Dual-Walkers glanced at one another and shrugged, moving off yet again into this strange world.

Syl and Chardis wandered around the small town for a while before they realized the world was growing brighter. At first, they merely assumed it was dawn emerging, but something seemed off about it. The light dancing on the snow-covered ground was far more inconsistent than sunlight. Finally, though, the twins caught sight of the source of the light, and even with their two thousand year history, both were struck by the profound beauty of what they saw. The sky itself seemed to be bleeding celestial light, a cascade of color that fell like illuminated rain and brightened the world like daylight did on other planes. The tints shifted, merged and separated in a constant pattern of oranges, yellows and reds that dazzled and mesmerized, and even seemed to provide some sort of heat to this frigid plane. Both of the Dual-Walkers had seen their share of Auroras in their time, but never one like this.

As the Dual-Walkers were taking their brief and rare break from their goals, two other humans, a man and a woman, walked over to join them. They were of average height and build, and heavily wrapped in heavy furs, undoubtedly a staple of this plane. They approached the Dual-Walkers with a sort of cautious concern, glancing back and forth between them and the Aurora above. It was the man who spoke first.

“It has been a while since the last one, huh?” He started nervously, indicating toward the sky. “Always beautiful. Are you two, um, new in town?”

The Dual-Walkers glanced at one another, then nodded. “We only just arrived,” Chardis offered.

The woman’s eyes widened. “How did you make it so far without furs?”

Syl looked down at her gown and then over at the woman’s attire, realizing how odd she and her brother must look. Thinking quickly, Syl offered an explanation. “Ours were lost when we fled our camp. There was some trouble outside of town.”

The man leaned in closer to them, his voice quieting. “You mean, the vampires?”

Syl took the opportunity of his careful pause to quickly scan their minds, trying to think of an explanation that was still generic, but realistic to their world. Vampires, she saw immediately, would have raised too much suspicion in their minds, but what else? Suddenly, in their minds, she found an image and the name of a possible answer. “Oh, no, nothing of that sort. We were camped about an hour out last night, but we were driven off by a stampede of wild Colos. We had no time to grab anything, we just had to run.”

“Oh, dear!” the woman exclaimed. “How horrible. Jaerin, quickly, give him your fur. Here, dear, you take mine.”

The two locals quickly took off their top layer of furs and offered them to the surprised Dual-Walkers, although the twins were hardly inclined to refuse. Their magics would have held up against the cold for much longer, but at least with the furs they would more easily blend in with the denizens of the plane. After Syl and Chardis made a show of warming themselves up, Jaerin continued.

“So what brings you folk here, huh?”

Remembering his sister’s warning, Chardis resisted the urge to glare at the man. “We are searching for something, and we believe it is in this town.”

“What is it you’re looking for?” asked the woman.

Syl made a show of losing her disingenuous smile, and spoke in a quiet voice, as Jaerin had earlier. “It is a thing that walks like a man, but flies.”

The locals glanced at one another in honest confusion, their expressions indicating that they had no idea what she meant.

Syl, still trying to get information, continued. “A thing that kills in the night.”

This caused all the color to drain from their faces. Obviously, that meant something to them. Jaerin swallowed hard, then started to move away, grabbing the woman’s arm as he did. “We need to get going.”

“Wait,” Syl said quickly. “Please. We are here to stop it.”

The two stopped moving and looked at one another, their expression somewhere between suspicion and terror. Finally, they just shook their heads and moved away. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing to do with us. You can keep the furs. You need them more than us, huh?”

They moved away quickly and retreated into a nearby home. Syl and Chardis watched them go, and noted how moments later the drapes of the closest window were pulled shut from the inside. Both resisted a laugh.

Chardis, turning toward his sister, smirked. “Did you get anything?”

She raised her eyebrows at the question. “What do you take me for, dear brother? Of course I did. I have always loved the simple folk, Chardis. So easy to read. Follow me.”

Syl led her brother back toward the square, but turned at a street marker obelisk two streets before. Syl walked as if she had known the streets for years, even sidestepping a small hole covered by snow. Within a few short minutes, the Dual-Walkers came to a darkened structure near the center of town, but they saw no one moving down the streets around it. Even the light of the Aurora above seemed somehow darker here. The building was some sort of church or large chapel, with a massive bell tower that stood higher than any of the other buildings in town. The grounds were run down, with pieces broken or missing from the wrought iron fence and paint chipping from the walls. To the ordinary dwellers of this chilling plane, the church must have felt off-putting and ominous. To the keen magical perceptions of the ancient Dual-Walkers, it was obvious that this place was steeped in the darkest of magical energies.

Chardis breathed in deeply, a sour expression crossing his face. “This place feels like a Mavros swamp.”

Syl smirked. “Home sweet home, brother.”

“For you, perhaps,” Chardis consented, pointing off to the nearby peaks. “But I would prefer if our quarry had not so subverted the tastes of these mountains.”

Syl patted her brother on the shoulder in her patronizing way. “Do not be bitter, dear brother. I think he has excellent taste.” She paused, looking around the grounds. “And no shortage of power to convert the energies so thoroughly. Be careful in there, Chardis.”

Her brother did not respond at first, his eyes locked intently on the church’s door. Finally, Chardis’s mouth curled upward into his own smirk. “Excellent. It seems he has left some of the righteous mana of this place untouched.”

Syl concentrated harder, analyzing the magical forces emanating from their target. “Not untouched, brother. Magnified. This is going to prove interesting.”

“Very,” Chardis agreed. Without another word, he moved toward the large wooden doors that served as an entrance into the decrepit church. Syl followed half a step behind, gathering in as much of the dark mana as she could in preparation for whatever confrontation was about to occur. She had learned of their target through an impossibly complex network of spies and informants that she had been cultivating for generations, but even her informants had little information. She only had a name, a vague description, and fervent testimonials about his skill. Neither of the Dual-Walkers relished walking into a situation with so little information, but they had no choice in the matter.

With a single, mighty push, magnified by an enchantment of strength to overcome the rust of the hinges, Chardis cast open the two massive doors with a thundering crash. Inside, the large, open room was dark, even unnaturally so. Chardis took four long steps into the church and looked around, but he saw nothing. Syl moved in more slowly and stepped off to the side, scanning around the gloom with more than her eyes. The room was something out of a nightmare. The wooden pews that had once served as seats for the congregation were all either shattered or displaced, and the smell of death hung thickly in the air. To Chardis’s left, the planeswalker spotted a dead body lying against the wall, or rather most of one. The walls and floor were sporadically splattered with blood.

Chardis took another two steps in and continued his search, but the vague light from the Aurora-lit sky outside did little to pierce the darkness. Both of the Dual-Walkers were certain that their target was there, almost undoubtedly watching them, but without further and more intensive magical probing, they could not sense him. They knew that things might eventually come to that, but for the time being, they did not want to risk appearing as a threat. Chardis took another step forward, almost inching his way into the dark, but he could see no farther than a few feet in any direction. He was just about to step forward again when the great doors slammed shut.

Chardis and Syl both glanced back, but neither could claim to be entirely surprised. From what little they had learned about the Bird, he preferred the shadow, and they themselves could sense his power. They both knew they would need to proceed carefully. With as little energy as he could manage, so as not to appear dangerous, Chardis created a sphere of heatless light and cast it upward, using it as an artificial light source against the blackness permeating the large room. For several seconds, the light hung silently in the air, even illuminating a portion of the shattered altar at the front of the church. Then, just as suddenly as the door had slammed shut, a shaft of pure shadow pierced Chardis’s sphere of light, shattering it like glass and cascading hundreds of sparks down on the church floor and the Dual-Walkers.

Then the whispers began. At first, it was difficult to tell if they were being spoken out loud or were echoing inside of their minds. Likely, it was a combination of both. The words were initially indistinguishable, just the vague whispers that can often be heard just under the wind. But slowly, as their volume increased, the voice became clearer and clearer, always uttering words like “unwelcome,” “mistake,” and “trespasser.” The whispers carried with them a tangible fear, a sense of dread that pervaded the minds of any who heard them. Syl, an accomplished and powerful mind mage, was able to tune out most of their effect, but Chardis had less talent in areas of the mind. He was no stranger to those powers, and knew of some protections against them, but the whispers were beginning to take their toll. Chardis was beginning to feel the fear that voice carried, and, unaccustomed as he was to the emotion of fear, Chardis was beginning to anger.

Chardis’s fists clenched and began to glow slightly, but Syl was watching him closely. She knew what was happening, and she knew he would incinerate not only the church but the entire town if he could not get himself under control. At first, Syl tried to stem the tide of the mental energies assailing them, but they were foreign even to her. When Syl used the magic of the mind, she visualized it like dark water seeping into her target’s brain. But the magic she sensed here was more like jagged, razor-sharp rocks hiding just beneath murky waters. She could sense the danger, but even she could not truly grasp it. So, with careful, precise effort, Syl extended her own considerable mental shields to her brother. He glanced over at her with narrowed eyes, but nodded his head and allowed the fire in his fist to die down. Moments later, the whispering echoing through the church died down as well, replaced by a clearer voice coming from high above.

“They should not be here…I did not invite them, did you?”

Again, the Dual-Walkers shared a glance, but said nothing. Above them, the voice continued, but the twins had no idea to whom he was speaking.

“They should not have come.” There was a few seconds of silence, and when the voice continued, it sounded harsher, more irritated. “Why?”

Chardis took one more step forward and spoke, projecting his voice upward. “We are not your enemies. We have come here with a proposition for you.”

For several long moments, there was no response, only the deep, impenetrable silence of the darkened church. When the voice continued, it came from another corner of the tower, echoing downward in a tone that had a sharp edge of suspicion to it.

“How have they found me? Did you send them?”

Looking around for his target, Chardis tried to answer the question that wasn’t directed at him. “We learned of you from a woman named SiCassa. You come highly recommended by her.”

Again, there was a long moment of silence. Then came a sharp, repetitive, piercing sound that the Dual-Walkers could not identify. The sound increased in both pitch and speed until, with a mutual shiver, they realized it was laughter. Just as suddenly as it began, the unearthly sound stopped, and the voice resumed, closer than it had been before. “They tell lies…SiCassa is plane-bound on Durnev…She knows nothing of this place.”

“She only told us about you,” Chardis clarified. “We had our own means of finding you. Like you, we are not bound to the planes.”

“Please,” Syl added, “listen to my brother.”

Suddenly, with an unintelligible screech that shattered the silence, a form exploded downward in a sharp arc, sweeping in at a frightening speed and catching the Dual-Walker square in the chest, knocking him back several feet. Chardis’s centuries of combat skills availed him only insofar as he was able to shield himself from the bulk of the impact, but the form of the large, black-feathered Aven still pinned him solidly to the ground. His assailant was almost as black as the uncanny darkness around them, but the surprised Chardis got a good look at his face when the bird brought it forward, inches from his own. The bird held Chardis’s gaze for a few seconds, then tossed his head to the right, looking somewhere off in that direction for a second or two before changing again, this time looking left and upward. He refocused on Chardis again then, his raven features barely changing as the Dual-Walker wondered if the bird even truly saw him.

Finally, the bird spoke, in the same voice that had previously echoed from above. “Brother? You are not my brother.”

Chardis’s brow furrowed briefly, but he had little time to ponder on the bird’s cryptic statement. Moments after speaking, the bird whipped a wing toward Chardis’s face, a nasty, curved knife in his talon-tipped hand. Fortunately, Chardis had used his enemy’s hesitation to gather some of the lighter energies to add to his focus. As the knife whisked toward his face, Chardis threw up a hand and launched a small burst of energy that knocked the bird’s arm back. The Aven was strong, however, and not only maintained his hold on the knife, but used the momentum to bring it back around, stabbing downward at Chardis’s throat. Reflexively, Chardis brought his arms up and crossed them, allowing them to harden into a red-tinted stone. He caught the bird’s arm just below the wrist, momentarily stopping the assault.

“Stop!” Syl called out, taking a cautious step closer. “We are not your enemy, Huinn.”

The Aven’s head snapped to the side to stare at her, but when he spoke, he seemed to speak to someone else. “She knows the name…What else does she know?”

“I know you are searching for someone,” she said. “We can help you find him.”

Huinn’s head jumped back as his eyes focused on Chardis, then he adjusted again to look at Syl, and then a third time, apparently to look at nothing at all. “Lies, lies, lies!”

Huinn moved his other wing over to the knife to give himself more leverage, trying to force the point of the knife down into the prone Dual-Walker with a twisted, avian sneer. Before he could apply any further pressure, Chardis spoke, trying to keep his promise to his sister. “We found you, did we not?”

The Aven stopped, though whether he was considering Chardis’s words or simply moving his head for no apparent purpose, the Dual-Walkers couldn't guess. After a few long moments, Huinn jerked backwards, the knife disappearing in a flash and the Bird himself jolting upright to a standing position. As Chardis climbed cautiously to his feet, he could feel as the bird gathered the righteous energy of the church, perhaps searching for the same sort of focus Chardis had been. After a very long pause, Huinn spoke, his voice low, scratchy and directionless.

“What do they want…What can they give…What will they take?"

He stopped momentarily, tossing his head first one direction and then another before continuing. “Must not trust…he has trusted before…And what has happened?”

The Dual-Walkers shared a glance, a note of concern in their identical eyes. They were not accustomed to negotiation, and certainly not one like this. When they glanced back at Huinn, he had moved a few feet to his left, and was still talking.

“And yet, if they can…They are here, are they not?” His head jerked upward, his dark eyes staring into the blackness of the tower above. “How long has it been?” His head moved to the right. “How many years?” His head dropped down and to the left. “How many deaths?” His head shot upward, wearing an unnerving Aven grin as he licked his beak.

Chardis moved over toward Syl, concern mirrored in his face. He seemed about to say something, but Syl gave a subtle shake of her head to keep him silent. Reluctantly, he relented, and as the Dual-Walkers glanced back at Huinn, he had moved several steps closer to them, and was staring at the empty space between the two of them, his head tilted to one side.

When the aven spoke, his voice was a barely audible whisper. “Do you truly think you can find Muinn?”

The twins moved closer together as Syl answered. “There is no guarantee, I admit. But we found you with little trouble. If anyone can find him, we can.”

Huinn’s head tossed to his left, then up, and then down to the center. “Your price?”

Chardis smirked. “Finding him is not a commodity for you to buy. It is payment for you to receive. We need your services, and if you offer them to us for a time, then we will help you find what you seek.”

Huinn suddenly straightened, throwing his shoulders back and his head up high, his raven eyes staring directly into Syl’s softer ones. “If I agree,” He began, his voice now clear, loud and confident, “what is it that you need from me?” Chardis’s brow furrowed at the eerie change in the Aven’s tone. He was beginning to question his decision regarding the Bird.

Syl, however, once more donned her usual smirk. “SiCassa assured us that you were unequalled in your skills of espionage and assassination. We will have need of both skills shortly.”

Again, the piercing silence filled the church. Huinn held his gaze longer than the Dual-Walkers had seen him maintain one position, but when he spoke, his voice was low and threatening. “Your enemies will die by my blade, but I am not yours. Never forget I am not yours. Deceive me and your deaths will be painful and inevitable.” He paused here, meaningfully. “Where do we begin?”

Daneera was exhausted. It had been quite a while since she had been forced to walk such a distance on her own two feet, rather than through the endless æther, but it was less the actual walk that tired her than her constant scanning of her surroundings. The message she had received from the mystical Grove of Omens had shown her only a direction. It had provided her no understanding of how far she was to walk, or what she should be looking for. This forced the young summoner to slow down and attempt to observe anything and everything. Even outside of the Grove, there was still a chance that another omen would present itself, and she had to be ready if it did.

Of course, this was hardly the only watching Daneera was forced to do. The Grove of Omens was located on the northern border of the kingdom of Veretna, and while no nation on Arbagoth truly knew peace, Veretna was one of its truest strangers. The Viashino nobility of Veretna kept a stranglehold on the lower castes, specifically the goblin and human populations that make up the working and trade classes. Only a Viashino was allowed to walk freely through the forested hills, and any others who dared try were met with vicious reprisal. Fortunately, Daneera’s superior understanding of tracking and forest life had allowed her to avoid almost every near detection that had happened by.

Only once in her long trek toward Veretna’s coast had Daneera been forced to stop and defend herself. She had heard them coming well in advance, and took quick refuge in a nearby oak. After only a few minutes of waiting, an oversized hart burst into her view, deftly avoiding entanglement by shaking its massive, antlered head back and forth as it passed underneath her. Mere seconds after it passed, a bolt of lightning shot out from the direction the hart had just come, hammering into Daneera’s oak with such force that she was forced to abandon her precarious perch. She broke her fall with some simple primate gymnastics and landed on the ground with a gentle roll, already moving to find new cover.

Unfortunately, such movement did not escape the notice of the experienced hunters, and they entered her view in seconds. Half a dozen strong and well-armed, the Viashino looked at the smaller human with a mixture of surprise, disapproval, and amusement. They were the small hunting party of a minor nobleman, judging from the simple colored streamers and pennants that hung from their weapons and their limited clothing. At first, they assumed she was a poacher, and they tried to interrogate her in their slippery, Viashino language. Daneera, of course, could understand them perfectly, but she chose not to answer. She was a bit too busy gathering her mana and deciding on a course of action.

Finally, one of the Viashino, probably the young noble himself, judging from his ornate hunting spear and gilded scales, grew impatient, and signaled for his party to attack her. Remembering well the lightning bolt, Daneera leapt into action before the lizards could ready themselves. Trying to throw her enemies off, she quickly conjured a thick forest fog to hide her location, and then summoned through that dense, earth-bound cloud the form of a large, angry bear. As Daneera had predicted, one of the Viashino haphazardly threw another bolt of lightning into the fog, but it crashed harmlessly into a moss-covered rock, leaving nothing but a small singe behind where it had struck.

As the fog began to dissipate, one unfortunate Viashino found himself face to face with Daneera’s bear. After only a moment’s hesitation, the lizard apparently decided that he had neglected some crucial task back home, and hurried to see to the matter. A second Viashino needed a battered arm before reaching a similar decision. The remaining four, however, decided to cooperate, forming a line and using their long hunting spears to keep the bear at a more manageable distance. The stare down between the giant bear and his lizard foes lasted several minutes until the smallest of the Viashino, standing next to the young lordling, launched yet another lightning bolt. Daneera reacted immediately, pouring magical bulk onto her bear, but even so, the creature was gravely wounded. Feeling a pang of guilt, Daneera quickly cast him back into the æther, back to his home, to heal and live as he will.

The four remaining Viashino shared a common sneer, believing that they had won this battle. Daneera, on the other hand, was nowhere near ready to admit defeat, and she had far more allies that had chosen to back her over the years. Throughout the stare down between the Viashino and the bear, Daneera had been gathering her energy, and now she was ready for something a bit more impressive. The lizards took a collective step toward Daneera but then stopped, suddenly aware of a loud, crashing sound. Daneera took a step back and leaned against a nearby tree, then casually pointed upward. The Viashino followed her direction with their eyes, then screamed and ran. Above them, crashing downward through the branches, was a baloth, nothing but spikes, claws and teeth.

This baloth was still small, but as Daneera reached out to the forest to replace what her summoning had broken, the baloth seemed to grow, as if what cured the woods also fed this beast. A final lightning strike from the Viashino mage had seemingly no effect on the hulking baloth, and the lizards’ line finally broke for good. They ran after their first two companions at an impressive pace with the baloth fast in toe. Daneera genuinely considered allowing the beast to chase them for a while, but she decided it was better to send it home now, before she completely lost track of it. The air around her and around the baloth rippled in tiny rivulets of æther, and moments later, the beast was no more, on Arbagoth, at least.

Ever since this brief encounter, Daneera had been even more on her guard, knowing that the Viashino noblemen would be unlikely to take such an insult without an attempt at revenge. But Daneera had a number of advantages at her disposal. Firstly, she was a master ranger, and although thoroughly human, she moved like an elf in the woods. The Viashino would never be able to track her by sight, and she had certain magics that could easily cloak her scent. Furthermore, the lizards had no idea where Daneera had come from, or where she was going. Had they known the latter, they would surely have already found her. Had they known the former, they would likely find her soon. However, because they knew neither, Daneera was convinced she could elude them, as long as she remained careful, and vigilant.

She had seen no further sign of those Viashino, or any other. She had merely stayed on her southwest bearing, her hyper-natural sense of direction keeping her from straying off that line she had drawn in her mental map. It was a line that led directly southwest from the Grove of Omens, from the very spot on the ground where the leaves had fallen, to some spot on Veretna’s coast. Daneera still had no idea what any of it meant. Apart from her visits to the Grove, Daneera spent little time in Veretna. She loved the forested plane of Arbagoth with the sort of devotion a young child shows her mother, but there were some kingdoms she preferred over others. Veretna, with its constant power struggles and the imperial mindset of the Viashino that dominated it, was not one of her favorites.

Consequently, Daneera had no idea what to expect from Veretna’s coast. There were large cities in Veretna, and doubtlessly there were some along the coastline. It might well be that Daneera’s target was one of these. Unconsciously, Daneera cringed. She hoped not. She had never been fond of cities, not even in her childhood, and a cityscape dominated by Viashino, several of whom she had recently battled and humiliated, was not the most appealing prospect. Of course, the massive island of Volbog, upon which Veretna sits, is volcanic, and some of its coasts drop off sharply, both the forests and the land itself giving way with no warning to sheer and towering cliffs. Although that option was slightly more appealing than a city, it was not by much. Daneera liked to have something living around and beneath her. Although she knew others who disagreed, she did not put rock and stone into that category.

Daneera began to notice the trees thinning and becoming more sporadic. That meant she was likely approaching the coast. They continued to thin with startling quickness, which put Daneera even more on edge. There were few places on Arbagoth not covered in some type or species of tree, apart from those areas that had been intentionally cleared by the inhabitants. This, however, was no man-made clearing, and Daneera could feel the reason beneath her feet. She was nearly to the coast. The ground beneath her was alternating every few feet between dwindling grass, hard sea stone and beach sand. Unlike in the thick, rich soil in the deeper woods, any tree living here would need to outlast any and all competition for the nutrients in the ground. There were still a few that could, but they were becoming a rarity.

Finally, Daneera broke from tree cover completely. She realized with a start that she could actually see the ocean in the distance, its roar suddenly deafening now that the sounds of the forest had been left behind her. A few dozen paces to her left, she saw an incredibly rudimentary path into the woods, beaten down slowly and methodically by few feet over a very long time. This trail led from a natural break in the forest wall down toward the sand, where it was washed away daily by the tide. Perhaps this was the path that the Grove of Omens had sent her to find. With a heavy sigh, Daneera lifted a foot to walk over to the path, but then hesitated, wondering.

Daneera’s sense of direction was impeccable. It was as close to flawless as a mortal could get, or at least that was what Daneera had always thought. As she stared over at the path, she found herself wondering briefly why her remarkable sense of direction and the omen in the Grove had not brought her out on the path instead, if indeed that was where she was meant to be. Even Daneera found her doubts to be foolish and misplaced. Surely, the distance of a few dozen paces over the countless miles of the journey she had just made could not possibly mean anything. Surely, she had drifted, if only very slightly. There was nothing else around to see, no other clue to follow. The path had to be her goal. And yet, for reasons she could not fully justify, her instincts screamed “no.”

Daneera took a step back and pressed herself against the last tree. Something felt wrong. No, not wrong, she thought. Just not right. Daneera was a huntress, and a master of the ways of the forest, and if there was one universal truth that such a life had taught her, it was to listen to her instincts. All too often, she had seen others disregard their instincts or hers, and they nearly always ended up the worse for the decision. Those who survived usually confided in her afterwards that something hadn’t felt right, but when they thought it through, they had decided that feeling didn’t make any sense. In these situations, Daneera would usually point out that instinct needs no justification, and they should have listened to it. Daneera felt like this was a good time to heed her own advice.

Daneera waited behind the tree for over half an hour, not waiting for justification of her instincts, but rather simply for the feeling to change. When it did, it was replaced by several other feelings that were even less welcome. Several yards straight in front of her, and equally off the beaten path as she herself was, a man materialized. Even Daneera jumped slightly at his sudden appearance. She was a tracker, and used to experiencing certain signs of the arrival of others, be it the signs of their passage or the sounds of them in the distance, or just a disturbance in the forest life around them. To see a man just suddenly become, however, was startling, even to a planeswalker like her. She realized immediately that that was exactly what this man must be.

Daneera watched this new planeswalker for a few moments, trying to decide what to make of him. He stood a bit over six foot tall and slender, with dark brown hair and a clean-shaven face. After reorienting himself with reality, he took a moment to brush off his dark blue tunic, as though it had somehow been dirtied by his travels. Daneera could not stop herself from audibly scoffing. What is he brushing off, æther? She asked herself, shaking her head slightly. As her life in the forest had repeatedly taught her to, Daneera began sizing him up as though he were a potential enemy, and in that respect, he seemed to be little of note. He was tall but lean, and his muscle definition was less than impressive. He stood straight with a narrow base, about as far from a warrior’s stance as possible. He carried no obvious weapons, either. In combat, he looked like he would be little more than prey.

He was, however, a planeswalker, and Daneera had not had much success in her recent dealings with other planeswalkers. Between the Dual-Walkers and Fisco Vane, Daneera had met her share of powerful ‘walkers recently, and it had been her luck more so than her power that had allowed her to survive. They had taught her to be even more cautious around her kind than she had been before, and Daneera was never careless. She knew nothing about this man, apart from the fact that he apparently had the Spark, but who he was and what he wanted were mysteries to her. Perhaps he was looking for her. Perhaps he was the subject of the Grove’s omen, and it was Daneera who was looking for him. Perhaps he worked for the Dual-Walkers, or even Fisco, but she doubted either option. This man seemed more a fool than anything else, and she doubted either Fisco or the Dual-Walkers would send a fool to find her.

Besides, Fisco Vane had no reason to look. He and Daneera had left on friendly terms. Well, Daneera admitted to herself, not friendly, exactly. Amicable? She frowned, looking for the word. When we left, Fisco was disinclined to kill me, and that’s probably about the best it gets with him. In any case, Fisco had given Daneera one of his coins which, when lit, supposedly called to him across the void, so Fisco must have been at least willing to work with her again, provided it was for a considerable profit, anyway. Daneera shook her head. I think I’d walk through hell before I ever turned to him, she thought darkly.

Suddenly, Daneera noticed that the feeling conjured by her instincts had, indeed, changed. Now, instead of the cry of hesitation, her deepest self was issuing forth a bellow of urgency. She didn’t know how she knew, or even really what she knew, but she knew she had to move now. Soon it would be too late. The part of Daneera that had been born in the dust-covered ruins of “civilization” wished vainly to know what would be too late, or too late for what, or what would happen, but most of Daneera didn’t care. Her instincts had protected her for as long as she cared to remember, and if they were telling her to move, then move she would. Without another thought, Daneera broke cover and approached the newly arrived man.

It took the man longer to notice her than Daneera thought it should. The sun was shining, but the day seemed to be becoming overcast. Still, Daneera was completely visible when she broke from cover, and she tried to make herself as apparent as she could so as not to startle him. She failed. He visibly jumped when he finally noticed her, although he recovered quickly, flashing a pleasant and honest smile that made him look more handsome than he was. He took an eager step toward her, his hand held out in a hopeful expression of friendship.

“Hello, there! I’m new to the area, and I was hoping you could give me some directions.”

Daneera narrowed her eyes as she stared at his hand, but made no move to accept it. She did not believe he was dangerous, but she was not yet ready to cede any advantage until she knew more about him.

The man stood there for several long, awkward moments before he finally withdrew his hand, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Daneera had to force herself not to laugh at the poor man. Still, he again composed himself, and continued, undaunted. “My name is Denner, by the way. Denner Fabellian. You are?”

She narrowed her eyes even further, then sniffed the air once before saying simply, “Daneera.”

“Daneera?” he repeated, his eyebrows rising slightly as he did.

“Daneera.”

The man nodded, his smile widening. It hadn’t hit him before, but something about his journey to this plane had seemed familiar, and something about this woman had seemed even more familiar still. Denner’s pristine memory told him that he had never seen either before, and so it had momentarily baffled him why either would be familiar, but now everything made sense. Daneera. That had been the name of the woman Lady Syl and Lord Chardis had asked him to find, and this was the plane he had provided them a map towards. It was an incredible coincidence that he had met their friend here, while looking for someone he had read about in one of their books. This caused a troubled thought to cross Denner’s mind, but as he noticed the annoyed look in the woman’s face, Denner decided he needed to be careful. The last thing he wanted was to rob his benefactors of whatever surprise they had planned for their friend.

Thinking quickly, and realizing that Daneera likely read the recognition in his own expression, Denner tried to justify it. “And I’m Denner. Huh. Denner, Daneera, Daneera, Denner. That’s a happy sort of coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” she answered flatly.

Denner’s eyebrows furrowed now, scanning his memory for something. “You know, I was at an observatory once where they were studying coincidence. They had cataloged three thousand eight hundred and fourteen different coincidences, and the vast majority of them were proven coincidental.”

“Where?”

Denner smiled again, but then was stuck, realizing that his answer would mean nothing to a local of this plane. “Oh, some place very far from here. You probably wouldn’t know it.”

“I know a great many places on Arbagoth,” Daneera insisted, content in the knowledge that she knew they were both planeswalkers, but he did not.

“Ah.” Denner again realized he had to be careful. He knew she was a planeswalker, and if she had seen him arrive, she knew that he was. However, he couldn’t let her know that he knew, because that might give away his secret. So instead, Denner devolved to his usual nonsensical string of babble when he didn’t know what to say. “Well, you see, the thing is, it’s not exactly, well, Arbogoth isn’t exactly, no, I mean, I guess, the observatory is…”

Finally, Daneera grew tired of his stammering, and completed the last of his attempted sentences for him. “On a different plane?”

“Yes!” Denner said with the excitement of a child able to share a secret. “You know about other planes, then?”

She nodded. “I can walk them as you do.”

“That’s fantastic,” Denner said with a grin. Moments later, however, that grin melted again and he simply stood staring at her before he could finally muster more words, in a disappointed tone. “But you can’t be…Penelophine, can you?”

This confused Daneera greatly. “No, I’m Daneera, as I said. I’ve never heard of a ‘Penelophine.’”

For reasons Daneera couldn’t claim to understand, this seemed to provide a sense of relief for the other planeswalker. But that reaction was not really what bothered her. There was something else going on with this man, something that Daneera didn’t like. He was hiding something, and not terribly well, but that was to be expected. They had just met, after all. But something was off. His reactions seemed genuine, and nothing in Daneera’s instincts was screaming a warning at her, she just knew there was something else happening here that she couldn’t quite see.

“Of course,” Denner Fabellian finally said with another of his smiles. “I only asked because sometimes our kind change their names every so often. Especially the older ones.”

“And I look old to you, I take it?”

Denner laughed, a bit nervously, perhaps, but honestly nonetheless. “No, of course not! But this Penelophine I’m looking for is apparently from a very long time ago, and if she’s still alive, she probably still looks as young and…” he paused, thinking better of his choice of words. “Youthful, as she always did.”

“I’ve known a few like that myself,” Daneera said bitterly, thinking back on the Dual-Walkers. The Twins were older than some of the forests she hunted, yet had looked young and beautiful when she had met them. Of course, their youth had been bought by the theft of life of countless denizens of their damnable planes. Daneera shuddered at the thought.

“Are you cold?” Denner asked her, suddenly confused by her shudder. “It seems warm here to me.”

Daneera shook her head at his question, but began to realize just how warm it was becoming. She looked upward toward the sky, wondering if the sun had burned off the clouds that had been forming earlier, but if anything, the clouds were growing thicker, and darker. Despite herself, she started to grow worried. Something about these clouds seemed unnatural, out of place. Daneera scowled. She was getting tired of having that same feeling about everything today.

Finally, Denner seemed to grow tired of waiting for Daneera to answer, and so he continued with a click of his tongue. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, of course, but I came here to try to find Penelophine.”

Daneera looked back at him with a quizzical expression. She still believed that it was to this man that the Grove of Omens had directed her, although his search for yet another ‘walker might hint at a yet deeper quest on her horizon. “Why are you looking for her?”

“Well, I…” Denner began, then stopped, trying to decide how to word his goal, if indeed he could.

“I would like to know that, as well,” a third voice burst into the conversation, lyrical and smooth and richly entwined with ancient and forgotten magic. The two planeswalkers turned their heads simultaneously toward the ocean to rest their eyes on the flawless beauty of a magnificent woman. She was a tall figure of a woman, alternatively slender and full in all the right places, judging from Denner’s reaction. Her skin was darkened perfectly by the sun, with just a hint of blue to tell any who would know that she had been born a Siren. Her beauty was immaculate; staggering. Of all the women Denner Fabellian had ever seen, only Lady Syl came close to the beauty that stood before him now, and even his usually cold and calculating mind was having difficulty deciding which one outshone the other. Daneera glanced over at her new companion and rolled her eyes.

“You must be Penelophine, I take it?” Daneera asked.

The Siren smiled at her, flashing perfect teeth just enough to make herself even more alluring. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

“Daneera.” She looked over at the man, who had yet to regain himself. She rolled her eyes a second time. “And he’s Denner, as I understand it.”

Finally, Denner recovered enough to speak, flashing the most attractive smile he could muster. “Denner Fabellian. It is truly an honor to meet you.”

His smile seemed to make hers retreat slightly. “How did you know my name, Denner Fabellian? Were you sent here?”

“Sent?” He said, confused. “No, I wasn’t sent. I read about you in a book, and I wanted to see for myself if you were…well, that is, if the accounts of you were true.”

“There cannot be many books that would still know my name,” Penelophine insisted, a look of suspicion crossing her face. “Who wrote this book of yours?”

“A man named Grimoire.”

Penelophine thought back, trying to remember how she knew that name. When the memory returned to her, it was not alone. She remembered the strange Vedalken who had always recorded the Amphiseum games in his gigantic tome, but she also remembered the Amphiseum. She remembered the faces of Phreksha Barb-Tail and Morgezka Shanak, of the Dual-Walkers, Syl and Chardis. She remembered pain, and heartbreak, and unspeakable, unfathomable cruelty.

She looked up again at Denner Fabellian and spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I should have never told him where I lived. I should have known no good would come of it.”

“Please, fair Penelophine,” Denner began in a sad, pleading tone. “I didn’t come here to harm you!”

Penelophine scoffed. “I would pity you if you had. I simply mean that there are some who may wish to see me…harmed.”

Denner shook his head fervently. “I can’t imagine anyone who would want to harm you.”

The Siren glared at him. “I do not know if it would be better to wish you a long enough life that you see the truth, or hope that you die young enough to remain so blissfully ignorant.”

At this final word, Denner Fabellian reeled back slightly as though he had been physically struck. Daneera looked over at him, and was shocked to see an actual tear in the corner of his eye. She had no idea what had affected the man so much, but whatever it was, it was something he took very personally. For a few moments, no one seemed to know what to say. Finally, Daneera turned back toward Penelophine and began.

“I think perhaps we should…”

“Quiet!” Penelophine interrupted suddenly. Her tanned face was turned upward and was swiftly draining of all color. “I think we should get inside my grotto. Now.”

Daneera’s instincts flared, and she caught Denner by the arm has he moved immediately to join Penelophine. “No offense, but I don’t know if a Siren’s grotto is the safest place to be invited into…”

Penelophine didn’t even look at her as she responded. “Any other day on any other plane, you would doubtless be right, but right now, it might be all we have.”

Daneera was about to argue when she followed the Siren’s gaze upward. The clouds that had been suffocating the sky were no longer black and rolling billows. They seemed as though they were on fire. The heat, she noticed suddenly, was now oppressive, bearing down on the three of them like the hand of an angry god. Daneera’s instincts were screaming at her almost as if they had a tangible voice. Something was very, very wrong, and she knew that if she were to try to stay around long enough to discover what that was, it would kill her. The only thing Daneera could see through the fiery clouds above was a small, metallic shape, almost like the underside of a ship.

Penelophine spoke one last time, her voice barely audible to Daneera above the beating of her own heart. “By the gods, no.”

Without another word, the Siren turned around and sprinted at full speed for the beach. Denner was after her in a second, following her blindly into the entrance of a cave hidden cleverly in a small rock outcropping. Daneera held out for two short seconds after that, but she was much faster than the other two, and had nearly caught up to them by the time an enchanted rock slid over the entrance. Less than half a minute later, all three heard hell hammer down on Arbagoth from without.

Antine had many fears, but he had never been as afraid in his life as he was now. Usually, when Antine found himself afraid of something, he would initially run for his life until he regained his faculties, and when he did, he would analyze the source of his fear as objectively as he possibly could. Now, however, neither option was possible. Antine was trapped inside some sort of strange, metallic construct which apparently served as some sort of transportation vessel, almost like a train on Jakkard, but riding on the air, not the leylines. Trapped in a small space with a number of metallic men who Antine had to assume would prove to be enemies, running was simply not an option for the young fox.

Antine’s inability to run was only the very beginning of his problems. He was also denied his chance to reason out what was happening to him, because everything he was seeing and feeling was completely beyond his experience. He had never been in a structure like this one before. He had taken the train in the Jakkard once or twice when he had first moved from Verkell to the fledgling city of Dayko, but that was the closest he could think of. Even then, they had been allowed to open the windows, allowing fresh air into their stale passenger car. Here, though, there were only a few tiny, circular windows, and they were stuck shut with heavy bolts. The air inside felt stale and musty, like a tomb, or at least what Antine assumed a tomb must be like. Too much longer and he suspected he would find out, when this structure became his.

The more Antine thought about the window and whatever was beyond it, the more he was glad that he couldn’t open the thing. Ever since the Amphiseum had completely disappeared from the other side of the window, nothing out there had made a bit of sense. At first, Antine had been using the word fog to describe what was beyond the window, but that didn’t seem entirely accurate. Then it had seemed like there was nothing there whatsoever, just an endless pool of nothing, yet this also seemed strangely inaccurate. He occasionally thought he could see shapes or light or some sort of movement out there, but whenever he looked to where he thought he had seen it, it was gone, or more likely, had never been there at all. Like the rest of Antine’s life over the last few days, it was maddening.

Thinking back to lying on his rented bed in the Jakkard, and his sudden, illogical journey from there to the Amphiseum, Antine realized that this looked like that had felt. It was a swirling, chaotic nothing, a constant shifting of perception and form, and the utter lack thereof of both. But this was different even from that, Antine realized, because he was still real. He was still physical. He could touch his face and rub his eyes, and everything was still the same, at least inside. If anything, that was the more confusing aspect. Inside this structure, reality seemed perfectly fine. Oh, it was different than anything Antine had ever seen, yes, but everything made sense. They stayed constant. A wall remained a wall from one moment to the next, and Antine remained Antine. Things were foreign to him, but at least they seemed to make sense in and of themselves.

But beyond those windows, reality seemed not to exist in any way that Antine could comprehend. It was that dichotomy that Antine feared would drive him insane. He had no idea what had happened to him while lying on the bed on Jakkard. One moment everything made sense, and then nothing did. But still, there was a piece of Antine that could understand that. There was a part of the young fox that understood how the world could go suddenly mad, as long as it happened to everything. One moment, everything was real, and then nothing was, including himself. But now, nothing outside made sense, but everything inside did, at least to themselves. The outside world was mad once again, but this time, Antine was not a part of it. This was something he simply could not grasp. How could reality, or the sudden, complete loss of reality, be held back by nothing more than a few metal walls and a thick window of glass?

Eventually, though, the chaos and confusion of whatever was outside began to subside and become real again, although it hardly did anything to answer poor Antine’s questions. The unreality seemed to turn back into the thick, swirling fog, and then even that broke away, revealing a panorama the likes of which Antine had never dared to imagine. Looking from one horizon to the other during his short time in the Jakkard Wastes had been an almost spiritual experience for Antine, but this was a feeling he simply had no words to describe. All he could see, stretching out for infinite miles below him, were trees and water. Living near, and then briefly in, the Wastes had shown him what a premium both resources were, and seeing them here, in an abundance no sane man on Jakkard had dreamt of, was almost too beautiful a sight for Antine to handle.

The young fox from Jakkard had never been in anything so high in his life, and so it was a little difficult to get his bearings. Still, it looked to Antine that he and his strange metal cage were high above the coast of a large island. From his preferred window, he could see nothing but a vast body of water. Through the opposite window, he saw mostly trees, a vast forest that stretched to the horizon over rolling hills and mountains. He could also make out the coastline as it traced its way onward, although Antine could not be certain of the direction from this vantage point. It was, without a doubt, the most amazing, beautiful, awe-inspiring sight that Antine had ever seen.

Once again, Antine found himself wondering just where he was and just what was happening to him. Although he couldn’t claim to have a comprehensive knowledge of Jakkard, his time in the land offices of Dayko had familiarized him well enough with the basic, known geography of the Wastes. Nothing in that knowledge indicated that a view like this one could possibly exist. The Amphiseum had been a spectacular sight, unlike anything that could have existed in Verkell, certainly. But it had also been ancient, and could have been left over from a forgotten and bygone age, hidden away in a far corner of the Wastes to be rediscovered. But this? Nothing could hide this away. Nothing could silence stories of a place like this. Antine had no idea where he was, but some part of him understood, on a primal level, that he was no longer on Jakkard.

Antine knew he should tear himself away from the grandiose view, but he found himself spellbound by the pure, pristine beauty of this strange place. He found himself thinking of the people back on Jakkard, and what the richest of his fellow foxes in Verkell would pay to see a sight like this. Antine found himself sneering at the thought. Even though he had arguably shared in it during his youth, Antine had never cared for the unashamed use of money and power that other foxes enjoyed. And a view like this hammered home in Antine’s mind that beauty is a treasure that should be shared by everybody. If Antine could bring this sight to Jakkard, he would give it to everybody, the rich and the poor, of any and every race. This was a beauty that should never be sullied, be it by pain or purchase.

Suddenly, Antine became aware of some sort of sound coming from the forward section of the ship, and he finally pried himself away from his view to look into it. He moved slowly, sneaking carefully through the now-familiar short hallway to see what the strange, metallic men were doing. The primary one, the same one Antine had observed talking to the image of the man’s head, was again standing in front of the mirrored table and the colored chandelier. It was not a man’s head projected above the table, nor the strange, indescribable image that had replaced him, but an odd image of a green and blue sphere. This sphere was surrounded by several small dots of light, most colored white and a few in red. The metal man was talking in his grating, grinding voice, although Antine had no idea if he was talking to his brethren or to the projected image. Antine was too busy trying to figure out the image to listen until his brain latched on to the metal man’s final words.

“We are now in position.”

As the strange creature finished speaking, it pointed at one of the floating dots of light. As his finger made contact, it changed from white to red, and Antine noticed that several other white lights were also becoming red, although these seemed independent of the metal man’s actions. Antine watched in grim fascination as the white lights became red one by one, blinking out their pure, bright, vibrant light for a dull and fiery red. The young fox wondered at this thought suddenly, but he had little time to dwell before the metal man spoke again.

“The barges are all nearly in position. Ready the payload.”

Wordlessly, the other metallic beings in the ship seemed to shift their tasks, although none of them seemed to change much. Whatever they were doing and whatever they had done, apparently their tasks were plotted out to involve the least amount of interruption when they were required to shift from one to another. Antine thought back to the various tasks that had always been required in the land offices, and he had to admit a certain appreciation for that kind of efficiency. He had no idea what they were doing or talking about, but the ease with which they were doing it was certainly impressive.

“Mana crystal fully charged,” one of the other constructs said.

“Good,” replied the first.

“Port cannons primed.”

“Aft cannons primed.”

“Good,” the first said again. “Starboard? Fore?”

Antine suddenly felt a pit well up in his stomach. He did not like the sound of cannons. The Noggles had established something of a tradition with cannons, and from what little experience Antine had with them, they were rarely good news.

“Fore cannons primed.”

Antine was beginning to feel a powerful sense of dread, the sort that he had not experienced in a very long time. That hot, unpredictable energy that Antine had been sensing since he had first found himself in this strange flying ship was now unbearably strong, cascading from every wall and hammering into him like a torrential downpour of emotion and heat. He had no idea what was about to happen, but somehow, Antine didn’t think he could take it.

“Starboard cannons primed.”

“Good,” said their apparent leader, his softly glowing eyes focused on the last few white dots as they turned red one by one.

Antine’s eyes were also locked on those few remaining white lights. His mind and heart were screaming at him that something horrible would happen when the last one went out, but Antine was too paralyzed by fear to do anything about it. He doubted there was anything he could have done, anyway. So, he simply stood and stared, his blood boiling and his heart breaking, although he only suspected at the reason why. Antine knew some of the horrible things that happened in life. He had heard tales of some of the more terrible crimes committed by the most unsavory of criminals out in the Wastes. But something deep inside Antine was screaming that he was about to witness something worse than he had ever imagined.

Finally, like a dying star, the last dot of white light shifted to red, and the leader of the metallic men spoke a final time. “All planar barges in position. Commence the attack.”

The entire barge, as the construct had called it, began to hum harder, then groan, and finally started to shake and rattle, like it was about to fall apart. Antine, his attention focused almost hypnotically on the projected image above the mirrored table, noticed that a red light was spreading concentrically from the dot the metal man had touched. He also became aware of the low, roaring, rushing sound outside. Uttering a silent plea to himself, Antine turned around and ran to the window in the back, no longer even caring to sneak quietly. As he looked out the small window, Antine’s eyes bulged in shock and horror.

From every side of the barge, massive jets of gaseous fire were billowing like a cloud of death. It was spreading out from the barge even as it began to fall downward, a solid sheet of fire and smoke. It was moving outward both quickly and constantly, moving away even faster than it was falling. Antine was shaking his head, trying vainly to disbelieve the horror he was seeing with his own eyes. Desperately, Antine moved to one of the other windows, but the view was the same everywhere. The sky around and beneath them was becoming a single cloud of flame, spreading over and descending upon the beautiful, pristine majesty of the world below them. Antine tried to scream, perhaps out of terror or perhaps in warning, but no sound broke through his shock. He was witnessing something terrible, alright. Something that his nightmares would never let him forget.

The moment seemed to hang in the air, suspended in time as Antine tried not to watch but could not turn away. But then, as though time suddenly crashed back into place, the flames struck the land. The trees caught immediately, every single one, and the horror that Antine saw was forever burned into his mind. Everything burned, the trees, the land, even the water looked like it was boiling under the impossible heat of the senseless attack. The air rippled and waved from the intense heat even before the smoke and steam began to rise and comingle into a black cloud above the flames.

The walls of the planar barge seemed to protect those inside from the bulk of the effect of the fires, but still Antine could feel the temperature rise. Those same walls also seemed to block out the majority of the sound from without, except for the loud, initial rush the outside cannons had made. Even so, Antine could swear he could hear the dying, agonized screams of every living creature below him. Just looking down on the destruction, he knew that nothing caught in the open could possibly live. The flames were still cascading downward, too high to guess their height, and the trees only added fuel to that fire. Antine was no expert on forests, but he found it impossible to imagine that anything could recover from this calamity.

Through his horror and his grief, Antine occasionally had time to wonder at who could commit such an unspeakable act. Clearly, these metallic men who were manning this planar barge, and all the similar ships that had left from the Amphiseum, were directly responsible, but they were just as clearly not acting on their own. He thought back to the image of the man he had witnessed projected above the mirrored table, and Antine suddenly found himself struck with an overwhelming desire for vengeance against that man. It was a feeling Antine had little experience with, massively dwarfing the desire for revenge he had felt for Mea and Vam. This was something entirely different. This was Antine’s soul taking up the cry of every thing below him dying or dead. Antine whimpered slightly as he realized his attempt at vengeance would, if anything, go even worse this time. How could he even find that man, let alone deliver justice?

After some time, Antine finally turned away. He had no idea how long he had been watching the carnage below, but it didn’t matter much. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could have done. On shaking legs, Antine walked slowly back to the front of the barge, peering silently around the corner to see what the horrible metal men were doing now. Each of them was still at its post, working away coldly and emotionlessly as their actions murdered countless lives all around them. The projected sphere was mostly red now, with just a few small patches of green and a couple bigger areas of blue where before those colors had dominated the image. Antine did not know for certain what that meant, but he could guess. It made the young fox sick to think about it.

Several of the metal men began to talk in quick succession, and Antine tried to keep up with them as best he could.

“Starboard cannon depleted”

“Mana crystal drained.”

“Aft cannon depleted.”

“Fore cannon depleted.”

“Port cannon depleted.”

“Preparing for mana crystal recharge.”

“Mana collectors prepared.”

“Mana crystal recharging.”

Finally, the leader of the metallic men nodded. “Good. Once the mana crystal is fully recharged, commence the second volley.”

With those words, the light died down in the metal man’s eyes and he slumped slightly, just as he had back in the Amphiseum. The rest of the constructs did likewise, and once again Antine was the only moving thing on the planar barge. The metallic leader’s words echoed in Antine’s head as he felt he was finally going to lose whatever food remained in his stomach. A second volley? Antine couldn’t imagine the devastation of the first one, let alone another. In complete dejection, Antine fell backwards and slumped hard against the uncomfortable, hot, metallic wall of the planar barge.

After everything that had happened to him, everything he had seen, experienced and witnessed firsthand, all of the pain, heartache, and death he had just seen, he simply could not take it anymore. He couldn’t think of anything to do, and so Antine merely sat there and wept.

Far across the nearly impenetrable æther, located innumerable existences away from Arbagoth and her unthinkable devastation, other planes were suffering by the same hands that laid the forest plane to waste. War had descended on the Wheel, and on the planes of Lefkos, Kokkinos and Mavros, revolution was spreading its wings against the tyranny of the once-vaunted Rulus. The Wheel was an anomaly in the vast Multiverse, five planes that were separate yet together, with Galanos joining the other three in perpetual, mystical orbit. And in the very center of the Wheel, encircled always by the others, was the plane of Anissem.

In the very center of the plane of Anissem, surrounded by death and haunted by the ghosts of a distant and forgotten past, was the majestic and terrible Mirror Palace of the Dual-Walkers. From the outside, the Mirror Palace would have looked like the impossible and immaculate perfection of architectural genius, but of course, no one had been outside the Mirror Palace on Anissem for over a thousand years. Inside, the Palace was no less spectacular, with floor after floor of dark marble and stone, of brilliant tapestries and inspired artwork. Each story of the vast Mirror Palace was unique, and each was its own triumph. And in the very center floor, stacked equally above and below with the other rooms and floors of the Palace, was the Dual-Walker’s portal hall.

In the very center of this carefully designed floor, there sat the remnants of what was once a gigantic crystal, but was now no more than a few shards lying atop a cracked pedestal of stone. Once, this crystal had served as the focal point of centuries of artifice and enchantment, a massive collective conduit that allowed the Rulus to siphon the life energy of every living thing on the planes of the Dual-Walkers. It had allowed them to stay perpetually young and perpetually powerful despite their years and the weakening of the Spark. Until, that is, the crystal was destroyed. In one fell swoop, the planeswalker Daneera had cost them everything. She cost them their crystal, their nearly boundless source of youth and energy, and now her actions had led to the revolts that scourged them. A dozen paces away from this, the epicenter of existence on the planes of the Wheel, there was a large wooden table, around which sat those that the Dual-Walkers had gathered to quell those rebellions.

At the circular table, in the chair furthest from the shattered crystal, sat Tharandias, the Sage-Marshal of Forculan. He sat back in his chair and waited patiently, casting calm and seemingly indifferent glances at the others. His wrinkled hands were folded and resting gently on the side of the table. His head was bent forward, which seemed to bend his long, white beard slightly as it continued its way downward into his lap. To his right sat the much younger Nithka, the former commander of the Caristine garrison on Yorthinandor. Her posture was much less comfortable as she shifted positions often and fidgeted with her hands. The fabled Kahvan Saber, her ornamental sword, was leaning against the table between her and Tharandias, its silver hilt glistening dully in the candlelight. Nithka’s pale green eyes, partially covered by her disheveled, light-brown hair, darted back and forth between the sword, the others gathered around the table, and, increasingly, the darkness beyond them.

The remaining four men seated at the table were locals of the Wheel, and the top commanders of the Rulus’s forces on their respective planes. To Nithka’s right sat Atriul, who was the prime Maguv on the plane of Lefkos. He was a middle-aged man with short, gray hair that was working its way towards white. He was wearing his traditional white robes and was looking downright miserable, desperately trying not to look behind him. To Tharandias’s left was Trajax, a heavily muscled and tattooed pyromancer from Kokkinos. Trajax was nearly seven feet tall and wore the fur of some great cat like a barbarian’s trophy, but even he seemed decidedly uncomfortable. Next to him was Frenok, the prime Maguv of Mavros. His face was soft and kind, but his expression had been darkening since they had arrived. He had taken to tugging almost constantly on the black cape he wore as he looked around beyond the circular table. The final man, seated next to Atriul, was Lithranam, the wizard from Galanos’s tower, who had buried his head in his hands and refused to look up.

They were all awaiting the arrival of the Dual-Walkers, who had called them to this meeting, but what was really setting so many of them on edge was the seventh guest, who refused to sit at the table, and likely for the best. Just beyond the range of the candlelight that illuminated the table, they could hear him, pacing relentlessly, making strange and incessant clicking noises, and occasionally flapping his raven-black wings. Even though none of them could see him clearly, they could all feel his eyes watching them, and the feeling was more than a little unsettling. Only Tharandias seemed unaffected, although it was difficult to tell through the old man’s unchanging façade. For the rest of them, all of the magical power they had acquired did little to allay the indescribably uncomfortable feeling he produced in them. He was like a nightmare waiting just at the edge of a waking dream.

Despite the mounting tension, no one spoke. They had been waiting for Syl and Chardis for nearly an hour, and other than a few initial pleasantries, they had been sitting in silence the entire time. Tharandias, as always, sat with an unearthly patience that spoke to his vaunted position on his home plane. Nithka had maintained her military discipline for a time, but the wait was beginning to sap her patience, and Huinn was beginning to sap her usual mental fortitude. The Maguvs had all dealt with both differently. Trajax was a profoundly impatient man, and the only thing that kept him quiet was his deep reverence for the Rulus. Frenok had been calm for most of the time, but even a man born to a plane of darkness can fear what lies within it, and he was clearly growing nervous. Atriul had grown uncomfortable and unhappy, and Lithranam, a wizard just recently come into his position of relative power, seemed about ready to break.

The tension was finally broken, or at least covered by a different kind, when the Dual-Walkers arrived. They stepped through a doorway which led to the nearby stairwell and shared a glance with one another as they emerged into their portal hall. They hesitated for a second, noting that the large, cavernous hall was much darker than usual, but then seemed to dismiss the fact as they crossed the floor. They walked side by side, their strides a perfect mirror of one another despite the difference in height, until they reached the shattered crystal. Without a word or even a glance to one another, they split, and each circled the ruined crystal to either side, rejoining one another as they approached the table. They stood by the remaining chairs, Syl near the forlorn Lithranam and Chardis near Frenok, but neither of the Twins sat.

“Welcome, friends,” Syl began with her sultry, soothing voice. “I trust we have not kept you waiting long.”

The four Maguvs immediately murmured a collective “no,” although both Tharandias and Nithka remained silent. There was a sudden flurry of sound from beyond the shadows, but the Aven also chose not to speak. The Dual-Walkers glanced in the direction of the sound, and then at one another, before Chardis spoke.

“I think, perhaps, we had best get down to business.”

“One moment, dear brother,” Syl said, a slight look of concern crossing her face. “We are not all assembled. Where is Denner Fabellian?”

For a few moments, no one spoke. Most of those gathered around that table had no idea who Denner was, and Lithranam, the only one who did, seemed too preoccupied with the darkness to answer. Finally, Syl laid a hand on the wizard’s shoulder, which made him jump slightly. He looked up apologetically at the Rulus. “I’m sorry, Lady Syl. Please forgive me. What did you ask?”

Syl removed her hand and gave the wizard a stern look. “I would like to know where Denner Fabellian is.”

The wizard looked confused. “I don’t know, Lady Syl. I haven’t seen him since he first arrived on Galanos.”

Syl’s eyes narrowed at Lithranam. “You were instructed to extend an invitation to Denner for this gathering. What response did you receive?”

“None, my Lady,” Lithranam said pleadingly. “I sent my most trusted messenger to the Library the moment I received your orders, but no response ever came.”

Chardis leaned over to his sister and spoke in a barely audible whisper. “This is ill news, dear sister.”

She looked back at him, but smirked. “No matter,” she said in her normal voice as Chardis pulled away. “Doubtless, he is enraptured in his studies. We cannot blame him. Besides, the invitation was out of graciousness, not necessity.”

“Unforeseen variables, Chardis?” Tharandias asked with a knowing smile.

“That is ‘Lord Chardis,’ Sage-Marshal,” the Dual-Walker reminded him with a hard edge to his voice. He glanced at Syl, and then to the shadows where they could all hear the rustling of Huinn’s feathers. “And no, this is no unforeseen variable. Denner is merely an associate of my sister’s. Nothing more.” He once again glanced into the darkness. “He is of no consequence to our future plans.”

“And what are those plans,” Nithka asked, staring down at the table and refusing to make eye contact with either of the Dual-Walkers.

Next to the young commander, Atriul scoffed. “Show the Rulus some respect, girl. Do not question them!”

Nithka glanced over at the older man, but ultimately just laughed slightly and shook her head, drawing a grumble from the Maguvs. After a few moments, Syl held up her hands, calling for silence.

“Please, everyone, be calm. Our new commander here no doubt wishes to go about the business of ending this bothersome rebellion, something I believe we can all understand.” The Maguvs nodded as one until Syl continued, focusing her attention on Nithka. “However, my dear, Atriul is of course correct. You must be patient,” she paused, noticeably drawing in power until there was an eldritch tinge to her voice, “and careful.”

Nithka looked up at the other woman, momentary locking eyes with her, which didn’t last long. Nithka looked away quickly to return to her study of the table. The young commander said nothing.

“I suspect,” Tharandias began, choosing to pick up where Nithka had left off, “that these plans of yours are primarily dependent on what has been occurring around the planes of the Wheel over the past few days. Therefore, you likely need to hear from us before we hear from you.”

Chardis’s eyes narrowed at the Sage-Marshal and he crossed his arms over his chest. Finally, though, he pointedly directed his attention at Trajax. “Report.”

The massive pyromancer rose immediately to his feet, his thick thighs pushing his chair backwards as it grated across the dark stone. “My Lord Chardis, Lady Syl, we have recaptured the city of Bornkys. The Ziggurat is once again in the hands of the Fire Flight, completely loyal to the Rulus as ever, my Lord and Lady.”

“Excellent,” Chardis said, nodding sharply. “Were there any complications with the Igknighted?”

“No, my Lord,” Trajax said proudly. “Those rebellious heretics fled like thieves and cowards before the might of your armies. In fact, my Lord, I believe we could have wiped them out completely if we had only pursued them.” He shot a meaningful glance down at Tharandias, who only smiled and said nothing.

Chardis unfolded his arms and leaned on the table, looking the Sage-Marshal in the eyes. “What do you have to say about that, Tharandias?”

The old man’s smile widened slightly. His physical position remained unchanged, as it had since he first sat down at the table. “Are you certain, Lord Chardis, that this man is loyal to you?” Tharandias asked simply, putting a slow and deliberate emphasis on the word ‘lord.’

The tall man’s eyes widened in surprise and fury as he turned toward the Sage-Marshal. “How dare you, you old, rotted son of a…”

“Trajax!” Chardis interjected quickly. “Calm yourself.” He turned back to Tharandias. “Trajax’s loyalty is more assured than your own, Tharandias, and I say that knowing full well what keeps you here.”

Tharandias allowed the words to hang in the air for a few long moments before he replied to them. “I would not have suspected that from the battle,” he said calmly. “Had we issued our orders based on his whims rather than my wisdom, as he had wished, we would have assured the Igknighted’s victory.”

“Liar!” Trajax roared.

“Trajax!” Chardis called again, rising to full height and allowing his eyes to catch fire. “Sit down! One more outburst and, loyal or not, I will personally see to it that your body feeds the drakes!”

With one final, bitter look at Tharandias, the large man sat down and turned his attention away from everyone. A sudden screeching, inhuman laugh sounded from the shadows, and nearly everyone at the table shuddered at the sound. Finally, Chardis calmed himself down, as well, his eyes returning to their usual blue.

“Tharandias, enough games. Tell me what happened when you and Trajax recaptured Bornkys.”

The Sage-Marshal nodded slightly, smiling to himself. “We arrived with the troops you had provided just shortly before dawn. The snow was just ending. I ordered reconnaissance, Trajax ordered a headlong assault at the front gate with no information and no time for our troops to rest after their forced march. Although difficult, I was able to stop the charge in time. Naturally, the front gate was their strongest point, as I had suspected. Had we listened to Trajax’s orders throughout the battle, we would have placed ourselves against their strength in the beginning, fallen prey to an obvious trap at the west gates, lost our supply line, and charged blindly at their retreating army and, very likely, directly into a trap which may well have obliterated our forces.” He turned his head toward Trajax. “Am I forgetting anything?”

Trajax sneered. “You don’t know any of that, old man.”

Chardis frowned. “Yes, he does.” He paused, thinking for a few moments. “How strong is our defensive position in the Mirrored City?”

“Very,” Trajax said, sticking his chest out in a show of pride. “I have my best men manning the gates, and the Fire Flight waits to attack on your order, Lord Chardis.”

The Dual-Walker looked over at Tharandias, who sighed heavily. “Numerous fortifications were destroyed in the battle. It will be years before the city is again at its full defensive strength. Fortunately, these Igknighted of yours have little strategic ability, and we were able to take the city with almost no casualties. Therefore, owing to manpower, our defensive position is good. However, pursuing the Igknighted at this juncture is unwise, because we cannot effectively hunt them down and protect Bornkys at the same time.”

Trajax sneered, but he calmed himself down before he spoke. “With respect, Lord Chardis, I disagree. The heretics ran like dogs. Our army is strong, and thirsty for blood. We should pursue them immediately, before they can crawl into some hole, to hide and grow stronger.”

Chardis looked over to Tharandias, who said nothing. The Dual-Walker considered for a moment, then turned to Atriul. “What about Lefkos? Report.”

Atriul, following Trajax’s example, rose to his feet to answer. Next to him, Nithka scoffed just slightly under her breath. The Maguv either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her. “Similar good news from Lefkos, my Lord and Lady. The Mirrored City of Yyrn is once again yours. With the help of this young lady,” Atriul said, indicating Nithka, “we have driven out the traitorous former members of the Silver Riders and freed the Holy City from their grasp.”

“Were they wiped out?” Chardis asked simply.

Atriul glanced down at Nithka briefly, and then back. “No, my Lord.”

Chardis looked displeased, but Syl laid a hand on his arm to attempt to calm him down. “A victory is a victory, dear brother.” She turned back to Atriul. “And what of their so-called child-king? Were you able to put an end to that heresy?”

“No, my Lady,” Atriul replied with a bowed head. “The Pretender and his family escaped with the remainder of their rebellion and disappeared into the Long Grass.”

Neither of the Dual-Walkers said anything to this, and after a long, uncomfortable moment, Atriul took his seat, looking sheepish. For several, long, uncomfortable moments, no one said anything. The only sounds echoing through that cavernous hall were those unnerving noises coming from the shadows. As the seconds passed, Nithka and the Maguvs were growing visibly uncomfortable as they cast concerned glances around them. The inhuman flapping and scratching sounds the Aven was producing seemed to be coming from all around them, and no one was certain where in the massive hall the Bird was. Finally, the Dual-Walkers glanced at one another, and Chardis looked down to his right, at Frenok.

“The situation on Mavros. Report.”

It took the Maguv a few moments to collect himself before he answered, remaining seated as he did. “The situation is largely unchanged, my Lord and my Lady. The witches of the Covus still hold Shurdyn, and they have bolstered the Mirrored City’s defenses with their own magic. As ordered, I have gathered your forces en masse at the Inkswell, and we have blocked off nearly all of the inlets. We can move on both the gates and the harbor at your order, but I believe we would be cut down, Rulus.”

“Coward,” Trajax growled.

Frenok’s head snapped over to glare at the other Maguv. “You have something to say, barbarian? Say it!”

Trajax leaned forward in his chair, bringing his face closer to Frenok. “Your Mirrored City was your responsibility. You should not have shown your face around here until you took it back!”

Frenok indicated toward Tharandias. “I didn’t have the benefit of one old man to keep me from killing myself,” he said coolly.

Before Trajax could erupt in anger, Atriul leaned forward and joined in. “How did you lose Shurdyn in the first place, Frenok? I mean, I lost Yyrn when the bulk of my elite Silver Riders betrayed us. Trajax lost Bornkys to a fully realized rebel force led by a rogue mage.”

“But you,” Trajax took over with a sneer, “lost your city to a bunch of old women?”

“First of all,” Frenok began, steaming, “I didn’t lose Shurdyn! The hags took it while I was away, seeing to business for our Lord and Lady. Second, the fledgling rebellions that dumbfounded the two of you are nothing compared to the ancient magic of the Covus! Don’t believe me? Why don’t you two take a shot at them? I’ll be laughing as I watch you rot away from the inside before your third step!”

“I would love to,” Trajax challenged, “but you lost the Mirrored City! I can’t very well go through your portal now, can I?”

“I came here on a planar barge,” Frenok said, nearly pushing himself to his feet, “so can you!”

“Enough!” Everyone at the table looked immediately at the furious face of Chardis, aglow with his fiery magic. All three of the quarreling Maguvs sank back in their chairs as the Dual-Walker scanned them viciously with his burning eyes. He finally allowed his flames to die as Syl addressed the group.

“We have had enough of this bickering,” she said with a disturbing calmness in her voice. “Trajax, Atriul, my brother and I have determined that Frenok is guiltless in the loss of Shurdyn, far more innocent than the two of you are in the loss of your Mirrored Cities.”

“Further,” Chardis continued where his sister had left off, “he has not attempted to retake the city because we have not ordered him to do so. When the time is right,” Chardis glanced into the shadows around them, “we will handle Shurdyn. And Frenok?”

“Yes, Lord Chardis?”

The Dual-Walker turned to stare the Maguv in his face. “Do not presume to issue orders to my men. We will decide who fights where, and when our barges disembark from the Amphiseum. Not you.”

Frenok gulped visibly, but nodded. “Understood, my Lord.”

“Good,” Chardis said simply. “Then I think perhaps it is time to discuss the next step.”

“Dear brother,” Syl interrupted, “I believe there is something you are forgetting.”

Chardis looked over at her with a slightly confused and curious expression. “And what is that, dear sister?”

Syl smirked, then glanced down at Lithranam. “The condition on Galanos. Lithranam, please report to my brother on the condition of the Islands.”

Lithranam nodded and stood up. “Everything is excellent on Galanos, Lord Chardis, Lady Syl. We have had no trouble, and no rebellion.”

The wizard sat down once again as Chardis glared at Syl for a few moments longer than was necessary. Her smirk only deepened. Finally, Chardis turned his attention back to the table. “Very well, then. With Yyrn and Bornkys back under our control, our focus for the time being should be on defense. Tharandias, how long do you imagine it will be before the Igknighted will attempt to retake the Mirrored City?”

“That is difficult to know,” the old man mused.

“You are the master strategist,” Chardis pointed out with an edge to his voice. “Hazard a guess.”

The Sage-Marshal closed his eyes and let out a slow sigh. “Trajax was unable to provide me with satisfactory intelligence on their numbers, their strength or even their holdings in the mountains, and so any guess I could make would be merely that. If the force occupying Bornkys were their only force, and if they had no contingency plan for this sort of rout, we can expect to be free of them for some time. If they have a larger force waiting in the mountains, it may be quite soon. Without that intelligence, there is no way to be certain.”

Chardis nodded. “If the Igknighted attack immediately, can you repel them?”

Tharandias looked over at Trajax for a brief moment before answering. “If we focus on our defenses, if we do not chase after the foe, and if I command the troops?” He paused, meaningfully. “Undoubtedly.”

“You are certain, then?”

Tharandias stared Chardis directly in his eyes. “I would stake my life on it.”

Chardis smirked at this. “Very good. Tharandias, you are in command on Kokkinos. Focus on the defense of Bornkys, and prepare to move against the Igknighted only when you believe it is prudent. Trajax?”

“Yes, my Lord?” The large man said, shooting a distrustful glance at the Sage-Marshal.

“You will obey Tharandias’s commands as though they came directly from us. See to it he gets whatever supplies he needs, and see to it that the Fire Flight knows they answer directly to him. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Lord Chardis,” he replied, giving another sour glance at Tharandias. “Perfectly understood.”

“Good. Atriul, you and Nithka take care of the defense of Yyrn. I want to make certain the rebels cannot recapture the city. Once you are certain of its safety, learn all you can about them and prepare for their destruction.”

“Yes, Lord Chardis,” Atriul said immediately. Nithka said nothing.

Syl took a deep breath, then turned away from the table. “Huinn.”

The sudden, total silence in the massive room was eerie and penetrating. The silence was so complete that it did not seem to be merely the absence of sound, but rather an oppressive presence of its own. For a few long, uncomfortable seconds, nothing happened. Then there was a flurry of sound and a ruffling of feathers, followed by more unnerving silence. Finally, Huinn appeared, his jet-black Aven form peeling itself slowly away from the shadows around him. His eyes seemed mostly focused on Syl, although his head twisted and shifted in sporadic motions, sometimes turning almost completely on its side, other times snapping almost straight upwards. He walked with a strange, inhuman gait, his razor-sharp talons scraping along the marble. Both Nithka and the Maguvs at the table seemed to unconsciously lean away from him as he moved just within the range of the light. His presence was unnerving, and a sudden wafting of odor was nearly too much for them. It was a powerful scent of fear and rot and death, and seemed to catch in their throats even as they turned away from it.

“Huinn,” Syl said again, “We would like you to go to Mavros. Infiltrate Shurdyn and keep an eye on the Covus who hold the city.”

Huinn eyed her with a strange intensity as his body continued to move, almost of its own volition. “Who’s blood?”

Syl took another deep breath. “For the time being, no one dies. We just need you to watch them.”

Huinn flapped his wings in an agitated manner. His ebony beak seemed to curve into a twisted, avian scowl, and his feathers puffed and stood out on end. He took one long step forward and slightly to the side, but said nothing, allowing his gaze to bore deeply into her.

Syl nodded. “Do not fear. There will be blood soon enough, I assure you. For now, we need information.”

For a very long, heart-stopping moment, the silence in the room returned. Huinn was only half a dozen steps away from Syl, and it was beginning to look as though he wanted to cover that distance at any moment. Finally, though, and without another word, Huinn stepped back into the shadows of the cavernous hall. There was another flurry of the sound of feathers, and then a brief rush of air. The awkward silence persisted for a few moments more, and then the room itself seemed to lighten somewhat, and the strange sounds from beyond the shadows were gone.

Syl turned back to the others and smirked. “As for the rest of you, return to your planes and make the necessary preparations. When the time comes to act, we must be ready.”

Chardis nodded his agreement and spoke, his eyes trained primarily on Nithka and Tharandias. “And remember. In one way or another, you are all bound to us. Never forget that obligation.”

Letting their final words hang maliciously in the air, the Dual-Walkers turned around to leave back toward the stairwell from which they had come. Those sitting at the table merely looked at one another. They had their orders, they had their obligations, and they all had their reasons. For the time being, there was nothing else to have. One by one, they rose from the table and set about their tasks. Tharandias was the last to stand. He cast one final look around the now-empty table, mentally picturing each of those who had been gathering around it. The Sage-Marshal could not tell the future, but he knew more about war than almost anyone else alive. And if there was one thing he knew, it was that the War of the Wheel was far from over.

The horrible, sickening sound finally seemed to stop. There was still a sort of gentle hiss from without, but the sounds of Armageddon themselves had finally, mercifully, died down. The only other noise they could now hear was the regular and rhythmic sound of dripping water as it eased its way almost cautiously down the smooth rock face and into the tranquil pool below. But even as the solitary drops struck the placid water, the sound of steam releasing itself screamed like an angry snake throughout the rocky cavern walls. The three planeswalkers watched the water, they looked around at the walls, and they took turns studying one another, but no one spoke. There seemed to be no words.

The grotto was as beautiful and enchanting as Penelophine herself. The pool of water beneath the dripping rocks occupied a large portion of the lower level of her enclosed stone home. Being so close to the ocean, it seemed as though that must be the source of the pool, but there seemed to be no opening to allow flow either to or from the sea. On either side of the large pool, the very stone of the grotto ramped upward to the second level, as if nature had contorted itself to her whims. The second level, though constructed entirely of natural rock, seemed impossibly smooth. There were no sharp edges or jagged points, everything seemed to flow into something else, even the hard stone.

It was on this second level that the three planeswalkers now sat. Whatever hands had constructed this place for Penelophine had thought of everything. There were tables, chairs, benches, and even a bed, all made of the rock and looking like they had been poured upward from the grotto’s floor. Even more surprising, the rocky furniture was actually comfortable, as though the rock was enchanted to feel more like water. There were two stone hallways leading off in opposite directions to either side, but neither Daneera nor Denner Fabellian had ventured into them. The rocky door through which they had entered Penelophine’s mystical grotto had opened into this central area, and both had simply taken a seat and waited through the devastation.

Fearful of what was happening outside, Daneera spent much of her time studying the Siren’s grotto. At regular intervals across the rock walls, there were colonies of glowing blue fungi that provided the light for the large cavern. Daneera was both awed and annoyed at their presence. On one hand, it was amazing that so much life could exist here, in an underground grotto that saw almost no light and had seemingly no way to support even fungal life. On the other, though, Daneera understood growth well enough to know that these mushrooms were unnatural, both in their effect and their pattern. Clearly, someone had spent a great deal of time cultivating them and manipulating them in a way that Daneera was not entirely comfortable with. All reason pointed to that person being Penelophine.

Denner Fabellian, on the other hand, spent most of his time studying their beautiful and alluring host. The passages in Grimoire’s tome about the loveliness of Penelophine had been impressive, but minimal. The author had done little more than claim that she might be the most beautiful woman in the Multiverse, but had given few details about that beauty. Seeing her now, however, Denner knew why. She had a beauty that defied explanation. Denner’s flawless memory also provided him with a staggering vocabulary, although for the benefit of those around him, he rarely utilized it. Still, even with his impossible number of words, the Delver simply could not think of one that was comprehensive enough to describe the beauty of Penelophine.

As for the Siren herself, she was miserable. She had been alive for centuries, and she knew well how to read people, despite living a secluded life for the past few hundred years. Still, she could sense Daneera’s judgment as if it were tangible. She followed the young ‘walker’s gaze over to her Lightblooms, and knew what she was thinking. Like all forest mages who worship nature like a deity, she was inwardly scoffing at Penelophine’s centuries of magical cultivation of the engineered species. It bothered Penelophine, but only just. She could also feel the eyes of Denner Fabellian scanning her relentlessly. It had been a long time since she had been around a man, and she had almost forgotten how much she hated it. Denner was reminding her quickly.

But even so, it was not the annoyances of her unexpected guests that was truly bothering Penelophine. She was the only one of the three that had seen that shape in the sky before, and the Siren remembered all too well where they were from, and whose hands had crafted them. Penelophine had frequently wondered over the past three hundred years or so if she would ever hear from the Dual-Walkers again. She had fervently hoped not. Now, however, it seemed that they had finally come for her. There was no other conclusion to be drawn. Ever since that final day in the Amphiseum, the day when Syl and Chardis had murdered Morgezka Shanak’s husband by fooling the dragon into fighting him, ever since then, Penelophine had wondered if they would someday track her down. Now, it seems like they had.

Unlike most planeswalkers who had been alive for so long, the Mending had actually come as a kind of blessing to Penelophine. She had been born a Siren in the Alceme Isles, and the Sirens there were nearly immortal. Penelophine knew that she would not truly live forever, but she was still fairly young, by their standards. She did not need her Spark to keep her alive or even youthful. And so, when the Mending hit, and she learned of it and what it truly meant for her kind, Penelophine was uniquely elated. Her first thought at the news had been of the Dual-Walkers. She knew they were both human, and she hoped it was just a matter of time before their centuries caught up to them. A part of her visualized all of their countless years crashing in on Syl and Chardis in a single instance, shriveling them from their pristine, beautiful forms to withered and decayed carcasses the moment the Mending crashed over them. A more sinister part of the Siren hoped they would simply age and die, spending every day of their miserable lives knowing that it was creeping toward an inevitable end. Either way, though, Penelophine simply hoped they were dead or dying in some forgotten corner of the Multiverse.

The appearance of the planar barge high above Arbagoth had proven her hopes to be in vain. No one but the Dual-Walkers could have controlled such a vessel, and no one but the Dual-Walkers would so callously order such devastation. Penelophine had no idea how great that devastation might have been, but she feared the worst. In her experience, the Dual-Walkers did nothing in moderation. And the mere fact that she still lived likely meant that Syl and Chardis were not finished with their attack. Penelophine’s grotto had sustained some damage during the firestorm, though mercifully not a lot. Some of the rock walls near the top of the cavern had been dislodged, but the grotto was still sealed from the outside. It was a small consolation.

The sound of the falling fire had been an alien and horrendous noise, but it had been mostly quiet now for some time. There seemed little point in delaying the inevitable, especially since none of the planeswalkers seemed particularly inclined to speak to one another at this point. Penelophine shuddered once, fearing what they were going to find outside, and waited a little longer because of it. There was nothing she could do anyway, and so she was not in a hurry to witness the results of the Dual-Walkers’ wrath. Still, it had to come eventually, and the waiting was beginning to irk the Siren. Finally, with a heavy sigh, Penelophine stood up.

“I suppose we should take a look,” the Siren offered dejectedly.

Denner Fabellian stood up immediately, but said nothing. Daneera remained seated for a few moments before pushing herself to her feet, almost violently. “Let’s go,” she said simply.

Penelophine moved fluidly past Denner and toward the large, spherical stone that served as a door into her strange grotto. She laid a cautious hand on the stone and let out yet another sigh as she closed her eyes. She hesitated again for a few short moments, but then activated the spell she had woven into the door centuries earlier. The stone began to shimmer in a translucent blue, almost as though a steady cascade of pure water was being poured over it. After a second or two, the rock suddenly slid out of the way as if weightless. Penelophine glanced back woefully at the other ‘walkers before stepping out into the hot Arbagoth air.

It was almost like they had planeswalked. Penelophine, Denner Fabellian and Daneera stepped out of the tranquil, elegant beauty of the Siren’s grotto and into a hellish world of smoke, steam and ash. The sand of the beach just beyond Penelophine’s door was relatively unscathed, although there were a few isolated places where small fires still burned. The rock outcropping into which Penelophine’s grotto was cut was singed and charred, but there seemed to be little damage. The rest of the world, however, seemed to be much worse off. The ocean was quite literally boiling, and several dead fish had washed up on the beach already, with many more floating and smoking on the surface. Above them, the sky was blackened with thick, heavy smoke just a few shades lighter than black. Both Daneera and Penelophine, who had each spent a considerable amount of time on Arbagoth, could hardly stand the sight.

Unfortunately, particularly for Daneera, a much worse sight awaited a short distance away, where the great Veretna Forest once stood. As she looked in that direction, Daneera shrieked in horror, fury, and empathetic pain. She took off running without a word or thought, and fell to her knees as she reached the ashen edge of the remains of the trees. Everything was destroyed. The verdant green and lush foliage was replaced by an impossible expanse of blackened, cindered tree trunks. As with the beach, there were a few isolated fires still burning, but most had been smothered by the very ashes they had created. Carcasses of the innocent wildlife that had just hours earlier thrived in the wooded paradise littered the ashen wasteland it had become. The air was thick with smoke and death, and Daneera choked back both the foul scent and her own tears.

Crawling on her hands and knees, Daneera moved to the closest of the incinerated tree trunks, the very same tree she had hidden behind when Denner Fabellian had first arrived. This tree had been a friend and an ally to her, and while she hadn’t thought of the fact at the time, she had shared a certain, brief kinship with it. Daneera knew well the difference between a tree and an animal, and had a keen understanding of the relative importance of both, but life was life, and mere hours ago, this tree had been alive, along with its countless brothers and sisters throughout Veretna, the island of Volbog, and all of Arbagoth. Now it was dead by some unknown hand, and Daneera found herself struggling to understand how, or why.

Barely even aware of her own actions, Daneera laid her hands on the charred trunk of the tree. It was still hot from the fire, enough that it burned Daneera’s hand, but she didn’t care. She could heal it later. For the time being, all she cared about was the tree, wondering if there was any chance left that something in that noble tree somehow remained alive. She closed her eyes against the pain she felt, sending her senses and her instincts as deeply into the tree’s roots as they could go, but she felt nothing. There was no stirring of life left. When Denner Fabellian and Penelophine finally pried her seared hands away, Daneera was in tears, but not from her pain. She wept for the death of her friend.

Both of the other ‘walkers tried to look at her hands, attempting to find a way to soothe Daneera’s pain, but she would not allow them to. It was several minutes before Daneera finally allowed her tears to pass and the agony of her decision to touch the tree finally registered to her. She instinctively scanned the area for the familiar energies of nature and found them stunted, severed, perhaps even destroyed. Daneera scowled in fury over the mysterious atrocity that had been committed here, and instead reached to her own mana bonds to draw her mana. With a calm, dull glow, that mana responded to Daneera’s desire and caused her hands to begin healing themselves, easing the pain and repairing the damage. It did nothing to calm her rage, however.

While he wouldn’t have admitted it to the other two, and while it even bothered himself a little, Denner Fabellian found himself morbidly fascinated by everything that had happened. He had, of course, read numerous accounts of various disasters, some of which had even apparently destroyed entire planes, but this was the first time he had lived through one. It was different than anything he could have imagined. Mostly, it was the silence that Denner noticed. None of the accounts he had ever read had mentioned the eerie, unearthly silence that came in the aftermath of destruction. He could hear the ocean, and the hiss of its boiling water, but there was nothing else. Even in the brief moments he had spent on this plane before rushing into Penelophine’s grotto, Denner had noticed the persistent call of birds and insects from the forest. Now, though, everything was silent.

Of course, that didn’t mean that Denner didn’t feel the weight of the moment, nor the tragedy of the event. In fact, Denner found himself thinking back to his own experience on Sula, and the White Blight conjured up by the Shorecerers. Denner did not know a lot about this plane, but he had gathered that he was on an island, similar to though larger than Sula. While his home island had been buried by bitter cold and unnatural snow, this one had now been devastated by infernal heat and unnatural flame. The only difference to Denner was that while he could not grasp the purpose of the White Blight, he could certainly understand its source. But Denner Fabellian could not even begin to guess what could cause the hell he was seeing now.

Penelophine found herself strangely emotionless at the sight of the decimated forest, although she suspected she was simply in shock. She had, after all, walked in the same woods for hundreds of years. She had seen the trees grow from tiny saplings to mighty oaks, seen the forest itself expand ever closer to the ocean and her grotto. Seeing it reduced to ashes was no pleasant sensation for Penelophine, but her mind refused to react to the sight, certainly not in the way Daneera did. The state of the ocean troubled her a bit more, but even that seemed to produce only a cold, analytical response from the Siren. Somewhere in some ill-lit, rarely visited corner of her mind, Penelophine wondered about this lack of response. She had never considered herself an emotionless person, and so her reaction to such a horrible event puzzled her.

Seeing as neither Daneera nor Denner Fabellian seemed too inclined to speak, Penelophine took a few moments to mentally trace the root of her bizarre lack of emotion. She had certainly not been this way while growing up in the Alceme Isles. In fact, the coven Matrons had often chided her for being too emotional. Penelophine had never fully approved of her peoples’ callous, traditional murder of the sailors that passed too closely, nor had she ever been particularly fond of the taste. Unlike the rest of the coven, she had always genuinely preferred a simple meal of fish and crustacean meat. She had no desire for those poor, helpless men, but she had no desire for their blood, either.

When her spark ignited on that horrible, blood-soaked day, she had certainly been anything but emotionless. One minute she had been swimming there, trying desperately to dodge the pirates’ harpoons and seeing the deaths of her sisters, her Matrons, and the next she found herself in a shallow village well on a plane whose name she never learned. Even after so many centuries, Penelophine still felt a pang of guilt and remorse over what she did to those villagers. They had only tried to help her, but Penelophine had been young, and far too new to the Spark. She thought they were just more of the pirates who had slaughtered her coven, and she punished them for the sins of people that they couldn’t have even known existed, with power that was just as foreign to her as they were. No, she was far from emotionless that day.

And then there were the Games. Those damnable games in the twice damnable Amphiseum assembled by those thrice damnable Dual-Walkers. Even now, Penelophine could hardly remember how she originally met Syl and Chardis. She did, however, clearly remember her first experience with the Games. Even from the first, the Dual-Walkers had extended her an invitation to their personal pavilion, undoubtedly at the insistence of Chardis, who rarely tried to hide his infatuation with the Siren. She had hated that, but she could not deny the primal excitement and morbid fascination with the Games themselves. Penelophine had never been fond of bloodshed, but something about spectating in the Amphiseum was exhilarating; infectious.

She still remembered the battles from those first Games she had witnessed. It had started, as the Dual-Walkers often did, with a series of fights between wild animals from a random selection of planes. The first had been a terrible struggle between an over-sized manticore and a spitting basilisk. Penelophine had originally agreed to attend merely as a social event, but even she had found herself drawn into the brutality of the battle. When the manticore had crashed hard into an Amphiseum pillar, its suddenly stone frame shattering into tiny shards, Penelophine had felt a brutal elation she had never felt before. When the basilisk collapsed to the floor, overcome by its wounds, Penelophine felt a surge of heartbreak at her favored combatant’s fall. It was an emotional moment, and she had loved it.

It was not only wild beasts who fought in her first Games, however. Penelophine also witnessed other planeswalkers fighting that day, including a rare duel between two ‘walkers who had agreed to conduct their business for the entertainment of the Dual-Walkers and their guests. One of them was a Terrapiod ‘walker named Trs’kl who had apparently been fighting in the Amphiseum Games since the very beginning. He had developed a feud with a vicious minotaur/human half-breed planeswalker named Keledon. Everyone in the pavilion was certain that Trs’kl would be the clear victor, including the Dual-Walkers themselves. When the brutal barbarian Keledon cracked the turtle’s shell and sent him fleeing wildly into the æther, the crowd was stunned, but soon cheered excitedly. After that, Keledon became a mainstay of the Games, while Trs’kl was never heard from again.

Although Penelophine could not stand the half-minotaur’s personality, she had found herself a fan of his fights. He was brutal and primal, and seemed to be entirely unbeatable, until Morgezka Shanak arrived, that is. Morgezka was a dragon planeswalker of considerable power, but for reasons she had never shared with Penelophine, she seemed to despise her own draconic form. She spent most of her time in the shape of a red-headed human woman, or occasionally a tiger or other large cat. In her first bout in the Games, Morgezka easily defeated a kezzerdrix, then casually demanded another opponent from the Dual-Walkers. She became an instant favorite of the crowd. Eventually, Keledon became jealous of her popularity, and challenged her to a duel. That was the last day Keledon ever fought in the Amphiseum.

Thinking about the Amphiseum, the Games, and Morgezka Shanak, Penelophine suddenly realized where her emotions had gone. They were lost at the conclusion of the final Games; they died along with Morgezka Shanak’s brief husband. The Siren cursed herself that she had forgotten his name, but she had only met the man once and spoken to him only briefly. All she knew was that he was a source of happiness for the dragon ‘walker, and he was ripped away from her by the cruelty of Syl and Chardis. Even worse, the Twins had used their power to disguise Morgezka’s husband and drive him insane, pitting the poor man in a battle to the death with his own wife. She was forced to kill her foe, not knowing who he was until it was too late. That moment lived on in Penelophine’s nightmares for decades, and apart from the dull fear of becoming the Dual-Walkers’ next target or the persistent hatred of them, she realized that she hadn’t truly felt anything since.

“What could do something like this?” Daneera’s sharp, rage-fueled voice cut through Penelophine’s musings. She looked down at the human forest mage, still on her knees and seething, staring furiously at the ashen remains of the woods.

“I’ve never seen anything that could,” Denner Fabellian ventured.

Penelophine shook her head. “There are an impossible number of horrible things in existence. It is hard to know with certainty which caused this. However, I suspect that is our best guess.”

As the Siren spoke, she pointed to the sky, where the planar barge still hung, now almost entirely obscured by haze and smoke. Daneera looked upward, having forgotten about the metallic shape in the air until Penelophine mentioned it. Her eyes narrowed in predatory malice as she eyed the shape with all the fury of nature. Her hands formed themselves into fists as she strained forward on her knees, as if preparing to lunge forward at her far-distant enemy.

“Unnatural flying monster…” she growled between clenched teeth. “If I could only get to it, I would…” She stopped, realizing through her rage that she had no idea what she could do. It was little more than an obscure shape in the distance, and she had no way to reach it anyway. Still, she found herself hating it as much as any enemy she had ever faced. In general, she had never liked anything that cowardly hid behind the protection of flight, nor did she particularly care for the products of artifice, and a combination of the two was enough to earn her ire. But anything that could have done to the forest what that thing did was far beyond forgiveness.

“I…” Denner began, but then thought better of it.

Daneera, however, was in no mood for games. “You what?” she demanded, harshly.

The Delver looked down sheepishly, then tried, and failed, to make eye contact with Daneera. Finally, mostly out of fear that she would turn her wrath on him, Denner found his voice. “I know a few levitation spells. I’ve never tried to go as high as that,” he said, pointing at the target of her fury, “so I don’t know if we could make it, but we could try.”

Daneera was on her feet in an instant. “Let’s go.”

The Delver seemed unsure. “I’ve never tried to lift even myself that far, let alone someone else. We might fall.”

She thought about this for a moment, trying to think of a possible solution to this problem. Suddenly, her mind tripped on a rarely used creature in her mental catalog, a gigantic, living, and moving fungus she had picked up in the bizarre underground forests of Pythdon. She had stumbled on the Ariasilid quite by accident while tracking a large Creeper Bat for food, and she was shocked to discover the Ariasilid could move. It had appeared at first to be nothing more than a massive mushroom, as large as a grown baloth and then some. It had taken her a great deal of time and patience, but eventually she formed an understanding with it, and then even a sort of friendship. When she felt its acceptance, she bonded with it as she would any of the beasts in her repertoire. Sadly, the strange giant made a poor combat ally due to its exceedingly slow speed, but the creature’s top was profoundly soft. If anything could cushion a fall like that, it was the Ariasilid.

“I can take care of that,” she simply said. “Now let’s attack that thing.”

“I think that would be a very poor idea,” Penelophine said as she turned and started walking back toward her grotto.

“Why’s that?” Daneera asked, her narrowed eyes turning toward the Siren.

Penelophine cocked her head to one side and answered while she continued to walk away. “Because you have no idea who you are dealing with.”

The other two planeswalkers looked at one another, more confused than anything else. “Does that mean you do?” Daneera pressed.

This time, Penelophine simply shrugged, but said nothing. Again the other two shared an uncertain glance, then moved to follow her. Daneera called out to their hostess three more times, but she never answered. Instead, she moved silently onto the beach and over to a small cluster of rocks scattered a short distance from the opening to her grotto. These rocks were about two feet high and fairly smooth, and without a word, Penelophine stepped over to one and sat down. Denner Fabellian followed her example and sat down on another of the rocks, although Daneera, still fuming, remained standing. When the Siren still didn’t say anything, Daneera pressed the issue.

“Penelophine, do you know who did this?”

The Siren said nothing.

“Answer me! Who did this?”

No reply.

Finally, Daneera had had enough. With renewed anger, she moved herself directly in front of Penelophine, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her as gently as she could manage in her current state.

“What is wrong with you? This is your home! Look what has been done to your home! Why won’t you help me stop whoever did this?”

At these words, Penelophine finally made eye contact with Daneera. “If I had to guess, I would say that you, both of you,” she added, glancing briefly at Denner before looking back at the woman in front of her, “are young. Younger than,” she paused, considering her wording, “well, young.”

Daneera straightened, frustrated. “What does that have to do with anything?”

As the Siren continued, Daneera could see a momentary glint of sorrow in her vibrant blue eyes, but a moment later it passed, and her expression was once again impassive. “I presume neither of you lived when our kind was…” she hesitated again, breaking eye contact and this time did not continue.

Daneera’s eyes narrowed yet again. She had heard this speech before. “You mean, when we were ‘gods’?”

Penelophine scoffed slightly and her eyes grew momentarily sad once more. “There were many of our kind who thought so, but they were wrong. We were never gods, Daneera.” The Siren slowly turned her head to stare the younger ‘walker directly in the eyes. “We were monsters.”

For several long moments, no one spoke, and Penelophine’s words simply hung in the air. After a while, Denner attempted to break the tension.

“I don’t think anyone could consider you a monster, Lady Penelophine.”

The Siren’s head turned toward him suddenly, her expression serious. “Enough…with the platitudes, Denner Fabellian. They will get you nowhere, and they are a waste of words.” She took a deep breath, and then turned to look out over the ocean. “None of your kind, the young ones, I mean, can ever truly understand what existence was to a planeswalker before. The æther was a servant. It obeyed our every command, our every whim. We were beyond the pull of space, time, or mortality. Reality was not our cage, it was our canvas. We were limited by little more than our imagination and our will.”

Daneera looked back at the fallen forest and bit back a surge of contempt. “Such power could have been used to create so much beauty, so much life.”

Penelophine nodded. “Some tried. And there were those who, for a time, succeeded. But eventually, all failed. Our kind was meant for destruction.”

“And you?” the forest mage asked.

The Siren thought back to those poor villagers on that nameless plane, saw their horrified faces in her memory, and choked back her resentment toward herself. “I am a Siren, not a saint.”

Daneera’s fists clenched once again. “Are you saying that you caused this, Penelophine?”

Penelophine shook her head. “No.” Then, the Siren seemed to catch herself. “At least, not directly.”

This confused both of the other ‘walkers, and Denner’s curiosity got the better of him. “What do you mean, ‘not directly’?”

“Even at the height of my strength,” Penelophine began, “I lacked the power to do what was done here today. Moreover, even if I had such power, I have never had the will to do anything so horrible as this. But I think I know who could. And I think I know who did.”

“Who?” Daneera asked immediately.

Penelophine shook her head dismissively. “No one either of you would have heard of.”

“I’ve heard of many, many people,” Denner ventured with a smile.

Daneera, on the other hand, was less inclined to joke. “What makes you think we wouldn’t have heard of him?”

“Them,” Penelophine corrected. “Because anyone who has heard of the Dual-Walkers are dead, killed either by the Mending or by the Dual-Walkers themselves.”

Both Daneera and Denner Fabellian fell immediately silent, and for precisely the same reason. Although they would never know it, they were both feeling the exact same sensations, as well. Their stomachs dropped, as if a bottomless pit had appeared where their insides were. They both felt as if their hearts were being crushed by the weight of the world, and they both avoided looking into the eyes of either of their companions. Neither ‘walker was particularly used to feelings of guilt, and certainly not on the scale they felt at this moment. Both glanced upward at the ashen sky and saw only a world that was staring at them, through blackened and bleeding eyes, in an expression of eternal blame.

Penelophine lowered her head, misreading the silence of the other two. “I have seen ships like the one above us before. They belonged to the Dual-Walkers, two twin planeswalkers of impossible power and even greater cruelty. I had hoped they were dead, but, as you seem to have guessed, it appears they have come for me.”

“For you?” Daneera exhaled. “What would Syl and Chardis want with you?”

“I knew them for centuries,” Penelophine replied. “When we last left, things were…tense. I watched them do something horrible, and I…” She stopped suddenly, her eyes snapping up toward Daneera’s. “How did you know their names?”

Daneera was fighting back a wave of tears and self-loathing at the realization that it was her, not Penelophine, who had indirectly caused this catastrophe. “When was the last time you saw them?”

Penelophine thought for a moment. “Centuries. Four hundred years, I think. Give or take a few decades. Why?”

Daneera slumped. Even she had no idea how she managed to remain standing. “This wasn’t your fault, Penelophine, not even indirectly. It was mine.”

“What do you mean?” The Siren asked.

Daneera took a deep breath. “A while back, I ran into the Dual-Walkers. They tried to kill me.”

“What happened?” Penelophine pressed.

“It didn’t work out that way. They were ruling this plane, well, five of them, actually. Somehow, they were siphoning the life of every living creature on their planes, and using that energy to keep themselves alive and young.”

Penelophine exhaled sharply. “So that is how they have survived. They must have planned it long before the Mending.” She shook her head pitifully. “Even now, they have placed themselves beyond death’s reach.”

“Not entirely,” Daneera added. “They found me on their Wheel, their planes, and they were going to kill me, but I escaped, and even managed to destroy their enchantments.”

Penelophine’s eyebrows shot upward. “The enchantments that were keeping them young?”

Daneera nodded.

“They must want you dead very badly.”

Daneera thought back to her unpleasant dealings with Fisco Vane, and then she looked back at the charred forest and up and the soot-choked sky. “Very badly,” she agreed. “I just don’t understand how they could have found me.”

Finally, Denner Fabellian could stand his own guilt no longer. “It was my fault! I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t know! I just… I mean, I thought…I didn’t…”

Daneera rolled her eyes, something she was already surprisingly accustomed to doing with Denner Fabellian. “Denner, what are you talking about?”

Denner took a deep breath, but he continued to stare at the ground in front of him as the two women stared at him. “I was trapped by the Shorecerers, a sect of powerful and cruel wizards on my home plane. I couldn’t ‘walk, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even speak. Syl rescued me from that. She was so kind, so pleasant…”

“So beautiful,” Penelophine offered.

Denner glanced up at the Siren for a moment before returning his gaze to the ground and simply nodded. “I’m a Delver. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been able to ‘find’ things. No matter where they are, if they exist, I can find them. Syl said she’d see to it I was released if I helped her and her brother find a few people, so…”

“So you sold me to them!” Daneera yelled, closing the distance between the two of them almost instantly. She grabbed him by his dark blue tunic, pulled him to his feet, shook him slightly, and forced him to meet her gaze. His eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and regret. Hers were filled only with rage.

“I didn’t know!” Denner pleaded. “I promise you, they told me you were old friends! If I had known they would… I mean, that they could…I never would have…never.”

There were tears welling in his eyes now, but Daneera could only see the reflections of a decimated world. “Look at that forest, Denner Fabellian! Look at the ocean, at the sky! You did this, you son of a bitch! None of this would have happened without you!”

Suddenly, Penelophine was there. She laid a single hand on Daneera’s arm and spoke softly, her smooth, lyrical voice soothing and sorrowful. “Or you, Daneera.”

Daneera’s head snapped over to look the Siren in the eyes, but Penelophine’s expression was not accusatory, simply mournful. “What do…”

“Look at him,” Penelophine interrupted. “Look in his eyes.” Daneera did. “You know he did not do this. This is not his fault. And it is not your fault, Daneera. Nor apparently mine. This is the fault of the Dual-Walkers, nothing else. Only they are capable of such…monstrous actions. Our being here, together like this, is merely a coincidence.”

Daneera scoffed, but she did let go of Denner’s tunic. He slumped back down immediately to the rock, covering his face with his hands. Daneera kept her gaze locked on Penelophine’s eyes as she spoke. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

She moved over and sat down on a rock of her own, slouched and emotionally drained. Penelophine also sat down once again, looking around at the ashes of the world that had been her home for centuries. “Perhaps you are right. But what happened here was no accident, and none of us made a conscious decision to cause it. Syl and Chardis did. This is their doing, not any of ours.”

“I still feel horrible,” Denner Fabellian managed.

Penelophine nodded. “That simply means you are human, Denner.” She paused, remembering that the Dual-Walkers were human, as well. “The good kind,” she added.

Denner tried to look over toward the Siren and smile, but he couldn’t quite muster it. Daneera exhaled sharply through the nose. “Still, this is no coincidence. I was here, at the moment of the attack, for a reason. I was sent here by the Grove of Omens. I was meant to be here.”

Denner shrugged. “I just came here to find you, Penelophine. I didn’t even realize until after I met Daneera that this was the same plane I directed Syl and her brother to.”

Penelophine nodded. “I believe you. But if Daneera was sent here by the Grove, and you chose that precise moment to come look for me, then she may well be right. This might be more than mere coincidence. Perhaps we three are meant to stop the Dual-Walkers.”

“How?” Denner asked.

Penelophine said nothing. She had no answer. None of them did. The three of them simply sat there, searching for answers in the ashes of Arbagoth.

Penelophine’s grotto was by no means the only victim of the Dual-Walker’s catastrophic attack. The damage was not limited to the vast forest of Veretna, nor to the larger island of Volbog upon which that forest sat. The planar barges of the Dual-Walkers had positioned themselves strategically across nearly all of the plane, and there were few places where the great forests still stood unaffected. All five of Arbagoth’s great continents burned, and every one of her shallow oceans boiled under the power of those magically-enhanced flames. Most of the forests unfortunate enough to be within a few dozen miles of any of the barges were incinerated, but even those beyond that range saw the fires spread towards them with fatal speed. Never before had Arbagoth experienced such devastation. It was a forest fire, on a plane completely covered in forest.

As Daneera, Penelophine and Denner Fabellian sat and pondered what, if anything, could be done, half a world away, two more planeswalkers were wondering the same thing. Far to the northwest of the Siren’s grotto, across two scalding oceans and a continent and a half of ravaged, burning land, sat the kingdom of Skavlakur. In the center of Skavlakur sat the vast Brambleshale forest that had served as the battlefield between the Pretender Aap-ret-Syrris and the true Pharaoh Kahr-ret-Taris. And in the middle of that battlefield stood Kahr himself, along with his friend Lukas Harran. These two planeswalkers stood side by side and silent, staring in stunned disbelief at an almost endless field of cinders and sorrow.

When the small army faithful to Kahr-ret-Taris had charged bravely and foolhardily at the huge mass of the Imperial army, the crash had been thunderous and horrible. The Pretender’s army outnumbered them by a frightening ratio, but they fought with the devotion and intensity of the most loyal Devout, and at first, they ripped through the army of Aap-ret-Syrris with little resistance. Several of the false Pharaoh’s troops broke and ran. After having seen the power that the supposed god-king Kahr-ret-Taris possessed, and the defeat of the Pharaoh’s elite Guard, it was difficult to blame them. For a few, merciful moments, it seemed like the rebellion might actually succeed and win Kahr’s throne back after all those long years.

The Imperial army’s countercharge, however, was brutal. After their initial surprise and fear had melted away, the discipline of a lifetime of military training reasserted itself, and Aap-ret-Syrris’s generals rallied their men. They pushed Kahr’s forces back nearly all of the distance across the Brambleshale forest before the rebellion regained its footing. Through the combined efforts of Kahr-ret-Taris and his Devout officers, the true Pharaoh’s forces struck back yet again, but they were too few to gain a significant push. The battle seemed to intensify then, with Kahr’s forces battling to their last drops of sweat and blood, and the Imperial army pouring ever more troops onto that gore-soaked battlefield.

But then calamity came from the clouds. Lukas Harran had noticed the sky darkening already at the outset of the main battle, but when the fire began to fall, even he was mortified. The flames rolled in from the west, behind the Imperial army, and although the flames were already beginning to dissipate a bit, they were still deadly beyond words. The Imperial reserves were the first to fall to the flames; there were no survivors. Kahr-ret-Taris, recognizing the danger, ordered his troops out of the Brambleshale and toward the relative cover of the taller trees where they had made camp, but a maddening number didn’t make it that far. The Imperial army was almost completely destroyed. Kahr’s army fared only slightly better. As for Kahr-ret-Taris himself, he was a masterful battlemage and a talented pyromancer. He was able to protect himself from the worst of the flames, and he used the mana of the forest to heal what few scars and injuries he could not avoid. Lukas, fearing the worst, took to the best refuge his kind had; the æther. He planeswalked away and returned after the danger had passed.

When Lukas Harran had returned to Arbagoth and the cindered remains of the Brambleshale forest, as well as the equally cindered remains of those who had just been fighting there, he found Kahr-ret-Taris tending to the few living wounded. Kahr’s talents as a healer were far more questionable than his talents on the battlefield, but Lukas had to give him credit for the effort. All told, there were only a few hundred survivors between the two armies, the vast majority of which were Kahr’s injured troops. Opaq, Kahr’s most trusted general and the military arm of the Devout, was one of the survivors, although his face was badly burned in the fires. Kahr’s healing had saved the poor man’s sight, but the scars would dominate his visage for the rest of his life.

The few able-bodied soldiers remaining of Kahr’s forces immediately began scouring the broken and burned Brambleshale for any survivors. They did not find many. The first group they returned with were prisoners, a few hurt and terrified soldiers who by happenstance had mostly avoided the flames. Surprisingly, Kahr did what he could to heal them, and then told them they could leave if they wished. A few of his own troops broke out in disapproving whispers, but Kahr-ret-Taris shook his head and told them that too many daughters and sons of Skavlakur had been killed. It took only a few moments of thought for the former enemy soldiers to drop to their knees and swear fealty to Kahr-ret-Taris.

It was almost three hours after the battle had ended that scouts brought news that Aap-ret-Syrris and his son Unk had been found among the dead. Aap’s body had been found singed to the very war-throne that his grandfather, Vrok-ret-Syrris, had stolen when he had taken Skavlakur. Now, well over a century later, that act of treason was avenged, though hardly in the manner Kahr had expected, or wanted. The look in the true Pharaoh’s eyes when he heard the news of Aap’s death was one of heart-breaking emptiness. The one and uncontested Pharaoh of Skavlakur stood silently in a field of death. The Brambleshale trees had proven no match for the mystical flames that had beset them, and the entire diminutive forest had been laid to waste. The faint, orange glow in the few places where the fire had not quite burned itself out reminded the planeswalker of demons’ eyes, staring back at him from their lands of flame and death. Lukas Harran stood next to him, and was thinking similar thoughts. Neither man had said a word to the other since the battle. There was simply too much to say, but too few words. They were living through a moment in history that defied discussion, defied description, and defied understanding.

On one hand, this meant the end of so much. Lukas Harran and Kahr-ret-Taris had become friends, but that friendship had been based initially on mutual benefit. When Lukas Harran had first arrived on Helkavin, he had freed Kahr-ret-Taris from his demonic prison. Kahr had helped him defeat the powerful demon Zadraphous, and in return, Lukas agreed to help him recover his throne in Skavlakur. And now, it seemed, that Kahr-ret-Taris’s throne was once again his. There seemed little reason for Lukas to stay, and of course, he had his own business to attend to. The original reason he had come to Helkavin, the entire reason he was cursed to use the magic of death and decay, even the very reason his planeswalker spark had ignited in the first place, was his search for Gabrielle’s soulstone. In his youth, Lukas had been raised in a caring, loving, and nurturing family, and he had prized his honor and his duty. It was a happy, if simple, life. He had joined a military order, and there Lukas had met, come to know and grown to love a beautiful angel named Gabrielle. She was the light of his life, and he of hers. Lukas had been raised to believe that with pure faith and a sharp adherence to duty, the greatest and purest of dreams could come true. To Lukas, Gabrielle proved that belief.

But fate has a long-standing rivalry with dreams. In one horrifying instant, Gabrielle’s sweet, angelic life was taken from her by vile cabalists, a sect of demons and demon-worshipers who wished everything good and angelic snuffed out. In a final, unforgivable insult, the demons trapped Gabrielle’s spirit in a soulstone, a wicked artifact of demonic power. The pain of losing his love had been immense, but the thought of her power and goodness put to the machinations of a demon was beyond anything Lukas could stand. When his own order refused to help him, Lukas took matters into his own hands. He infiltrated the cabal, thus severing forever his ties to the light, pure energies he had known all his life and instead relying on the very dark practices he despised. He succeeded in defeating the cabalists and their demon ruler, but he learned the soulstone had been taken by another, through a portal to another world. Lukas had been looking for Gabrielle, or whatever small piece of her spirit may be left, ever since.

This victory also meant the end of the rebellion. Whatever small portions of Aap-ret-Syrris’s army or supporters still existed around Skavlakur would surely not dare to oppose Kahr-ret-Taris in his claim to the throne now. Undoubtedly there would be ambitious nobles vying for favor, but after this victory and this catastrophe, none would muster the audacity that the ret-Syrris family had, at least not during Kahr’s lifetime. This battle marked the end of the Devout’s hiding in tiny, back rooms and smothered, camouflaged temples. It marked the end of the tyranny of the ret-Syrris family, who had been bleeding the people of Skavlakur dry for more than a century. This day marked the end of Kahr the revolutionary, and marked the beginning of Kahr-ret-Taris, the Pharaoh of Skavlakur.

This, of course, was the other side of things. Kahr would now have to prove himself as a leader in peacetime, and not simply a military one. And by the look of things, this was a disastrous time to lead a kingdom. The Brambleshale forest had always been known as the heartland of Skavlakur for more reasons than one. Brambleshale trees were also tremendous producers of marbleberries, a common staple of the Skavlakur diet, especially in lean times. From where Kahr-ret-Taris and Lukas Harran were standing, it was very possible that the entire forest had been eradicated. A loss of such an easy, natural, wild crop could very well spell a disastrous winter for those who still lived in Skavlakur, if any still did.

This thought, of course, led the planeswalkers back to a question they had been asking themselves for hours. Where had that wall of fire come from? Both men had seen their share of magical fire in the past, but neither had ever seen anything like this. The flames had behaved more like a tidal wave on the ocean than fire spreading through the treetops, and neither planeswalker had ever seen fire move that fast before. The fact that it was already starting to break up by the time it reached the rear of the ret-Syrris army was the only reason anyone other than Lukas or Kahr had survived. If the battle had been closer to the source of the flames, no one would have lived. But that still didn’t tell them where it had come from, or how much of Skavlakur still stood.

Finally, Kahr knelt down and picked up a handful of ashes, then turned to his friend and spoke, his voice low and broken. “Over two thousand years ago, they say my noblest ancestor, Luhk-ret-Taris, rose up against the oppressors of Skavlakur, defeated them, and became the first Pharaoh.” For a moment, Lukas wondered why Kahr was telling him this story, but he waited and listened anyway. “Legend says that he burned those tyrants in a massive pyre on the day of his coronation.” With these words, Kahr tilted his fist and allowed the ashes to fall out onto the ground and into the wind. “Ever since then, when a Pharaoh ascends, they honor the Pharaoh before him in a funeral pyre.” Lukas lowered his head, catching his friend’s meaning. “When I was a child, I would sometimes dream that my coronation pyre would be as great as Luhk-ret-Taris’s.”

Lukas closed his eyes, remembering his own dreams from his youth. He also remembered what had become of them. “Fate despises dreams.”

Kahr looked up at Lukas as his fist clenched tightly around the few ashes he still held. He looked down at his own hand, his voice hardly managing to make it through his words. “Then I suppose I despise fate.” Suddenly, Kahr-ret-Taris could take it no longer. His eyes squeezed tightly closed and he brought his fist upward, pressed mournfully against his forehead. He rocked back and forth slightly and sobbed, louder and more honestly than Lukas would have suspected. “I did not want this!” Kahr managed as a few wayward tears streamed down his face.

Lukas stood there silently, looking over at the kneeling Pharaoh, and once again marveled at his friend. When they had first met, Lukas had recognized immediately that Kahr was one of the most self-centered and arrogant people he had ever met. And yet, since then, the Pharaoh had proven himself to be capable of profoundly moving emotion, so much so that his current display was almost heartbreaking to his friend. Looking around, Lukas realized that he could not tell which ashes had come from the Brambleshale trees, which from Kahr’s allies, and which from his enemies. He felt a sudden, sullen twinge of guilt as he thought once again about Gabrielle. A part of her still existed somewhere, in some recognizable form. Those who had died in the Brambleshale forest today had no such identity in death. In death, they had become one, and therefore none.

Suddenly, surprisingly, Lukas Harran realized he was angry. In fact, he was far beyond angry; he was seething. For what seemed like the first time, Lukas realized that something had done this. This calamity, this travesty of life and death, had been an active decision by someone, and that one decision had caused untold destruction and pain. That one decision had ended untold lives and destroyed an utterly inconceivable area of Skavlakur, and perhaps far beyond, as well. Lukas found himself wondering about the identity of that someone, and one word continually returned to his mind: demon. Lukas Harran’s life had been dominated by his pursuit and eradication of demons, and they were one of the few creatures in existence that Lukas believed could cause this sort of destruction, though even he had never encountered one powerful enough to do this. Still, it was the only solution Lukas could think of, and the more his anger rose, the more he decided that he needed to know for certain.

“We should go,” Lukas said simply.

Kahr-ret-Taris had stopped his mournful keen and was now just kneeling with his head bent, shaking in his fury and remorse. He looked up when his friend spoke, confused. “Go? Where can we go, Lukas? I am the Pharaoh now. I must see to my people.”

Lukas nodded as he took a step toward Kahr. “That’s right, Kahr. You are the Pharaoh. You do need to see to your people. And what is the greatest threat to the people of Skavlakur right now?”

Kahr did not answer. He merely stared upward at Lukas, shaking his head slightly.

Lukas nodded and pointed to the west. “Whatever caused this, Kahr. Whatever sent that fire is our greatest enemy. If you want to see to your people, Kahr-ret-Taris, then you and I need to find out who did this and why. And then we need to stop them from ever doing it again.”

Lukas could see the fire return to the Pharaoh’s eyes. He could almost hear the large man’s furious heartbeat as it pounded beneath his mahogany chest. Slowly, deliberately, Kahr-ret-Taris rose to his feet, staring the other planeswalker directly in the eyes. His expression was wild, almost mad, with widened eyes and a slightly disturbing smile crossing his face. Finally, Kahr grabbed his friend by one armored arm and shook him once in what Lukas assumed was an expression of gratitude.

“You are right, my friend!” Kahr replied, almost excitedly. “Come, we have much to do, and there is no telling how long we have.”

He moved quickly past his friend and toward the Devout’s camp. Lukas smiled after Kahr for a moment, but that smile quickly faded as he again saw the field of ashes that had so recently been the Brambleshale forest. Lukas again remembered that he was literally standing in the remains of two armies. He turned his gaze upward toward the blackened sky, still thick with the smoke and ash that the firestorm had brought with it. He wondered to himself if Skavlakur could ever recover from this. He wondered if all of Arbagoth could hope to recover. Lukas did not know what he and Kahr would find, but he suspected it would be another significant delay in his search for Gabrielle’s soulstone. He sighed deeply, but he knew that in life, Gabrielle would have insisted Lukas find and punish whoever was behind this attack. Lukas, always looking for ways to hold on to the faith and the duty he had prized as a young man, nodded once, and followed Kahr-ret-Taris toward the camp.

Less than half an hour later, Kahr-ret-Taris addressed all of his remaining followers at the edge of the oak forest. Even these taller trees had sustained heavy damage from the fire, although it had fared far better than the Brambleshale. The thick, overhead canopy of leaves, branches and vines had done little to stop the fire, but it had delayed it enough for the survivors to find refuge deeper in the woods. Some of the trees might even survive the shock that the flames gave them, although far more would not. Deeper into the forest, it was likely that isolated fires still burned, but the worst of it had passed this area, and so Kahr had ordered Opaq to gather everyone that remained. Their final numbers were disturbingly low.

Still, as Kahr-ret-Taris spoke to them, he did so with his head held high, his massive chest held out, and his voice powerful and confident. “My people, today is a day that Skavlakur must never forget. It has been a day of horror and heartbreak, of triumph and tragedy. Today, a handful of courageous believers took to the battlefield against impossible odds, and they feared nothing. Today, the righteous oppressed stood bravely against their tyrants and tormentors. Today, the faithful Devout recaptured Skavlakur from the blasphemers who stole her! The traitor noble, the Pretender-king, the false Pharaoh Aap-ret-Syrris and all his progeny are dead, their stranglehold on Skavlakur and its people is broken forever. I, Pharaoh Kahr-ret-Taris, by right of birth and right of battle, hereby claim my rightful place as the true god-king of Skavlakur.”

The crowd cheered, though half-heartedly. They were exhausted and broken, and the deaths of so many sullied their grand victory. Kahr-ret-Taris knew this, and he continued immediately.

“However, as your Pharaoh, it is my right to rule, and my duty to protect. We have won this day, but our victory is hollow. Another force is at play in Skavlakur, and my people will never be truly free or truly safe until this new threat has been extinguished. The tyranny and treachery of Aap-ret-Syrris is nothing compared to the force that swept down upon us during that battle. Too many children of Skavlakur have died this day, and too few remain to mourn them. This is my sacred promise to you, my faithful few. I shall find the vile force that did this, and I shall purge it from this world. Never again shall my people know the torture of tyranny, nor the terror of this unknown tormentor. This, I swear to you!”

This produced a more enthusiastic cheer from the crowd, who had been given reason enough during the battle to believe in Kahr-ret-Taris. When the cheer died down, Kahr looked to his Devout and nodded sharply. “Opaq.”

“Yes, my lord,” the scarred warrior-priest replied immediately.

“Until I return, I am entrusting the care of my people to you.”

Opaq’s expression was a bit difficult to decipher, but it seemed to mix doubt and wonder. “But, my holy lord, I disobeyed your orders in the battle. I deserve death, my Pharaoh, not reward.”

Kahr stepped forward to stand directly in front of his Devout. “Opaq, your Pharaoh will test you in many ways. You say your life is forfeit? It was from the moment you took the oaths of the Devout. But as for the battle, you acted because it was my will. You disobeyed my orders because I wished it. Do you doubt me?”

“I…no, my lord, but I…” Opaq stammered.

“Think about this, my faithful servant. You have stalwartly maintained the faith in all the years of my absence, have you not? You assembled my army, the very army with which we stood against the Pretender, did you not? You are perhaps the most loyal of all of my subjects. Would you ever disobey me of your own will?”

Opaq stared in confusion and bewilderment at his Pharaoh. “I…of course I would not, my holy lord!”

Kahr smiled. “Of course not. I wanted you to charge, and so you did. You are Devout, Opaq. You are mine, and you are a perfect instrument of my will. There is no man I trust more to protect my people in my absence. Will you accept this honor?”

Opaq dropped to one knee and bowed his head low. “Of course, my lord. Thank you.”

Kahr indicated for Opaq to rise, and once he did, Kahr nodded sharply, once. “Very well. Protect my people, and see to it that word of Aap-ret-Syrris’s death and defeat is spread across Skavlakur. I cannot know how long I will remain away, so you must lead them in my stead until I return.”

“Yes, Pharaoh. What shall I do?”

Kahr-ret-Taris smiled again, even broader this time. “Use your best judgment, Opaq. After all, your best judgment might well be mine.”

Opaq lowered his head to his god-king. “As you command, my holy lord. We will make our way to Vuur-bos-Skaduu, and prepare the Imperial capital for your return.”

“Very good, my Devout.” He turned around and, without another word, not even to Lukas Harran, started to walk at a brisk pace across the ashen remains of the forest. Lukas hurried after him, not even saying farewell to the others. Once they were well out of earshot, Lukas spoke.

“You know, Kahr, you’re getting disturbingly good at this false god routine.”

Kahr nodded. “I have had little choice in the matter, my friend.”

“Perhaps,” Lukas admitted with some trepidation, “but was it really necessary to claim that Opaq’s charge was your doing?”

“Yes.”

Lukas rolled his eyes. “Why? Opaq is an excellent military leader. He saw the danger you and your elite guard were in, and it was his decision that saved you. Don’t you think he deserves the credit for that?”

“Do you think he wants that credit? How would that serve him, Lukas? If Opaq were in a position to choose, do you believe he would want to be a brilliant military tactician who had let down his Pharaoh, or a faithful and blessed servant of his god?”

“That’s hardly a fair question, and you know it, Kahr.”

“And what would you have me do? Opaq has believed in my divinity his entire life. He inherited that believe from his father, and from generations of Devout before him. Today, he has seen thousands of men and women die because of me, many of whom were his friends, his family, and his fellow Devout. If I allow the faith of those who remain to wilt, then they will have lost everything today, including the very thing they fought for. I cannot allow all of that death to have been for nothing.”

“And the fact that you reap the benefits by becoming the unquestioned god-king of Skavlakur has nothing to do with it?”

Kahr’s head lowered slightly, but when he spoke, it was still with the conviction he had with his people. “Existence is a jungle, Lukas Harran. And every jungle has its king. Every being that exists was born either predator or prey, but all have a responsibility to one another.”

“So your people are nothing more than prey to you?” Lukas asked, a bit shocked.

“Yes,” Kahr-ret-Taris said bluntly. “Though hardly in the traditional sense. I will not stalk, kill, and devour them like the beasts of the forests.”

“Except for your Devout,” Lukas pointed out, casting his mind back to Daedis on Helkavin and her sacrifice to restore Kahr’s youth. The memory of watching her consumed still gave Lukas a shiver.

“A Pharaoh does not have to invoke the Pyre of the Devout if he does not wish to. My father’s father, Hamith-ret-Taris, refused the Pyre, and he lived the length of a mortal man. I may choose to not invoke the Pyre, when the time comes.”

“You already have, Kahr, if you remember.”

Kahr nodded. “I know. But much has changed since Daedis’s sacrifice. I have learned much about who and what I am. You have taught me much. Because of her, I have regained my youth, and will not need the Pyre again for a generation. When that time comes, I may yet make a different choice.”

“It’ll just depend on if you’re a predator or prey, I suppose.”

“I will always be a predator, Lukas Harran. I am the Pharaoh of Skavlakur. There are none higher in all of Arbagoth than I. But even predators have a responsibility to their prey.”

“What are you talking about?”

Kahr sighed heavily. “A predator hunts his lands to maintain the balance of the forest. There is no joy in the hunt, only responsibility. But if another threat invades those lands, that balance is at risk. The predator must then protect his prey.”

Lukas stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever really understand you, Kahr.”

Surprisingly, Kahr smiled at this. “With the greatest of respect, my friend, I suspect you understand me better than you know. After all, was it not you who suggested we find the cause of this destruction?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“And are you not cursed to use means you despise for a far greater purpose?”

This caught Lukas momentarily off guard. “That’s not exactly the same thing, Kahr.”

“Perhaps not, Lukas, though I see little difference. I was born the son of a god. I have lived as a god. And I have seen the good it can do, not simply for myself, but for my people, as well. Belief is a force more powerful than any you or I control, my friend. And if it is all my people have left, then I will not see it taken from them, no matter how you or I may feel about it now.”

Lukas Harran said nothing. He still didn’t agree with Kahr-ret-Taris, nor did he believe he ever would, but it was equally clear that Kahr would never change his mind, either. The thought of a kingdom’s rulers as predators and their subjects as prey sickened Lukas, though he could hardly deny that it was the way things usually worked out. Although self-centered, Kahr had still proven himself a good man, and Lukas truly hoped he would make a good ruler, as well. But the mentality he had, and the apparent ease with which he accepted the belief of his followers, bothered Lukas deeply. For the time being, Lukas decided the best course of action was to avoid conversation for a while.

Lukas Harran and Kahr-ret-Taris walked for hours through the ashes of Skavlakur. Eventually, the ruins of the Brambleshale forest gave way to the blackened and bubbling expanse of the Fire Fens. The Fire Fens were an utterly massive swampland dominated by smoke and steam. The area was volcanic, though fortunately not explosively so. Still, magma flows just below the surface constantly impacted the area, often seeping upward into the swamp itself, releasing staggering amounts of gas and superheating sections of the marsh waters. The Fire Fens dominated most of the northern part of Skavlakur, although a large section extended southward. It was in this southern extension of the Fens that the two planeswalkers found themselves now.

They had been moving through the smoldering remains of the Fens for over an hour when Kahr finally spoke, the first time either of them had since their brief conversation in the Brambleshale. “We must be getting close. Fire to the Fens is like water to the ocean, yet whatever produced that blast has even destroyed the Gnarlwood trees here. We must be nearing the source.”

Lukas shook his head in agreement. “Or at least where that source was when the blast happened. That was hours ago now. Whatever it was may well have moved on.”

Kahr-ret-Taris frowned. “I had not considered that. If it has, we will have to track it.”

“Then we’d better hurry. There can’t be much daylight left.” Lukas looked upward into the hazy sky to get some idea of how much longer the day might be. His brow furrowed when he spotted something metallic hanging in the sky. “Kahr, what is that?”

Kahr looked where his friend was pointing, and his eyes narrowed when he saw it. “I do not know, Lukas, but it is nothing natural, that much is certain.”

Lukas looked around at the remaining Fens. It was difficult to see any sort of a pattern. However, the more Lukas looked, the more it seemed like the trees, the rocks and the water had all been burned directionally. With everything blackened by soot and ash, it was impossible to be sure, but it seemed as if the blast had spread slowly but concentrically outward from a focal point, and that focal point may well have been the flying object above them. Lukas looked over at Kahr, but judging from the rage in his friend’s face, Kahr had already reached the same conclusion.

“Lukas, we must find a way to reach that object.”

Lukas looked around, but there was absolutely nothing nearby to help. The metallic object was far higher than even the greatest of trees on Arbagoth, but the trees that had grown in the Fens were much smaller than that, and all the trees nearby were destroyed, anyway. Finally, Lukas simply shook his head.

“Kahr, do you have any creatures that can get to it? What about those bats you summoned in the battle?”

“I have never seen a blisterbat fly to such heights,” Kahr said. “Besides, I wish to see that beast before it falls to our righteous vengeance. I wish to know what has done this to my beloved Skavlakur.”

“I was afraid of that,” Lukas said with a deep frown. “I believe I have a way to get us up there, but it won’t be pleasant.”

Kahr met his friend’s gaze, the pharaoh’s expressive face turning to one of sorrow and pleading. “Then please, my friend, do what you are able. This is why we have come.”

Lukas sighed deeply, then nodded. He closed his eyes, drawing in energy of death and decay that was running rich through the Fens. He concentrated on his long and loathsome list of demonic conquests until he came across one of his least favorites, but sadly one of his most useful. Lukas reflexively rubbed his armor above his ribs, remembering the injuries he had accumulated when he had first tamed this hellish monstrosity. Then, with a surge of will and mana, Lukas called the demon forth from his native plane. A rush of eldritch wind and a surge of primal terror told him he had succeeded, so Lukas reluctantly opened his eyes to look into the sly, grinning face of a towering, winged demon.

“Greetings, Lukas Harran,” the vile creature said, his words like a thick ooze. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me. Are you interested in bartering for your soul?”

“You have nothing to offer me that I can’t simply order you to give, Vendris,” Lukas said with a hint of irritation. "Surely, you must remember that I own you now.”

The demon scowled and stood to his full height, well over fifteen feet tall. “One day, mortal, your power will wane, and I will break your chains. Fear that day, Lukas Harran.”

“Oh, I do, I do,” Lukas said dismissively. “But for the time being, you’re going to do everything I tell you to do.”

The demon said nothing, but Kahr-ret-Taris stepped closer to his friend and spoke softly. “You have conquered a greater demon?”

Lukas laughed for a moment, and when he answered, he seemed to speak more to the demon than to Kahr. “Oh, Vendris is no greater demon. He’s the very definition of a lesser demon. He’s just big, that’s all. Isn’t that right, Vendris?”

The demon sneered, revealing one large, blood-stained fang as he did. “Your insults only serve to sweeten your eventual torment.”

“That is one possibility, I suppose,” Lukas said with a shrug. “Anyway, you’re going to carry me and Kahr-ret-Taris safely up to that thing.”

The demon glanced above him to the metallic shape floating in the smoke-smothered sky. “I could always drop you once we get there,” the demon offered with a nasty smile.

“No,” Lukas corrected. “Actually, you couldn’t. I’ll see to that. Do you really think my control over you is that incomplete, Vendris? You remember when you helped me kill your brother, don’t you?”

Vendris growled loudly. “I never cared for him, anyway. I was already planning to kill him myself before you showed up.”

This time, Lukas actually laughed. “As you say, Vendris. Still, we need to get up there now, and you are going to see us safely there, and wherever else we need to go, until I release you back to your world.”

“You would ride the great Vendris like a common stallion!” The demon roared, but then hunched down to the ground, his great wings folding in to allow the planeswalkers to climb on his back. “I have no choice. But I will remember this, mortal. One day, we will settle our accounts, and you will answer every insult in screams and blood.”

“I’ll start saving up,” Lukas said as he swung himself up. Kahr was a little less certain, but his fury at the metallic object in the sky overruled his apprehension. The moment he was adequately draped across the demon’s back, Vendris leapt into the air, flying like an arrow straight for their target. The demon was incredibly fast, and they arrived quicker than either planeswalker had expected. Although neither of them had ever seen an object like this before, it was clearly a vessel of some kind, and the demon clung himself to the bottom and the side, finding the door almost immediately.

With a silent, mental command from Lukas, Vendris repositioned himself slightly and rammed his massive fist into the solid metal door. The entire barge shook with the impact, but the door only dented. Four more massive strikes and several bloody demon knuckles later, and the door finally buckled and broke. Vendris, his own fury rising now, grabbed the distended door and ripped it back out, flinging it violently to the ground below. Without wasting a moment, Kahr swung into action, bounding across the demon’s arm and jumping into the planar barge. The brash pharaoh found himself face to face with two metallic men. They were only about five feet tall, but as Kahr took a step toward them, they raised their hands up almost as one. From their palms, these strange constructs fired a blast of pure energy at Kahr. The planeswalker managed to shield himself, but the blast knocked him right back out the door. Lukas saw him and reacted immediately, commanding Vendris to catch him in midair.

“Throw me back in!” Kahr yelled, his eyebrows contorted in a sharp angle downward toward his nose.

“Are you sure?” Lukas said with some apprehension.

“Yes!” Kahr said, preparing himself.

Lukas’s mental shrug translated into a literal one from the demon, but Vendris obliged the pharaoh and launched him back into the planar barge through the door. As he flew, Kahr-ret-Taris drew his twin moorents and, allowing his momentum to carry him past the foremost two constructs, Kahr slashed them across their thin, metal necks, severing their heads. Kahr landed hard on the floor, but quickly tucked into a roll, coming up to his feet in front of two more, slashing his moorents upward across their large metallic chests. He then immediately brought his weapon back down, slashing them again and dropping them to the floor. Across the small, circular room, a fifth construct raised its hand to fire, but Kahr was too quick. Calling on the power of nature that had been so brutally punished by this very vessel, the pharaoh brought the full wrath of nature down on the unnatural creature, causing him to rust and crumble instantly.

“Be careful with that, Kahr,” Lukas said as he stepped into the planar barge from Vendris’s hands. “This entire ship is a work of artifice. You could bring down the whole thing.”

“Is that not what we want, my friend?” Kahr replied.

“Not necessarily, and certainly not yet. Remember that we need to find out what’s going on first.”

“True,” Kahr admitted. “And they are not likely to tell us. Have you ever seen anything like this before, Lukas?”

The other planeswalker looked around at the small, circular room. “I’ve seen things similar, but nothing this sophisticated, or this powerful. It reminds me of the goblin delve-junkers on Orakk."
[p]"Delve-junkers?" Kahr asked, confused.

Lukas nodded as he looked over the various controls. "Yeah, mechanical salvage ships. The goblins use them to scour the swamps for treasure and resources."

Kahr cocked an eyebrow. "Did they ever find anything?"

"Not in the four months I worked with them," Lukas admitted. "Let me see what I can learn about this vessel. Make sure the rest of the ship is clear.”

Kahr nodded and disappeared down a small hallway leading further into the ship. Lukas began to study the mirrored table sitting in the center of the room, trying to decide what its function could be. While examining it, his finger brushed the surface of the mirror, and suddenly the ornate crystal chandelier above it flared to life, cascading light downward, the mirror reflecting that light back up. In a few moments, it created the image of a large sphere, mostly colored red.

A moment later, Kahr returned. “The rest of the ship is empty, my friend.”

“Kahr," Lukas said, astounded. He pointed at the projected image. "What do you suppose this is?”

Kahr looked at the image for a few seconds before realization dawned in his eyes. “It appears to be a globe of Arbagoth. Here, this is clearly Skavlakur, with the damnable Confederation of Agator to the south. This is the continent of Maisa to the south, and Bongara to the east, with Feoldan and Volbog Island to the south.”

“And these red lights? What do they represent?”

Kahr studied the projected globe for a moment, but shook his head. “I do not know. Never before have I seen such a thing. Unless...” he paused, refocusing on Skavlakur, “this light here, this is precisely where we are. That light represents this location.”

“Or this ship…” Lukas said quietly.

The two planeswalkers looked at one another in a state of shock. Kahr-ret-Taris looked back and forth between the globe and his friend before he finally managed to speak. “Do you mean…all of Arbagoth?”

Lukas turned back to the mirrored table himself, hardly daring to think of what it could mean. “I hate to say it, Kahr, but it looks that way.”

The amalgam of rage and sorrow in Kahr-ret-Taris’s face was unlike anything Lukas had ever seen. When the Pharaoh spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “We must know for certain.”

Lukas nodded and gently patted his friend’s arm. “I can’t be sure, but I think I can fly this thing. Give me some time to find out. If I can, we’ll go after the others. I promise.”

Kahr simply nodded, staring at the projected globe and fearing the worst, and knowing he was probably right. If every kingdom had suffered the same fate as Skavlakur, it meant that millions had died, and millions more might yet die. Destruction on that level might mean that Arbagoth could never recover. As Kahr stared blankly at that bleak possibility, he found himself thinking back to his childish, childhood wish. He had always wanted the greatest coronation pyre that had ever been. Tears flooded the eyes of Pharaoh Kahr-ret-Taris as he realized his dream had come true.

At some point during Antine’s bouts of uncontrollable weeping, his exhaustion caught up with him, and the young fox fell asleep. Unfortunately, dreams provided no respite for the poor, tortured soul. In the infinite confines of his nightmares, Antine was back in Dayko, the last remnant of the civilized in the Jakkard, the oasis in the Wastes. That was what everyone had called that piecemeal, sloppily constructed town. That was what the richest of the foxes in Verkell had told Antine and the others who were foolish enough to go man the land offices there. It was a noble and adventurous purpose, they had promised him, and yet in all the talk of nobility and adventure, somehow they had forgotten to mention a few things.

They had failed to mention, for instance, the constant heat that hammered the Midnight Mountain where Dayko sat. All through the day, the heat bore down on the fledgling town, piercing the houses and the buildings and seeking out anybody within, just to spread its misery. Of course, the foxes of Verkell also failed to mention the cold. The sharp, bitter cold that dominated the night after the sun vanished from behind the crystalline sky. Even a fox’s fur did little to defeat the cold once it settled in. Antine had no idea how the humans handled it. And, of course, throughout all of their talks of the benefits of Dayko, the bosses in Verkell had never mentioned the constant stream of gold and ore that was to be shipped back to them. They waited to mention that until Antine and the others had first arrived.

Still, it wasn’t what the foxes of Verkell had failed to mention that had always bothered Antine in Dayko. It was what they had blatantly lied about. Antine never knew exactly how the land offices obtained the deeds they owned to the lands in the vast Jakkard. It had never been his place to ask. But the sort of people who would deliver those deeds were not the most savory of characters, and Antine suspected the cost to the land office to purchase those deeds were more calculable in blood than in coin. Either way, though, they certainly sold the land for much, much more than they paid. That hardly seemed to Antine as a noble pursuit.

As much as the nobility promised had been a lie, the adventure was drastically more so. Antine had originally agreed to leave Verkell and help run the land office in Dayko precisely because he had wanted adventure. More than anything, or so he thought, Antine had hungered to get out into the Wastes and live the sort of life he had always heard about. The stories of those first brave or foolish people who flooded out Wasteward had returned to Verkell long before they realistically could have, and the Wastes became a mythic place of excitement almost from the moment they were accessible. Those stories only grew as the years went on. Some were proven outright lies, most were never confirmed, but a precious few were affirmed true by multiple, trusted sources. And those few, verified stories of gunslingers and prospectors were more than enough for Antine.

It did not take long, however, for Antine to realize that Dayko was nothing like the stories of the rest of the Wastes. Midnight Mountain was not, ultimately, all that far from Verkell, lying less than a week’s ride away on catback and much less than that by rail. And the tedium of Antine’s duties was no different in the stifling, heat-blasted offices in Dayko as it had been in the relatively pleasant offices of Verkell. Essentially, his job was exactly the same as it had been, except now Antine was forced to deal with a much more unsavory class of people. But despite the potential danger some of their clientele carried, there was no excitement in the work. The best Antine could hope for was to witness a drunken brawl in one of the taverns on his way home. This was not the life Antine had hoped to obtain. This was not the life Antine wanted.

And now, Antine found himself back in this depressing lair of lies. A part of Antine realized that he was not where he should be, but he did not fully realize he was dreaming. After all, he had always felt that way about Dayko, so why should this be any different for him? Antine was walking slowly down the dusty, crooked streets of Dayko, the oppressive heat of the Jakkard sun bearing down on his dark gray fur. He was heading toward the offices, although he didn’t really seem to be moving. In fact, it was as if the town itself was moving and Antine was staying in one place, despite moving his legs and trying to walk. The heat all around him still seemed to grow, and Antine was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with each passing moment.

Finally, Antine arrived at the land offices, or perhaps more accurately, the land offices arrived at him. As he moved to enter, suddenly Mea was there, smiling brightly at him and casually twisting several strands of her dark red hair between her fingers. As is often the way with dreams, Antine’s mind momentarily chose to forget everything that Mea had been and had done to him, and he remembered the happiness she had once brought him. A mere moment later, however, the door of the land office behind her burst open and Vam, Mea’s Viashino accomplice, stepped out. Suddenly, all of his memories of Jakkard crashed back in on Antine, and he froze. Vam’s reptilian snout twisted upward in a grin, and Mea laughed as Vam lifted his gun and shot Antine once again.

The wound burned like fire, but this time Antine did not collapse. He realized suddenly that the burning was not from the wound, but rather from the cascade of flames now careening from the sky. The flames struck Mea and Vam, and they simply disappeared as Antine watched in horror. Then fire spread to the land offices, which burned to ashes in an instant before spreading to the tavern, the general goods shop and then the Rail-Runner’s depot. All around him, all of Dayko burned, and the sky itself danced with fire. Antine looked upward and, in the sky, saw himself above the flames, watching the destruction and doing nothing. Finally, Antine could take no more, and he turned around and ran, but this time, neither he nor the world moved. Antine ran faster and harder, but still, nothing changed. All he could think about was getting out, finding someplace to hide from the fire, from the world, and from himself.

Antine woke up with a sudden jolt and knocked his head against a ceiling that was much lower than it had been when he fell asleep. It was also pitch black, and just trying to shift his body around was nearly impossible. Wherever Antine was, it was much smaller than the short hallway he had been hiding in. Whatever it was, it was just slightly wider than the young fox’s shoulders, prohibiting him from moving side to side. As much as Antine had hated the sight of a world on fire, he hated the confined darkness even more. As the seconds ticked by, Antine again began to panic, rocking his body in every direction and crashing against any wall and any surface he could find. He was breathing heavily now, occasionally unable to catch a breath at all, and his fur was standing on end. Finally, with a strong roll to his left, the wall broke away and Antine tumbled down to the hard metal floor below.

Antine took a few moments to regain his composure, but eventually realized he was once again in the planar barge’s back area. Looking up at where he had fallen, he realized he had somehow found himself in a large storage compartment built in above the seats and the windows. Antine scratched his head in abject confusion. He had absolutely no idea how he had gotten in there. Perhaps one of the metal men had found him and placed him there? Antine shook his head, realizing that was exceptionally unlikely. If the metal men had found him, they likely would have killed him, and anyway, such an action would have certainly woken the light-sleeping fox up. Besides, the storage compartment was fairly high up, and the relatively short metallic men would have had some difficulty reaching it and stuffing Antine inside.

The young Jakkard foxman sighed deeply. This was just one more in a long series of incidents that made no sense. Occasionally, Antine wondered if he was a sleepwalker, because this sort of thing had happened to him all his life. Often, when Antine would have a particularly bad nightmare, he would wake up to find himself in a closet or pantry somewhere in the house. Once, in Dayko, shortly after he had agreed to skim money from the land office for Mea, Antine had a nightmare that he had been caught, and he woke up stuck in an old family chest he had brought from Verkell. It had taken Antine nearly an hour to work his way out, and he had spent the remainder of the night trying to figure out how he had managed to lock the thing. He never did find an answer to that question.

Now, looking up at the storage compartment, Antine found himself pondering a very similar conundrum. While he had immediately recognized that the metal men were too short to easily use the compartment, he had forgotten momentarily that he was only slightly taller than they were. While he could have reached by standing on the seats below, it would have taken some impressive balance and fine motor skills to have opened the compartment, climbed up into it and closed it again. Antine scratched his head again, convinced that a somnambulist lacked the ability to do all of that without waking. He thought back to the closets, the pantries, and the chest. He thought back to his childhood trip to the Verkell zoo and how he had somehow found himself in the baloth’s cage. Antine shook his head. Nothing about any of this seemed to make any sense.

Eventually, as he always did, Antine realized that he had no answers to these questions, and forced his mind, for the time being, to direct itself elsewhere. He was still trapped in the floating planar barge, although Antine had yet to muster the fortitude to look out the window. He feared what he would see. Instead, the fox again crept up to the front to check on the horrible metallic men. They were exactly as Antine had left them, standing motionlessly at their stations with dimmed eyes and darkened hearts. Or none at all. Antine didn’t know. He wasn’t entirely convinced he cared. They were his enemy, he knew that, and the enemy of every living thing as far as Antine was concerned, but he had no means by which to stop them. As long as they weren’t moving, they weren’t murdering anybody, and Antine had to take that as a small victory.

He momentarily debated making another attempt at the door, but quickly discarded this idea. He was unsure of how easy or difficult it would be to wake the metal men, but the risk could hardly be considered worth it. He had been unable to budge the door even when they had still been on the ground in the Amphiseum, so there was little chance he could open it now. Besides which, he was very likely still floating an impossible distance above the ground, and so an open door would do him no good whatsoever. Finally, Antine realized he could put it off no longer. He had witnessed the initial attack, an act so vile and monstrous that he might never be able to live with it, and now, whether he wanted to or not, he had to see the aftermath. Slowly, he moved back toward the circular window, steadied himself, took a deep breath, and looked out.

At the sight of the charred, ashen, dead forest beneath him, Antine inhaled sharply, and his breath caught in his throat. The young fox realized for the first time that he had been imagining all kinds of scenes that he would see at this moment, all sorts of horrible descriptions he could give. But now, seeing it for himself, Antine realized that all of his imaginings had failed to prepare him for reality. Whatever was left of Antine’s heart broke again as he peered through the smoke and haze at the death he had seen created. The forest he had seen through this very window, a sight so beautiful that he had wanted to share it with every living creature, was replaced by mile after mile of black ash and scarred landscape. The mighty, majestic trees that had supported the thick canopy of leaves were now no more than jagged, broken thorns protruding from the smothered ground. Never before had so much beauty been so quickly transformed into such an abomination.

Even the Wastes of Jakkard were not as barren and lifeless as this. The Jakkard had been inhospitable and daunting, to say the least, and in the time before Antine’s birth, it had been much, much worse, if the tales could be believed. But when Antine had been through there, it had been marginally better than the massacred forest beneath him now. There had been life, and color, and contrast, and the hope that just maybe, over the next sprawling hill, there might be a respite. Here, though, there was nothing. From his lofty vantage point, Antine could see for countless miles, and there was no life moving across the ash. There was no color beyond endless black that smothered the ground. There was no contrast against the death that permeated the air. And more than anything, even from this impossible height, there was no hope that anything better lay beyond.

Had Antine had any tears left, he would have wept again now. But there was nothing remaining that the foxman could give. He had seen too much already. Never in his life had he ever believed he could truly feel such profound, abject sorrow. In his wildest, most terrifying nightmares, Antine could never have imagined that such total and merciless destruction was even possible, let alone that any breathing, thinking being could bring it about willingly. Yet perhaps even more than the sorrow, Antine simply could not handle the overpowering helplessness of the situation. He was trapped in a strange place, in what seemed to be a strange world, and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nowhere to run, and no way to stop the atrocity that had occurred, or any that were likely to follow.

It was then that Antine remembered that the metal men had been preparing for a second volley from the flame cannons outside the barge. His heart sank again, realizing that the poor, faultless world below would have to suffer another attack. Looking out over the devastation, Antine found it hard to imagine that anything could have survived the first one, but if anything had, it was inconceivable to think it would survive a second. Nothing could possibly recover from this kind of destruction. The forest that had, until recently, covered the ground in every direction must have taken hundreds or even thousands of years to reach its ultimate grandeur, and even that had been laid to waste in a matter of minutes. It would likely never grow again. But if there was even a slim chance it would, that chance would surely be wiped away by the next attack.

Suddenly, the entire planar barge lurched with a sudden impact, nearly sending Antine’s head into the thick glass of the window. The foxman froze momentarily, wide-eyed and frightened, but with no place to run, he recovered quickly. Whatever had hit them had come from the opposite side of the ship, and Antine rushed over to the opposite window immediately to see what it was. What he saw confused and terrified him. It was another flying ship, nearly identical to the one he was riding in, except for the missing door. There was also a bright light building up on its starboard side, just behind the space where that door should have been. Suddenly, that light exploded toward Antine in the form of a massive ball of fire. Reacting without thinking, Antine ducked into the short hallway and braced himself. The impact was severe, much worse than the first one had been, and Antine blacked out as the barge started tipping backwards.

Fortunately, Antine was senseless for no more than three or four seconds before panic for self-preservation brought him back around. The young fox did not, on any conscious level, have the slightest idea of what was happening, but something told him that if anything could be done to save his life, it would have to happen in the forward circular room. With no thought whatsoever about the metal men, Antine made his way forward, which was more difficult now than ever before, with the barge listing about fifteen degrees to port. When he burst through into the room with the mirrored table, he was surprised to see four of the five metal men lying on the floor in pieces. The fifth one was standing and moving frantically from one panel to another, but it stopped immediately when it noticed Antine. Silently, it raised one arm up toward the young fox, and a light flared in its palm.

Antine shrieked and jumped backward into the short hallway just as a burst of energy exploded from the metal man’s hand. At that precise moment, a third impact hammered the tilting planar barge, and the metal man’s arm was knocked wildly to the side and upward, causing his blast to hit neither Antine, nor the space where Antine had just been. Instead, the blast fired upward and struck the crystal chandelier above the mirrored table. The pitch of the planar barge, now at least twenty degrees portside and getting steeper, caused the crystals to cascade downward, back toward the metal man. The bulk of the chandelier pressed the metallic creature against the far wall, several of the crystals impaling its steel skin. Antine leaned back around the corner just in time to see the red lights of its eyes go dim for the final time.

Without thinking, Antine ran into the room and began looking across all of the panels and walls for any way to escape his metallic tomb. The ship was listing more and more with each passing moment, and even Antine, with no experience in the air, could feel the floating ship begin to fall out of the sky. In his panic, Antine cast his gaze from one inexplicable object to another, fully aware that he didn’t understand any of it, but hoping that his instincts would save his life. Knowing his time was running out, Antine ran over to a button next to the metal man who had fired at him and pushed it, whispering his desperate wish that it would save him. There was a sudden sound like escaping air, and then metal grated on metal and, behind him, the door opened.

Antine stared at the open door for a few seconds before he got very, very angry. “Now the door opens?” He yelled loudly, the first time he had been able to use his voice since he left Jakkard. “NOW!” He turned back toward the panel. “Like a leotau to a centaur…” he mumbled, slamming his paw down on the button. The grating sound issued forth once again, and the door closed. Antine kicked the wall beneath the button, but all that accomplished was hurting his leg. He looked around, knowing he had to try something else, but he immediately realized he was out of time. He could feel the barge free-falling now. He had no more than a few seconds to do whatever he was going to do before the barge crashed into the very ground it had destroyed.

Acting on instinct, Antine moved to the front of the ship and spotted a small handle protruding upward from a metal panel set into the wall. With no time to think, Antine grabbed the handle and pushed forward, immediately panicking as the angle of his fall increased sharply, causing him to pull the handle back. Miraculously, the barge seemed to level out slightly, although it was still listing and falling dangerously. Still, Antine could feel it falling a bit more slowly, and that might be enough. The handle was fighting him, trying to slip out of his nervous paws, but Antine held on with every small reserve of strength he had left. He pulled back and to his right, and he could feel the barge respond. If only he could see where he was going, he might just survive after all.

Looking straight ahead of him, Antine noticed a large sheet of metal that seemed to be just barely separate from the wall. At first, he had simply assumed it was the inner portion of the hull, but being this close, he saw that they were apart, and the metal even seemed to have a tiny latch at the bottom. Barely hoping to dream, Antine reached out and pressed the latch, losing some control over the lever as he did. With barely a sound, the metal disappeared upward, revealing a large sheet of glass, and beyond that glass, Antine could see the ground. So amazed was the young fox that it took him a moment to realize that the ground was rushing up at him disturbingly quickly. Antine quickly put his other paw back to the handle and pulled back, and the ground slowed its approach. Slim though it was, there was still hope.

Antine knew he couldn’t possibly avoid a crash, but he might be able to soften it. To Antine’s right, there was a huge body of water which might, if he were very lucky, break his fall. Unfortunately, it was starboard of the barge, and Antine was already using nearly all of his strength pulling in that direction just to keep it from flying off port side. Finally, with inevitability rushing closer and closer to him, Antine made a desperate decision and put all of his weight into pushing the handle left. He hoped it would be overly responsive in that direction and he could circle around to the water. His planned worked almost too well, and as the barge whipped around to portside, Antine flew with it. He managed to hang on to the handle, but his whole body weight pulled back as he fell, pulling the front of the barge upward and driving the stern down.

Antine felt the impact just a second before he heard it as the rear of the planar barge crashed into the ground. The crash jarred the entire structure forward, and Antine was sent sprawling forward, too, driving the front of the barge back down as he did. The young fox was breathing so heavily now that his lungs burned, but he had no time to dwell on it. He caught a momentary glance at the ashen sky, and then the distant horizon, and finally a spray of sand that enveloped the barge’s foremost window as his strange metallic prison slid across the beach and toward a small rock outcropping. Antine had done the best he could, but there was no way he could avoid those rocks. He closed his eyes tightly and braced himself. Mercifully, whether from fear, from exhaustion, or from an overload of emotion, Antine passed out before impact. Had he known it would merely be a gentle bump, he likely wouldn’t have bothered.

From the forward window of their commandeered planar barge, Lukas Harran and Kahr-ret-Taris watched another of the vile contraptions crash to Arbagoth, leaving a trail of smoke behind as it fell. The barge had proven remarkably easy to fly. The controls were similar to those of the delve-junkers of Orakk, and, as he explained to Kahr, Lukas been forced to learn ornithopter flight in one of his earliest demon hunts, and although the level of artifice genius in this construct was worlds above the common ornithopter, many of the same principles still held true. They had already shot down several of the other barges, but something about this one bothered Lukas.

“Did you see that, Kahr?”

“Yes, my friend,” Kahr-ret-Taris replied with a grin. “Another of our enemies destroyed. Our foes grow weak.”

“No, not that,” Lukas said. “Did you notice how it fell? None of the others fell like that. It was like it was trying to right itself.”

“Perhaps our blasts did not destroy all of those metal abominations within,” Kahr suggested with a shrug. “It matters not. They are no threat now.”

“Did you see the way it jerked first one way and then the other? Whatever was flying that thing panicked, Kahr. And panic is a trait of the living, not of these things,” Lukas pointed to the remains of the metallic men littering the floor.

Kahr reached up and gently stroked his clean-shaven chin. He had taken the opportunity as they were flying toward Volbog Island to shave, which had annoyed Lukas immensely. “None of the others had a living being within them. If this one did…”

He trailed off, and Lukas completed the thought for him. “Then maybe it’s someone who knows what’s going on here.”

“And who is responsible for it,” Kahr agreed. “We must see what we can learn about this. Lukas, do you believe you can land this contraption?”

Lukas Harran nodded. “At least as well as that pilot did,” he said with a smile.

Kahr-ret-Taris smiled back. “Excellent, my friend. Let us see if our clue has survived. If he has, he will answer my questions, or by my hand, he will die."

As Antine regained his senses one more time, he found himself wishing that he hadn’t. At least in the oblivion of unconsciousness, there was no pain. But as Antine came back into himself, before he even registered light in his eyes or the scents in his snout, Antine felt the pain throughout his body. Initially, his mind refused to recall the cause of that all-encompassing discomfort, but eventually the memories of the crash reproduced it as they came thundering back into his brain. Antine tried to move as gingerly as possible, stretching and flexing his back as he whimpered softly at the pain.

Eventually, Antine was able to convince his eyes and his body to look around the battered barge. There was much less light inside than there had been before. From the moment he had first found himself trapped inside that metallic tomb, it had been well lit, although Antine had no idea from what source. There had been no flames that he could see; there had only been light. It was only now, with that strange light gone, that Antine really noticed it. The only light filtering into the barge now came through the very top of the fore window. Most of it was covered in sand, and what that sand allowed through was dismal and slim.

The walls, floor and ceiling of the barge seemed largely intact. In fact, the actual structure of the craft looked almost completely untouched by the carnage of the crash. Even the mirrored table in the center of the circular room had escaped unbroken. The shards of the chandelier that had hung above it, on the other hand, were littered around the floor of the barge in jagged pieces, one or two of which had found their way into Antine’s fur and the skin beneath. Antine whimpered again as he realized he was bleeding lightly from three or four different places. Antine hated bleeding. He had not done much of it in his life, except of course for when he had been shot. And he greatly disliked being reminded of that.

The broken pieces of chandelier were not the only things littering the floor of the planar barge. There were also numerous pieces of the metal men who had so recently manned it. Several of those pieces had settled near Antine, including, quite disturbingly to the young fox, one of their heads. Antine jumped slightly when he noticed it, aggravating the pain in his back and shoulder as he did. For a few, long moments, Antine stared into the cold, unblinking, blank eyes of the monstrosity, remembering how long he had been trapped by them, how much he had feared them, and how greatly they had vindicated his fear. Now they were nothing but rubble, destroyed, it seemed, by one of their own.

This thought gave Antine pause. He had not truly had time while tumbling disastrously to the ground to consider why it was that the other barge might have fired on this one. It was a strange thing. Admittedly, everything was a strange thing to Antine these days, but this one seemed even stranger still. Based on what little he had seen while trapped in his flying prison, these things seemed to work together in amazing coordination. And if all of them were manned by the same sort of creatures that now lay devastated and dismantled at his feet, which seemed like it must have been the case, it made no sense for one to turn on another. These creatures, whatever they might have been, clearly took their orders from the man he had seen in the lights of their chandelier. Had he ordered the attack? That made no sense, either. Antine sighed heavily, something he seemed to do a lot recently. He had no answers. Only more questions.

Finally, Antine decided it was time to leave. He had been trapped in this insufferable place for far too long, and now, at last, there was nothing to keep him here. He glanced down at the skull of the metal man and considered spitting on it. He considered it for a long time. Ultimately he decided against it. His throat was already dry, and the gesture would have been lost on the creature’s unseeing eyes anyway. Still, Antine suspected the thought of the action was probably good enough. He had never spit on anyone before, and wasn’t overly fond of the motion. The humans of Jakkard seemed to do it all the time, and centaurs were fairly good at it, too. He had seen a Noggle try once, but it hadn’t gone well, mostly just spraying around everywhere. Foxes could do it if they needed to, but most of his kind seemed to prefer spitting on people metaphorically rather than literally.

A part of Antine felt suddenly nostalgic, thinking back to some of the more mundane aspects of life in Jakkard. Even Verkell held some pleasant memories for him, though they were usually smothered by other, less fortunate memories. He still had some family there, though not many, and most were glad to be rid of Antine. He had never exactly fit in, and never really approved of the way other foxes chose to use their wealth. His side of the family had never been wealthy anyway, at least not by fox standards, and that had suited him just fine. He had always had enough, and that was enough for him. But still, there were things he missed. Most of all, he missed the simple companionship of the city. It was something he had never really managed to recapture.

Antine shook his head feverishly, hurting his neck slightly. He was just stalling now, and he knew it. Nothing good had happened to him since leaving Dayko, and certainly not since arriving in the Amphiseum. He knew that beyond the barge’s door was a world that was dead or dying, and it likely offered little solace to Antine. Why should it? It had been through even worse than he had, after all. He realized grimly that his chances of surviving out there were only slightly better than in here. There was still a supply of water here in the barge, assuming it hadn’t been damaged in the crash, but Antine would rather save that for an emergency. While crashing, he had noticed a massive body of water, larger by far than any he had ever seen, that he thought could sate his thirst for the rest of his life. He grimaced, wondering just how long that would be.

Finally, angrily, Antine pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his sore muscles as he did. It did little to help. But the time had come, and the young fox refused to allow himself to put it off any longer. Walking tenderly across the ill-lit metal floor, Antine once again located the button that opened the outside door and, after a very long and very deep breath, he pressed it. The fox was afraid of what would happen. Would the barge rattle itself apart and collapse on him? Would it suddenly flare to life and launch the attack the metal men had been preparing for? Would it awaken the ship’s broken crew, or summon new ones to torture him? Antine hoped it would simply open the door as it had in the air. After a few long, tenuous seconds, he realized that it did nothing.

Time seemed to stop for Antine as he simply stared blankly at the far door. Eventually, Antine turned around and stared down at the button for a while. Then he brought his head upward and stared at nothing in particular. He slowly raised his paw to his face and began gently massaging the lighter patches of fur just above his eyes. He was beginning to suspect that life had no sense of fair play. Antine didn’t consider himself an unreasonable fellow. He had wanted things out of life, sure, but he didn’t think any of those things were unreasonable. Was it that much to ask that he win just one, every now and then? Was it that much to ask that bad people occasionally got what was coming to them? Antine looked at the door and snarled. Was it asking too much for a door to work when he actually needed it?

Antine whimpered again and pressed the button a second time. Nothing. He pressed it a third time, and then a fourth and a fifth, each time coming faster and faster than the time before. There was no effect. There was no escaping of air, no sound of metal grating on metal, no light from the other side of a mercifully opening door. Antine felt like he could cry, and likely would have, had he been capable of comparing a broken door with the calamity he had witnessed. He had already wept for the sake of the innumerable lives that had been lost; it seemed silly, almost comical to him, that he should now cry over a door.

So, momentarily incapable of sorrow, Antine turned to anger, curled his paw into a fist, and slammed it down on the button with all of his strength. It hurt, but the force of the blow seemed to actually shake the door! Antine was surprised and elated, and without thinking, he struck the button again, and again, the door shook with a sudden impact, as though trying to force itself open for him. Antine smiled his widest, vulpine grin. Finally something was going right for him. He hammered down on the button once again, and this time the entire barge seemed to shake. Antine had no idea what he was doing, but it seemed to be working. He took a moment to rub his sore paw, and the barge shook again, even harder this time.

Antine cocked his head to one side, momentarily forgetting his sore neck. Now, that was odd. He hadn’t even hit the button that time. Perhaps he had started some sort of chain reaction within the ship? It was difficult to tell with all the lights off. Still, the noise seemed to be coming from the door, which told Antine he was on the right track. He struck the button again, and this time the crash at the door was delayed a few seconds. Antine shook his head. The longer he stayed in this strange, metallic structure, the less he seemed to understand it, and the less he wanted to do with it. Antine raised both hands in the air and brought them down with a satisfying thud on the button, and this time the door seemed to bend itself inward, even allowing a few small beams of light in around the edges.

Odd, thought Antine. I thought that door opened outward. But he was making progress, which was more than he could have said at any other point during his time in the planar barge. He noticed the sound of metal resisting something, perhaps the internal mechanism of the door, and he suddenly felt confident that one more decent hit of the button would work. The young fox puffed out his chest as far as he could, drew his paws up and, with as much force as he could muster, slammed them down on the button. He turned to look at the door just as it flew off its hinges out into the light of the outside world. Antine was surprised that it flew with enough force that it was torn off its hinges, but success was success, and the fox grinned as he slowly walked over to the open door, finally both ready and able to leave the barge once and for all.

The moment he stepped in front of the open doorway, however, a large muscled arm shot towards him, grabbing the poor startled foxman by the throat. Antine was too surprised to do anything as the mahogany hand squeezed tightly, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him hard into the metallic wall just behind him. Pain shot through Antine’s already sore body, and his vision blurred for a second. Acting on desperate instinct, Antine raised his claws and weakly scratched at the arm. His captor reacted by drawing Antine forward and immediately slamming him back into the wall. Lights seemed to flash in Antine’s eyes as he struggled for breath and garbled a few syllables that were meant to be words. He again clawed weakly at his assailant’s forearm, but with even less force than before. When the arm pulled him out and slammed him a third time, his own arms fell limply at his side, his vision beginning to fail him.

Then, from somewhere beyond the arm, which was now all Antine could see before his vision gave way to haze and darkness, he heard a man’s voice ring out.

“Stop it, Kahr! You’ll kill him.”

Antine heard a vague murmur from somewhere closer and tried to speak, but his voice was still little more than a gurgle against the hand crushing his windpipe. Then, that hand released its grip, and Antine fell to his feet. He would have never stayed standing had it not been for the large man in front of him, who grabbed him by his worn and tattered shirt and shoved him upright. Before the fox could react, that large man scowled and, quicker than Antine had ever seen anyone move, he withdrew two strange looking knives with blades like a crescent moon. With a slight flurry, he whipped the blades around, crossed them in front of Antine’s face, and thrust them forward. The ringing sound they made as they struck the metal wall behind him hurt Antine’s ears. The blades themselves were held so that they wrapped around Antine’s neck, ensuring he couldn’t move without fear of bleeding.

The man holding the blades drew in close, and Antine realized just how large he was, towering over the much shorter foxman by more than a foot. He had long, thick black hair that hung down past his shoulders, but was clean shaven and smooth, though tanned, skinned. He was also heavily muscled everywhere, which his bare chest made exceedingly apparent. Also, while human facial expressions were more difficult for Antine to grasp than those of other foxes, he was convinced that this man’s expression must have been one of abject rage. As he leaned in close to Antine, some of his facial muscles were twitching, as was one of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was deep and menacing.

“Hear me well, demon. With but a single flick of my wrist, I can sever your damnable head from your man-beast body, and well I would relish the moment. I have questions, and you would do well to choose your answers carefully.”

Antine whimpered as two tears streamed down his vulpine cheeks. He had no idea who this man was or what he wanted, but he was fairly convinced that it would be impossible to satisfy either his curiosity or his bloodlust. Life, it seemed, was far beyond unfair. It was bad enough that Mea and Vam had scammed him. It was even worse that his quest for revenge had ended at the wrong end of a pistol shot. It was beyond impossible what had happened when his bed, his room, and all of Jakkard had disappeared around him and he had wound up stuck in this metallic nightmare. It had been exceptionally cruel that he had had to witness the burning destruction of a world, only to be shot down. But now, after surviving everything, to die like this. It was simply too much for Antine.

“That’s no demon, Kahr,” the other voice sounded. Antine tried to shift his gaze to see this other speaker, but the large man holding him there, apparently named Kahr, seemed inclined to keep the fox’s attention.

“What is a demon, my friend, if not a beast that walks like a man?”

“Much more,” the other man insisted. “Whoever this is, he’s a foxfolk.”

“In my youth,” the larger man said, “I hunted foxes in the deep forests of Skavlakur.” Antine gulped at this, but the man continued. “This creature looks nothing like them.”

“I admit his coloring is strange, but I have known enough foxfolk across enough planes to tell you that’s what he is.” The larger man’s expression changed, but Antine had a difficult time placing it. Now more than ever, he missed being around other foxes. “Oh, come on, Kahr! You told me you had Aven on Arbagoth. If you’ve seen birds walk like humans, a fox can’t be too strange.”

Kahr answered without taking his eyes off of Antine. “The damnable birds of Ailanian are perhaps worse than demons themselves. But very well. Foxman, what are you called?”

It took Antine a moment or two to realize that the large man had switched to speaking to him again. He tried to answer, but his voice didn’t seem to work properly, and he only managed a strange exhalation rather than actual words. Kahr’s expression gradually changed again, and this time Antine was able to guess that it expressed annoyance. The big man flexed the muscles in his bronzed arms, and Antine could feel the blades of his curved knives brush closer against his fur. Antine’s eyes widened, having no doubt that Kahr’s earlier threat was in no way an idle one. The young fox tried again and again he failed, his voice simply refusing to appear. Finally, the large man sighed.

“What is your name, fox? I will not ask again!”

Antine’s mouth was trembling now. His eyes stared forward, nearly unblinking, locked on Kahr’s face but not truly seeing it. All he saw was his fate, all he felt was his fear. If he spoke one wrong word, this man was going to kill him, and he had no doubt about that whatsoever. And so, his mind refused to allow him to say anything at all. Rationally, if he could have mustered rational thought, he knew the same fate awaited him from silence, but his throat just refused to work. And so, Antine simply stared and shook, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Finally, Kahr had had enough.

“Very well,” the large man said simply, and seemed to lunge forward.

Antine drew himself up reflexively, catching his breath sharply as his voice finally broke through, scarcely louder than a whisper. “Antine! Antine, Antine.” He managed, then panted several times. “Antine.”

Kahr narrowed his eyes at the foxman, but eased himself backwards and allowed his curved blades to lower, just slightly. “Who do you work for, Antine?”

Antine gulped hard, but he answered much quicker this time than before, though still in a barely audible volume. “The Wasteward Inclusionary Land Collection Offices, in Dayko.”

“Do not lie to me, Fox-fiend!” the man threatened, and Antine immediately tensed.

“I’m sorry!” Antine said immediately. “I guess I quit there, some time ago. I forgot, or, I mean, I didn’t, that is, I just thought, I…I…”

“Enough!” Kahr roared, flexing his arms again. “Who sent you here to attack us?”

“Attack?” Antine managed.

“If you dare deny your attack on my people and my plane, I swear I shall incinerate you from the inside out!”

Antine whimpered, more tears rushing down his face. He had no idea what these men wanted, and he lacked the faculties to ask them. He was beginning to wish the large, angry man would simply kill him and end the torment. “No one sent me,” he finally managed.

Kahr’s eyebrows formed themselves into an almost “V” shape, which was a human expression Antine was largely unfamiliar with, but the deep-throated growl the large man gave told him it was likely bad. “So,” he began, almost barking the word. “You admit that coming to Arbagoth was your idea!”

Antine’s eyes bulged. “No! I swear! I was trapped in this…this thing!” He tried to indicate towards the planar barge all around them, but his limbs barely moved through his fear. “I was trapped up in the sky, then another of these things came and shot this one down.”

“That was us,” the other man said, stepping closer and smiling. A smile was one of those few human expressions Antine knew, and he usually distrusted it. In his experience, it was usually worn by those who were just a little too eager to be trusted. “We were flying the barge that shot yours down.”

Antine’s eyes widened again. They were beginning to hurt him. “You shot me down?”

“Yes,” Kahr said through clenched teeth. “Sadly, it is far too little punishment for the devastation you have visited upon my homeland!”

“Me?” Antine said, trying to back away against the metal wall behind him, but unable to move. “But, if you were in the barge, then it was your attack!”

“You dare!” Kahr managed before he forced himself forward, bringing the curved blades so close that they cut just slightly into Antine’s skin. It hurt, and Antine could feel the small trickle of blood as it danced down the fine hairs of his fur, but his fear kept him from moving and forcing the blades deeper. Strangely, it was the other, shorter man who spoke next, his voice surprisingly calm and soothing.

“Kahr, put him down.”

The large man looked over at his companion, yet another confusing expression flashing across his face. The other man simply closed his eyes and nodded. Kahr looked back at Antine, snorted once through his nose, and then slowly pulled his blades away from the foxman completely. Antine’s body gave out on him then, and he fell to the ground. Almost out of reflex, he pulled his legs in close in his inhuman, foxfolk crouch and brought his paws back behind his head, allowing his forearms to apply gentle pressure to the cuts on his neck. With his snout between his elbows, Antine finally broke down and began sobbing loudly.

The second man moved closer and crouched down next to him. He waited for a few seconds until Antine looked over at him. He expected to see another of their perplexing expressions that he would be unable to read, but instead found none at all. The man was simply looking at him and waiting. Antine sniffled a few times and tried his best to return the blank look. Finally, the man nodded.

“Antine,” he said, his voice soft, and almost questioning. “I’m Lukas. Lukas Harran.” He glanced up at Kahr, but only for a moment. “I know you’re scared, Antine. I have been many, many places, and I have seen…” he paused, shaking his head slightly. “…too many things. I know a great deal about fear, and guilt, and the darkest facets of the soul. I don’t pretend to know what kind of path you are on, Antine, but I can tell you where it will end…” He again glanced up at Kahr. “…if you refuse to help us.”

Antine lowered his head as low as he could, hiding his eyes from Lukas as he did. The fox didn’t say a word, but he nodded to show the man that he understood the situation. He could hear Lukas nod back before the man continued speaking.

“Good. Now Antine, if you didn’t order the attack on Arbagoth, who did?”

Antine sniffled deeply and spoke, his words almost completely muffled by his chest and his arms. “The metal men.”

He could feel Lukas staring at him, and finally he raised his head and turned it toward the interior of the ship, where a few pieces of his former, unknowing captors were lying on the ground. “The metal men,” he repeated.

Lukas Harran glanced briefly where Antine was indicating, and then looked back, catching Antine’s gaze as he did. “They were on the barge we commandeered, as well,” Lukas admitted, cocking his head to the side. “But they only carried out the attack. We need to know who ordered it. I have no doubt it was a living, breathing thing, not these constructs. And so far, Antine, the only living, breathing thing we’ve found is you.”

Kahr took a step closer to the fox, which caused Antine to scramble a bit and drop his arms to the floor, but he managed to keep himself from panicking into a run that could have only ended one way. Lukas leaned slightly to once again recapture the young fox’s attention.

“Antine, we need to know who did this,” Lukas said simply. “Was there anyone else who could have? Anyone that you’ve seen?”

Antine shook his head, just slightly at first, and then more vigorously. “No, I swear, all I’ve seen are those horrible, metal men! There’s been no one else! No one except…” the memory snapped back to him immediately. “Except that man!”

This obviously caught Kahr’s attention. “Man? What man?”

Antine slowly looked upward at the large man. He more breathed his response than spoke it. “The man with no body!”

Kahr and Lukas shared a long look between them, but their expressions were unreadable to him. There was a long moment of silence before Kahr spoke, clearly to Lukas and not to Antine. “Is he insane, Lukas?”

“Possibly,” Lukas admitted, then looked back at the young fox, studying him for a few long moments. “But I don’t think so. Confused maybe. Certainly frightened. Antine, where did you see this ‘man with no body’?”

“Above the mirrored table,” he said, suddenly afraid that he had, in fact, gone insane. It would certainly have explained a lot about the past few days.

“Insane,” Kahr repeated, as if confirming it.

But Lukas seemed to be thinking, stroking his chin thoughtfully as Antine had seem some human negotiators do in Dayko. “I don’t think so, Kahr,” he said, then rose out of his crouch to stand at full height. “Kahr, you remember that projection of the globe of Arbagoth in the barge, don’t you? It must be able to project other images, as well.” He shifted his attention back to the foxman. “Antine, how did you get on this barge?”

“I swear I don’t know!” Antine said in broken desperation. “All I know is that one minute I was lying in a bed in the Jakkard, and then the world seemed to vanish or melt away or go crazy, and then I was in this big arena thing and all these metal structures were around me, and then I panicked and ran in here! The door closed, and I was trapped! I swear, it’s true!”

Again, Lukas and Kahr looked at each other, meaningfully. They knew perfectly well what he meant, better even than he did. Lukas looked down at Antine and sighed. “Antine, are you a planeswalker?”

Antine had no idea what that meant. He remembered the vast expanse of the Wastes, which were about the closest thing he could think of. “A plains walker? No, I rode on catback.”

“You…” Lukas began, then stopped. “What?”

“I rode catback across the Wastes,” he answered. “Plains,” he added quickly, holding his paws up, “if you prefer.”

Both of the humans sighed. Lukas shook his head. “What plane are you from?”

“I’m not from the plains,” Antine said. “I was born in Verkell.”

“This is getting us nowhere, my friend,” Kahr said to Lukas. “I believe you that he is innocent. But that places us no closer to our destination than we were, and we are losing time. We have other barges to destroy.”

“We can’t just leave him, Kahr,” Lukas insisted. “He doesn’t even know what he is. Remember, it was not so long ago that you were as confused as he is. Would you have wanted me to leave you in your ignorance?”

Kahr looked down at the huddled fox and sighed heavily. “No, my friend. I would not. Very well. We should take him with us.”

Again, Antine whimpered, but Lukas Harran again crouched down, this time directly in front of him. His eyebrows were raised slightly in the middle of his forehead, and his lips were pursed tight, but Antine had no idea what that expression meant. When the human spoke, his voice was soft and slow.

“Antine, I’m sorry we attacked you. We thought you were the cause of the attack on Arbagoth. Now it’s clear that you weren’t, and so Kahr and I are no threat to you.” Antine met the man’s gaze at these words. “Do you understand, Antine? I promise that we won’t hurt you.”

Antine stared for a long moment, his fear refusing to completely give way to the gratitude he felt at hearing that promise. Finally, the young fox simply nodded his understanding, and Lukas continued.

“We will not force you, of course, but I think it would be wise if you came with us. I can explain what’s happened to you, but there is simply no time to do so now. Kahr and I have to get going. We have to find this ‘man with no body’ you described. I know you probably don’t want anything more to do with this mess. I can’t blame you. But if you come with us, I’ll do my best to explain what you are and what’s happened to you. What do you say?”

Antine sniffled as he tried to think. On one side of the coin, Lukas was absolutely right that Antine just wanted to be done with all of this. Also, while Lukas seemed to be genuine, Kahr frightened the foxman more than any man he had ever met. The closest Antine had ever come to death before the past few days had been when Vam had shot him, but even that seemed little more than a scratch compared to how close he had come to dying at Kahr’s hands. But on the other side of that coin was the hope of learning what was happening with him. If Lukas was telling the truth, and he could tell Antine what happened to him in that bed in the Jakkard, perhaps it was worth the risk. And besides, if Lukas or Kahr wanted him dead, he’d be dead. It was that simple. After several long moments, Antine nodded slowly.

“I’ll go with you,” he said softly.

Lukas smiled and nodded sharply. “Good. Now let’s go see about this bodiless man of yours.”

“Lukas,” Antine said sheepishly, “do you really think we can stop him before…”

Antine stopped sharply in mid-sentence as the memory of the metal man’s grating words crashed back in on him. He froze, his eyes unblinking and locked on a spot out in space directly in front of him. Lukas’s brow furrowed, waiting for Antine to continue. When he didn’t, Lukas spoke, concern echoed in his voice.

“Antine, what’s wrong?”

Suddenly, abruptly, Antine’s head snapped sideways to lock eyes with Lukas. “The second volley!”

This caught Kahr’s attention immediately. “Second volley? What second volley?”

Antine looked up at the frightening man. “Just after the attack! I heard the metal men say they were preparing for a second volley!”

Kahr and Lukas looked at one another again as Lukas rose to his feet. The smaller of the two humans glanced down at Antine, and then back to his friend. “If that’s true, Kahr, we need to hurry. We can’t let that happen again.”

“No,” Kahr agreed, “even the greatest of Skavlakur’s enemies do not deserve such a fate.” He looked down at Antine then and forced a tiny smile. He held out his massive hand down toward him, offering it in aid. “Come, Fox. We must be going.”

Tentatively, Antine reached out a paw toward the very hand that had so recently been strangling the life out of him. After a short hesitation, Antine decided that his path was already chosen, and grabbed the large man’s hand. Immediately, Kahr hauled the young fox to his feet, supporting his weight for him as he struggled to regain his legs. Kahr smiled widely now as he looked down at the Fox. He moved to stand beside Antine and slapped him roughly on the back, which Antine assumed was meant to be friendly.

“Come, my new fox-friend. We have much to do.”

Antine nodded, and took a few short steps forward toward the door. It was a long time coming, but the young fox was finally ready to step beyond that door and escape the planar barge which had served as his prison for far too long. He paused briefly at the threshold, taking one last deep breath before finally ending this dark chapter of his young life. So much had happened to him and around him, but finally he had hope. Finally, he had people who, if they could be believed, wanted to help him rather than murder him. Finally, he didn’t have to feel trapped anymore.

Sadly, just as Antine was about to take that last step out into the vast openness of the world beyond the barge, he heard a blood-curdling roar that shook him to the very core of his soul. He had heard that roar before, years ago, when he was just a little kit trapped in the thicket of a Verkell zoo. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Antine raised his head and saw his worst fears confirmed. Standing just outside the door to the barge, he saw it, the massive frame, the protruding spikes, the huge, gaping mouth lined with impossibly huge, unthinkably deadly teeth. Antine did not know what he was, or how he had gotten here, or what was going on, but he knew a baloth when he saw one.

And one was staring at him right now.