VANCE MOORE                      VANCE MOORE

                       "ODYSSEY"

      

      (Magic: the Gathering. Odyssey cycle. Book I.)

 

 

    The detonation rocked Kamahl back. The light was bright 

enough that he could see through his eyelids as the edge of the 

energy brushed him. The crowd was stunned into silence. The magic 

ignited the spore cloud and the explosion sped back to the mole, 

devouring it as the molds detonated in sympathy with Kamahl's 

attack. The dementia caster rolled on the ground, unable to 

stand. She had been flung back several yards, and the sand 

stripped most of her clothes off as well as much of her skin. Her 

teeth bared and bloody, she stood, gathering herself to summon 

more monstrosities.

    

                       CHAPTER 1

 

    The sun lay sullen to the west. Hovering on the horizon, its 

rays cast the hills in shadows. The pits lay ahead. Finally he 

was drawing near after months of travel. Kamahl looked at the 

heart of the games and saw only a gaping hole of darkness. The 

twilight prevented him from seeing the city that lay in the 

hollow. Even as he watched, torches were lit, the dull red light 

illuminating the site of Kamahl's future triumphs. From mountain 

obscurity he traveled toward his destiny.

    Cabal City was the largest in the continent's interior, but 

only a few signs of its size were visible from Kamahl's vantage 

point. He could see just the roofs of a few buildings and the 

residential quarters' laundry hanging in the still air. The city 

was held in a huge rocky crater, its sides uneven but highest on 

the western outskirts. The glow of torches and the streetlights 

near the great dome of the arena began to color the walls of the 

buildings as Kamahl moved closer. The flare of both ordinary fire 

and magic lit the streets, but the dark shadow cast by the crater 

walls shrouded most of the city in darkness.

    The barbarian started down the shallow incline at a slow run. 

He breathed easily, even with the armor in his pack and the great 

sword strapped to his back. Skin the color of brass showed no 

flush of exertion. His smooth beardless features were calm. No 

sweat dampened his inky hair, and his violet eyes were clear. 

Living in the mountains had given him good night vision, and he 

looked through the increasingly dim light to the town's gate. The 

road began to rise, and he breathed harder as he neared the city 

limits. The crater walls were notched, and the entrance reminded 

the barbarian of a pass through mountains, though far smaller in 

scale than the peaks of his childhood home. Drovers hurried a 

string of camels into the city, their whips snapping as they 

moved the animals through the high gate. Merchants from across 

the continent come to satisfy the tourney crowds, the warrior 

thought.

    Kamahl breathed deeply, the prospect of the games exciting 

his blood more than the run. Years mastering the fighting arts 

lay behind him, and now he rushed to show his skills before the 

wider world. Veteran of many a duel in his home mountains, he 

wanted more than the championship of an alpine valley. The best 

fighters on the continent converged on this tourney, and he 

belonged here.

    His stride lengthened as he left the hills, his boots 

pounding into the road's surface. The guards waved the merchants 

through, uttering only a few threats to increase the bribes 

offered. They turned their attention on the jogging figure. His 

light throwing axes softly rubbed against Kamahl's wallet. He had 

run for days approaching the contest and lost what little fat he 

might have had. The strict regime of exercise had refined him 

down to his essence. He pulled up to the gate without any sign of 

exertion except his deep breaths.

    "Another jack," muttered a guard as he took a firmer hold of 

his halberd and moved out from the gate, Kamahl frowned, for the 

soldier used the term for an arena fighter as if it were an 

insult. He was a champion, and only the obvious inferiority of 

the speaker prevented a demand for satisfaction. The man looked 

nervously at a stack of orders. The rest of the troops had 

withdrawn inside to the guardhouse. Two stout men-at-arms slowly 

lugged a crossbeam to brace the gate when it closed for the 

night. The road lead directly into town with only a portcullis to 

bar the way. The wall was only twelve feet high and the guards 

served more to collect tolls than defend the city.

    "Why have you come to the pits of the Cabal?" intoned a guard 

who drew away from the gate as if to duck behind the wall.

    "I have come into my own," Kamahl said absently, looking to 

the city beyond. The guard was confused and unconsciously gave 

way as the massive barbarian came closer. The fighter drew his 

attention to the minor servant before him. "I will compete in the 

tourney. Where would I find the Master of the Games?"

    The guard blinked at the bald statement but regarding the 

warrior seemed uncertain how to respond. Shouting broke out on 

the road behind him, and he turned from the barbarian to the 

commotion. There were several wagons backed up the causeway 

leading down to the pit. Kamahl could see soldiers gathered in a 

clump in front of the waiting vehicles.

    "As you can see, the road is backed up due to a wreck." The 

guard said, drawing a little confidence from the sight of his 

fellows so far away. "The elevator cable snapped and killed a 

mule." Kamahl just strode forward, ignoring the guard's 

outstretched arm.

    "No profit from crazy men anyway," the soldier muttered as he 

stepped away from the barbarian.

    The road's decline prevented horses hauling fully loaded 

wagons into the city. An elevator dropped cargo from the staging 

area just inside the guardhouse to the bottom of the depression. 

Once relieved of their loads, merchants could then safely take 

the horses down the slope. Traffic headed into the city rode the 

brakes all the way to the flat at the bottom, using the animals 

just to steer. The elevator had just broken, however, and the 

snapped cable had beheaded a mule, overturning a wagon and 

blocking the causeway.

    Kamahl drew a dagger, holding its blade against his arm. He 

used the hilt to prod people out of the way, ignoring angry 

words. The decapitated beast lay tangled in its traces, its blood 

pouring down the steep roadway. Kamahl gathered a whisper of 

power and wrapped it around the dagger's blade. He shoved aside 

the owner and guardsmen and skimmed his blade along the beast's 

side with a single stroke. Harness leather and chains parted like 

air before the blade, singing as tension released. Kamahl shoved 

the corpse hard with his boot. The barbarian's physical power 

became plain to the angry guardsmen. The donkey shot down the 

ramp lubricated by its own blood. The animal hit the railing, 

wood coming apart in a spray of rotten timbers. The remains of 

the beast and fence fell to the ground below with a heavy thud. 

Kamahl withdrew power from the blade and continued down the road, 

walking just along the bloodied skidway.

    "The Cabal pit masters bought that carcass!" bellowed 

someone. Kamahl's ears picked up the conversation even as he 

continued away.

    "Leave it alone," he heard someone else hiss. "Jacks are all 

crazy; just consider the meat tenderized."

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Fighters from throughout the continent moved in the streets. 

Kamahl saw races of all descriptions-faerie, human, dwarf, 

centaur, and others that he could not name. They came to the pits 

to compete for their own glory and the prizes offered. Everywhere 

in the land the contest between warriors played out every day, 

but it was in the pits that jacks of known mettle found opponents 

worth the sweat of battle. Kamahl came for worthy adversaries and 

to prove his mastery. Most of his opponents were there for more.

    The Cabal had opened up its vaults to supply the prizes. 

Booty from centuries of collecting and a thousand battlefields 

was available. Sages and historians were nearly as prevalent as 

fighters in the city. All converged to see the treasures drawn 

from the rock deep below the pits. With the fighters and the 

learned men, an influx of gamblers and enthusiasts filled the 

avenues. Moving among the throngs worked pickpockets, whores, and 

sellers of the forbidden. The barbarian sauntered over the 

cobblestones, seeing unfamiliar sights. Tents stood with ragged 

and dirty men calling for custom. Though from the sparsely 

settled mountains, Kamahl was completely civilized in his 

cynicism. False wonders filled the streets as the hopeful went 

from stall to stall, determined to find the lucky prize that 

surely must be hidden in all the chaff.

    Torches flared and some burned brightly with magic enhanced 

lights. Kamahl took a second to feel the warmth of the energy 

with his mystic senses. Stretching forth his mind and spirit he 

felt the beat of power and dissonance as contesting magics 

fractured against each other. It could only be the pits that 

called to him, and he hurried through the collected throngs to 

take his place.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    The crowd roared its approval as two men moved into the 

arena, the masses calling encouragement. Kamahl had bought 

entrance with a small nugget of gold from a mountain stream. He 

imagined the Master of the Games would be in the arena, and the 

barbarian was determined to find him. The building was huge, 

seating thousands. The walls leaned inward overhead, evoking the 

feeling of an underground cavern. Huge torches flared 

continuously behind reflectors, directing the magic light onto 

the floor of the stadium. Red and black sand covered the circular 

fighting area. Inside the wide ring were obstacles and a few 

obvious trap doors. Despite himself, Kamahl was impressed. For 

the first time he was in a building that made him feel closed in 

even though it was several spear-casts across.

    The two men on the sand moved together, and Kamahl shook his 

head. The opponents were hesitant, and the barbarian wondered how 

any could find such a match interesting. A young man standing 

close by noticed Kamahl's mild contempt and spoke.

    "Do not give up hope just yet, sir," he said, shuffling near.

    His clothing was dark and loose, the tailoring and richness 

of the fabric suggesting a person of means, yet he was young and 

had no attendants. Kamahl thought him likely to be a lord's 

servant though he saw no obvious crest or standard to announce 

his affiliation.

    "The name is Chainer," the man said, moving closer. The pair 

are partners against Lieutenant Kirtar, a champion from the 

Northern Order."

    "Kamahl," the barbarian said, glancing briefly at the youth 

and then to the stands, "here to win the tourney. Where do I 

announce myself?"

    Chainer's eyebrows raised slightly at the boast, and he 

smiled. Kamahl turned more of his attention to the young man.

    The youth still had a trace of innocence in his face, but 

already the fighter could see some of the hardness and cynicism 

that characterized city toughs. The boy's hair was in tight corn-

rolls that grew down over his eyes. His only visible weapon was a 

large, ornamental dagger that he wore at his side. As Kamahl 

considered him, Chainer's fingertips lightly brushed the hilt in 

an apparently unconscious gesture.

    "You'll want to speak to the Master of the Games then," 

Chainer said. He pointed across the enclosure to the box seats 

across the arena. "There's the master now, talking to the Mer 

ambassador."

    The other side of the building held a host of individual 

boxes, most of which were empty now, these being only the early 

elimination rounds. Kamahl could see separate floating pods 

hovering over the boxes, clustered around doors and a narrow 

platform high on the arena wall.

    "Those are only used by high officials and wealthy patrons of 

the games." Chainer said as he followed Kamahl's eyes. "Usually 

the Master of the Games oversees from there, but with so much 

work still to be done, he is holding court where messengers can 

easily be received and sent."

    At the mention of a court, Kamahl turned his eyes down and 

looked at the official's box. There sat the arena's ruler, rotund 

and covered in drapes of expensive looking cloth. However, it was 

his companions that fixed the barbarian's attention. Two figures 

stood out against the backdrop of aides, guards, and servants. 

Kamahl's teeth clenched as he considered the Mer seated at the 

right hand of the Cabal official.

    The ambassador looked remarkably human. Kamahl could see two 

small silver-capped horns against the blue skin. The different 

skin tone was barely worth mentioning. The barbarian had learned 

something of the greater world during his years in the mountains. 

Those born of and allied with the sea were well known for their 

monstrous and bizarre appearance. The only oddity except for the 

blue skin was the ambassador's clothes. The wraps of cloth lay 

plastered against his azure flesh. While Kamahl looked on, a 

servant slowly poured liquid over the limbs of his master. The 

ambassador absently presented a leg for additional treatment, 

never turning from his conversation.

    The massive figure off to the side fitted KamahPs idea of 

what a Mer citizen should look like. A sideboard piled high with 

food lay open to the box patrons, but only one person took 

advantage. The barbarian could think of two reasons for the 

single eater.

    First was the dangerous look of the diner. Kamahl was 

reminded of a giant frog. The hulking figure would have 

overtopped the barbarian by at least a foot, but until Kamahl 

compared him with the other patrons of the box, he thought the 

frog quite short. The amphibian was a mass of muscle, so wide 

that the mind made the creature shorter than it was. The 

creature's brilliant blue and yellow skin was dotted with short 

growths that reminded the barbarian of spikes on a mace. The 

mouth gaped wide as the frog swallowed an entire leg of lamb with 

a single gulp.

    The second reason that others might forego the repast was the 

thick slime dripping from the frog creature's webbed hands. The 

excretions covered the food as the amphibian grabbed up more to 

eat.

    "The ambassador's champion, Turg," Chainer offered, a hint of 

distaste in his voice. "He competes for the prizes and the 

ambassador's glory. It is said his race is one of complete 

savagery. The frog is a testament to the money and time the 

ambassador has spent training him."

    Kamahl looked to the arena floor where the two novices 

shifted uncertainly. If such as these can compete, he thought, 

then I should have no trouble. The city man saw his look of 

dismissal.

    "They may not look like much, but those willing to risk 

certain death are sometimes in short supply." He pointed toward 

the posted standards and gates. "Whether or not quarter may be 

offered is posted by where the standards hang and which gates the 

opponents use. Kirtar always passes through the gate of no 

quarter. The Master of the Games must be flexible in scheduling 

opponents for the lieutenant in the opening bouts. Experienced 

fighters are usually closer to the final round before they chose 

death matches. The arena also tries to save death matches for the 

final days of competition lest a capable fighter be killed off 

too early. You could find a death match easy enough, but to be 

considered a serious competitor you must be known or impress the 

officials with your power."

    The growing murmurs of the restive crowd drew Kamahl's and 

Chainer's attentions back to the arena floor. The team of 

mountain mages was looking more confident now as cries of 

"forfeit" began to rise from the stands. Their opponent still had 

not appeared, and Chainer snorted in disgust at the lack of a 

champion to oppose the pair. The chants stopped as a near naked 

figure moved onto the field.

    "He shows his contempt for the games," Chainer muttered as 

catcalls rose from the stands. "Trust a member of the Order to 

belittle the honor of the tourney."

    Kamahl was no worshipper of pageantry, so Kirtar's failure to 

obey the forms did not upset him, but the arrogance that the 

figure showed as he walked nonchalantly toward the opposing pair 

put his teeth on edge. An aspirant to the victory circle, Kamahl 

ached to show Kirtar that he should show respect for the other 

fighters if not the venue. As the barbarian took in the warrior's 

pale skin, he became more irritated. Kirtar was a bird warrior.

    Centuries before, a race of three peoples had fled from other 

planes to Dominaria. All were descended from ancestors who could 

fly, though most had lost their wings. The furthest from their 

winged forebears were the elen. These giant humanoids stood nine 

to ten feet tall with massive legs of near solid bone. Slow and 

ponderous, they provided the muscle for the society, though in 

war they served only as massed troops with little status.

    The raypen lay at the other end of the size spectrum. Dwarf-

sized creatures with withered legs ending in prehensile feet, 

they could still fly with their innate magic. Magical feathers 

covered their long distorted arms giving them, for short periods 

of time, the freedom their ancestors had known.

    Kirtar's milky skin and massive hands identified him as aven. 

The warrior caste of a militant people, they had joined the 

Northern Order en masse. Though not prolific, they rose to many 

positions of power in the north and many a party riding into the 

western mountains was led by bird warriors. Mountain societies 

respected strength, but that respect must be individually earned 

and honor conferred on the basis of personal achievement. The 

Order advocated the submission of all to the movement's leaders. 

Kamahl- by birth, training, and inclination-bowed only to those 

more powerful. His whole life was dedicated to proving that, now 

in his prime, no one could order him about with impunity. To give 

up your will to others, all of whom lacked the power to beat you 

or claim your respect with their own deeds, grated. Kamahl 

regarded the bird warrior narrowly as his possible opponent in 

the tourney walked into battle.

    The two mountain mages attacked simultaneously. They 

separated in a fast shuffle, their movements slowed as they 

called upon their magic. Neophytes, thought Kamahl.

    The one on the left appeared to be a shaman. Furs and small 

amulets fluttered as he scuttled to one side. The boy's dark skin 

contrasted with his blond hair. The spell that followed was slow 

to form. Eventually it congealed into reality as the universe 

created a creature in response to the youth's wishes. With a 

roar, a slavering troll stalked toward the bird warrior.

    The emaciated monster approached warily, showing a degree of 

cunning unusual in the breed. The head darted from side to side, 

pausing to take in great gulps of air. Seemingly satisfied that 

nothing threatened, it jumped at Kirtar. Kamahl realized the bird 

warrior had not even bothered to raise power until the monster 

actually leaped. Golden energy erupted from his skin, coating his 

head and upper torso. It solidified into armor even as the mouth 

of the troll opened wide, the teeth and jaws of the monster 

seeming to leap out of the massive mouth. The beast stooped down 

to devour the warrior, but the bird warrior's armor did not give 

at all. Vainly its jaws clenched, and its claws scratched. Like a 

dog worrying at a pole, the beast tried to throw Kirtar to the 

side or gnaw through.

    Now the other young caster entered the fray. Clad in 

piecemeal armor, he was shorter than his companion. As if he were 

his partner's negative, his dark hair contrasted with his pale 

skin. Spiral tattoos traced out magic sigils on his face and 

upper arms. He gripped a war hammer with both hands, but he did 

not use it to assail the bird warrior. Rather, he directed his 

summoned minions, who entered existence at a run. Dwarf warriors 

charged Kirtar and the troll.

    Pick-axes and hammers rose and then fell. Kirtar rolled to 

the side; one blow driving through the armor that now encased the 

warrior's lower legs. The troll howled in delight at the fresh 

blood, and Kamahl believed the aven would pay the ultimate price 

for his arrogance. The bird warrior did not freeze, and he 

reinforced the power of the magic encasing his limbs. Then the 

lieutenant struck with his bare hands.

    The huge fists were encased in energy, and Kamahl could hear 

the troll's jaws being pulverized. Teeth sprayed across the 

ground, digging furrows as they buried themselves. The beast 

screamed with pain, striking out blindly and falling upon a 

dwarf. The diminutive warrior's sturdy metal armor proved unequal 

to troll claws. Chunks of flesh and blood fell to the sand as the 

dwarf was eviscerated. The audience booed loudly as the shaman 

tried to redirect his beast.

    "The pair has lost the crowd," Chainer said, shaking his head 

sadly. "For allied creatures to fall upon each other is an 

unforgivable amateur mistake."

    Kirtar was on his feet, weaving from side to side as the rest 

of the dwarf troop tried to take advantage of his reduced 

mobility. At first, his movements seemed forced, almost stumbling 

as he retreated. Kamahl watched as the bird warrior grew 

stronger. The barbarian realized that what wounds the lieutenant 

received healed even as he fought. The aven's opponents could 

heal too, and the troll stood up, gore from his mistaken victim 

covering its face and chest, the dwarf's blood mingling with the 

flow of foulness from the beast's own wound. The wound diminished 

as the troll reentered the fray. The deformed jaws moved back 

into position, and Kamahl could see new teeth glinting in the 

torchlight.

    Kirtar attacked the surrounding dwarves, killing and maiming 

as the troll reached for him. The lieutenant's fists were swollen 

balloons of power as golden energy armored the bird warrior's 

flesh. Heads collapsed under the aven's blows. Shields and 

weapons shattered as the dwarves struggled to bring the bird 

warrior down. Kirtar leaped, whether flying or merely by enhanced 

muscles, Kamahl did not know. He soared through the air toward 

the dark-haired mountain mage. Kirtar's bent legs absorbed much 

of the energy of the landing, but the armored youth still fell-a 

bag of broken bones. The barbarian thought the mage might survive 

with proper care, then Kirtar batted the man's head with a slap. 

The new corpse was not decapitated, but the mage's head lolled 

off one shoulder, leaving no doubt of the man's death.

    The troll ran at Kirtar, a high cry of bestial rage sounding 

as the few remaining dwarves vanished at the death of their 

master. The shaman coaxed fire from the air, and a few small 

balls of flame hurtled toward the bird warrior. Most of the spell 

wasted itself upon the open ground of the arena. The aroma of 

cooking meat carried everywhere as the fallen mountain mage was 

devoured by the ill-aimed magic. Burning flesh and charred 

leather fought with the odors of the food vendors making their 

rounds of the stands.

    A flock of birds soared from the lieutenant's hands. The 

small castings were brilliant, and Kamahl forced himself to look 

at them directly. Slightly translucent they rose up into the air, 

drawing near the upper booths. Patrons fell silent as the small 

energy spirits turned. The flock dived toward the floor of the 

arena, converging on everything still alive. Like ghosts, they 

slipped into bodies as all stood still. Bursts of light shone 

forth from eyes and open mouths. The troll's rays cast a giant 

shadow of the bird warrior against the far wall of the arena. The 

last mountain mage was a fallen star, shafts of light erupting 

from his skin. All except Kirtar collapsed. There was a moment of 

silence, and then thunderous applause filled the arena.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    "So you think you can compete in the games, do you, my boy?" 

the Master of the Games said.

    Kamahl restrained his irritation with difficulty. The man was 

fat and festooned in bolts of garish cloth, like some monstrous 

jester taking his ease at a party instead of entertaining. All of 

the Cabal members that he had seen were subdued in color and 

outward demeanor, but the Master of the Games showed a 

flamboyance of color and style that assaulted the barbarian's 

eyes.

    "You might be powerful enough to compete in the games, but 

you will have to satisfy me." The official stood with some 

difficulty and walked toward a room off to the side of the box.

    Guards drew themselves to attention only to be patted 

familiarly by the figure strolling by. Kamahl followed, flanked 

by another set of guards. Kamahl appeared weaponless. His great 

sword and axes lay in the entry chamber "as a matter of 

security." Only his mild amusement at the guards thinking him 

disarmed prevented him from laying waste to the Cabal's servants. 

His amusement was passing, and the effrontery of the official 

made him rethink his participation in the tourney. To allow 

someone of such low character to stand in judgement of him was 

nigh unbearable. Kamahl came for the glory of combat against 

equals. How equal could his opponents be if one such as the 

official controlled their entry into the games? Kamahl became 

more and more convinced that he would withdraw beyond the city 

and challenge the winner of the tourney, that is if the barbarian 

did not return to the distant mountains instead.

    "Only one who is worthy should have a chance at these," the 

master said, slightly out of breath as he moved to the side of 

the doorway and gestured over the trove of treasures.

    Kamahl heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart for 

several seconds. A mound of gold, a few jewels, and numerous 

artifacts filled the center of the room. Mechanical limbs of 

ancient war machines lay next to charred books. Open scrolls 

showed letters that the educated barbarian could not even 

identify much less read. Leaking bags of coin lay against a 

massive breastplate worn by some forgotten giant. The room 

contained wealth, history, and shards of power from past wars, 

but it was a dull metal orb that locked Kamahl's gaze. It lay 

partially concealed by a fine sword blade, which Kamahl ached to 

throw away that he might better see this treasure. The rest of 

the room was filled with dross to the warrior's mind. The orb 

appeared to be no larger than his fist, yet he was mesmerized by 

it. His interest grew greater as he thought it responded to him. 

The light reflected by it seemed to grow brighter. The metal 

surface hinted at restrained power rather than the dull glint of 

common metal. Kamahl's line of sight was broken as the Master of 

the Games entered his field of vision.

    "Speechless, eh." The fat man chuckled. "A shy barbarian. An 

uncommon sight, but one which is still not special enough to have 

in the ranks of the tourney."

    Kamahl's jaws ached as he restrained himself. This corpulent 

fool was nothing, but now Kamahl burned to enter and win. The 

metal sphere called to him still. The barbarian thought briefly 

of just taking the item, but he was a warrior, not a common 

thief. The official drew breath for another taunt, but Kamahl had 

heard enough. His hand dipped into his pouch at his belt. He 

could feel the guards drawing closer. Chainer, who had stayed far 

back during the entire conversation, came forward. Out of the 

corner of his eye he could see the young man's concerned face 

drawing nearer, perhaps to defuse the situation.

    Kamahl drew out a single copper coin, worn thin with age and 

clipped by the truly desperate. The official's already florid 

face grew darker at the perceived insult of the pitiful bribe, 

but the barbarian had no intention of trying to buy his way into 

the tournament with any currency other than his own power. 

Kamahl's muscles relaxed as he channeled force to his hand. The 

copper brightened as the patina of age and wear sloughed away 

from the metal. The coin grew brighter as the guards moved in, 

their spear points poised to open up Kamahl's back. Like a 

tourist casting into a wishing well, the barbarian tossed the 

copper over his shoulder. The stone wall proved no barrier. Like 

a hot knife through butter, the red-hot coin melted its way 

through. Shouts of surprise sounded as it exited through the box 

wall as well. The sound of the cooling slug hitting the arena 

floor was lost in the confusion of the guards and the white face 

of the Master of the Games. Looking at the deflated official, the 

barbarian knew he would have no problems entering the tourney.

 

                       CHAPTER 2

 

    "I assure you, my lord, that no such displays of arrogance 

would be permitted in the palaces of the emperor. Such a boor 

would be summarily executed, especially one who lacked a suitable 

patron." The merman tried to sound sympathetic and outraged, but 

it was hard to feel much empathy for the fool who sat in front of 

him. The Master of the Games came to the fete in high dudgeon and 

had released a spew of bile, detailing the attack on his honor 

and dignity. Ambassador Laquatus thought such a pig had no 

dignity. Moreover, a man of true power either acted or waited to 

act. The pointless railing grated on the ambassador's nerves.

    The merman might be mistaken for human with the exception of 

his coloring and the small horns that lay half hidden by his 

hair. Of course, under the sea, his ancestry was much more 

obvious. At a mental command, his legs transmuted to a great 

fish's tail. The long couches he favored recalled the decadence 

of lost civilizations but also allowed him to recline when 

transformed. Long gilded nail extensions flashed in the subdued 

light as he spoke and gestured.

    "I assure you, Laquatus, that your sympathy and hospitality 

at the end of this difficult day will not be forgotten." The 

Cabal official almost gushed as he relaxed and turned to consider 

the temporary court that the ambassador had established. The 

merman offered only a nod before looking back upon the revel 

before him.

    The embassy to the Cabal had procured a house that butted up 

against the bluffs surrounding the city. A huge cavern had been 

dug out and expanded. In the middle of the excavation, a huge 

pool was filled with salt water and sea plants carefully 

transplanted. The ambassador could feel the waves of energy that 

moved through the water, warming it and sending gouts of mist 

into the air.

    The life in the pool relied on constant infusions of power 

from the ambassador's mages to live and even flourish. Brilliant 

coral and anemones lay in the waist deep water, their color and 

motion suggesting beds of flowers. The soporific compounds they 

released acted as invisible poisons to the minds of those not 

rendered immune, yet the revelers in the pool showed no signs of 

ill health.

    The large lagoon was full. Competitors moved in the water, 

dangerous but temporarily safe to all. Like carnivores after a 

full meal, they appeared logy. One fighter saluted his host as 

Laquatus's gazes swept over him. Burly and covered with scars, he 

waved a prosthetic arm in greeting. The metal arm ended in 

serrated pincers that rasped together softly as the athlete 

picked another goblet from the circling waiters. His companion 

for the evening only cooed appreciatively as the arm gathered her 

in. For the amount of money the ambassador paid for the escorts, 

he expected nothing less.

    The mechanical limb of the fighter was nothing unusual. 

Laquatus could see many other examples of grafted limbs and skin. 

Pit fighting was dangerous, and those lucky and powerful enough 

to survive often left the floor of the arena with less than they 

entered. Mechanical parts salvaged from ancient war machines were 

used along with limbs and hide from exotic beast and fallen 

warriors.

    A few Cabal sponsored fighters circulated as well. Laquatus 

curbed his pout of distaste. Many of the local champions sported 

limbs from zombies and the dead. The rotting stench was almost 

completely covered by the perfumes filling the air, but nothing 

could curb the disgust many of the guests showed. The Cabal 

fighters relied on a steady supply of shattered bodies and 

dismembered fighters to supply them with new parts as the ones 

they reclaimed eventually failed.

    The pit frog Turg lurked in the shadows, crouched behind a 

miniature reef with only his bulbous eyes showing above the 

water. The ambassador's champion had stuffed himself to the point 

of immobility, and Laquatus cursed his personal failure to curb 

the creature's insane appetite. It was so easy to be lost in 

Turg's simple pleasures of the flesh. The official noticed 

Laquatus's lack of attention and cleared his throat loudly.

    The merman's manners and style automatically equated him with 

the nobility in the eyes of his guests. His background in fact 

was not distinguished, and the human good looks were a strike 

against him in the Mer kingdom. The emperor and the empress 

resembled the octopus on their house flag. Their malleable bodies 

and eight limbs were the standard for the court, and he was far 

from the current definition of beauty. He was banished to the 

land like a malformed child hidden from sight. He felt the 

injustice of his exile and contempt for the land-locked with 

which he must interact.

    Laquatus speared a small fish that swam past. His long finger 

extensions were often filled with poison at the undersea court, 

and it amused him to use such deadly devices for harpooning 

snacks. The small blood slick lightened his mood, and he regarded 

the boor next to him.

    "How terrible you say," Laquatus drawled. "The barbarian 

destroyed the wall of the vault."

    He had of course already received a full report from his 

spies. Kamahl's casual display hinted that another powerful 

champion had entered the contest. Perhaps new alliances were in 

order.

    "I am terribly sorry, but I do see Caster Fulla over in the 

corner alone." He interrupted the official who had continued to 

drone on like an inconsequential insect. "I would be a poor host 

indeed if I did not look after all my guests. Why don't you join 

me in extending greetings?"

    "No, no," the official said hurriedly, rising and moving away 

quickly enough to leave a wake of disturbed water. "I have things 

that must be done," he tossed over his shoulder.

    Laquatus was not surprised at the swift withdrawal. He 

transformed back to his legged form, his fins absorbed back into 

his body, and his tail splitting to form the limbs he must use 

away from the sea. Small fish swirled around his submerged limbs 

as scales and destroyed flesh temporarily fouled the water. He 

rose with initial care and waded across the pool.

    Turg rose from concealment in response to a mental command 

and moved toward the ambassador's back. Dealing with dementia 

casters was often dangerous. Their grip on reality could become 

quite tenuous as they grew more powerful. Caster Fulla was very 

powerful indeed.

    "Hello, my dear," the ambassador exclaimed. "I am so glad 

that you accepted my invitation."

    The caster turned, and he waited for her eyes to focus back 

on the present.

    Caster Fulla "Braids" appeared a weathered thirty years. Her 

dark skin and clothing seemed in perpetual shadow, and Laquatus 

felt a faint increase in tension as she looked on him fully. Her 

right arm brushed the short sword at her side before extending 

toward the ambassador. Kissing a woman's hand was a ridiculous 

piece of theatre most of the time, and it was particularly 

ridiculous now. Fulla's right arm was misshapen with scars and 

chunks of missing flesh. Leather and iron bracing showed 

conspicuously as he lowered his head to the misshapen claw that 

she must call a hand. He brushed his lips against the tainted 

flesh and slowly straightened. For her profession, Fulla was 

really quite comely.

    Dementia casters, like many mages, called forth monsters to 

fight for them and serve their purposes, but even the dark magic 

of their Cabal brethren was twisted in bizarre ways. The trances 

that dementia casters fell into seemed to open the dark recesses 

of the mind, bringing forth hideous monsters. Many only existed 

in insane dreams before the power called them. Some used drugs to 

alter their thoughts and perceptions to bring forth ever greater 

horrors until they lost what remained of their sanity. Then 

instead of using drugs to free their minds, they engaged in a 

pharmacological war to retain some connection to reality. 

Laquatus hoped that such a fragile grip on existence would offer 

the handhold he needed to twist her into his service.

    "It was something to do," Fulla said in a dead tone. The 

beads woven into her hair clinked together softly as she moved. 

"But it is only the same party. I've been here a hundred times 

before and since." Boredom filled her voice, and her eyes were 

focusing back into her internal world to the ambassador's 

irritation.

    "Surely something must interest you." Laquatus hummed, a low 

thrum began to pick at his ears as the merman fed instructions to 

the magic plants and springs feeding the grotto.

    The corals released bursts of drugs into the water. The 
ambassador felt a curious mixture of energy and languor even 

though he and his personal servants regularly dosed themselves 

with antidotes. The party seemed to grow quiet as the guests 

succumbed to the chemicals in the water.

    "I think that we should work together." The ambassador said, 

crowding closer. "The bouts offer us a chance to realize 

tremendous profits if we could just cooperate." The merman put 

his hand on her maimed arm, controlling his expression at the 

touch of the gnarled flesh.

    "I hope we might become something more than partners."

    Laquatus breathed more heavily as he tried to suggest 

seduction. He had less than no interest in the women above the 

sea, but he had set this hook before. Fulla showed only 

irritation and broke his grip easily.

    "You're boring," she said flatly. "Everything is boring now. 

I am going back to the Casters' Quarter. At least it is never 

boring."

    Fulla started wading toward the steps leading into the pool. 

She moved surely and with purpose, showing no sign of being 

affected by the water. Laquatus realized that, as a dementia 

caster, she dealt with shifting reality often. The Casters' 

Quarter that she was headed for was notorious for the monsters 

and dark passions that gripped its inhabitants. Fulla's being was 

far too vicious a battlefield for the gentle persuasion of the 

grotto's waters. Turg, feeling his master's irritation, cut 

through the partygoers to grab Fulla's arm.

    Braids swung around, curling inside the pit frog's arm and 

breaking his grip. Her sword was in her hand, and Laquatus felt a 

burst of pain as her blade slapped along the frog's side. The 

ambassador could feel the bestial rage of his champion surging to 

dramatic levels, and he tried to force the beast to calm.

    Laquatus and the frog were tied together on many levels, 

feeding off of each other's emotions. The frog supplied a 

dramatic amount of muscle the ambassador used to cow his enemies, 

while the merman supplied the intelligence and drive to make Turg 

more than a savage animal. The pain and snub eroded his control 

and Turg acted to hold the caster.

    "At last!" Fulla exalted. "Something interesting in this 

sewer."

    Laquatus paused in his attempts to restrain his champion. A 

sewer! He was sick of insults from these land-bound simpletons. 

Turg attacked as the ambassador's pique weakened his hold. The 

frog skin grew mottled as the amphibian forced more foulness into 

the water. Turg leaped to the side, plowing into a crowd and 

sending a spray across the pool.

    The ambassador could feel the fresh chemical assault against 

his senses. Colors seemed to strobe as the mind-altering 

chemicals fought his will for control of his vision. Fulla's eyes 

seemed to gleam as she went into a trance. The screams of the 

other guests began to waver as well as Turg's indirect attack 

merged with the suggestive chemicals of the pool. Laquatus could 

see an escort flailing at hallucinations.

    "Close the doors!" he screamed to the servants at the gate.

    The guards slammed the decorative doors shut as one pit 

fighter ran for the exit. A huge minotaur, it lowered its head 

and charged. The expensive facade cracked over the armor beneath 

as the giant humanoid went down, blood flowing from its nose and 

ears. Other guests began to stumble out of the pool.

    Turg erupted from the water beside Fulla. His skin was 

silvery, and he was almost impossible to see. Like the octopus 

and cuttlefish of the ocean, the frog could blend against many 

backgrounds. Fulla was a veteran of the pits, and her skewed mind 

edited out the madness surrounding her. The frog's attack met a 

summoned creature that threw the combatants apart as if a bomb 

had exploded.

    The eel that wrapped itself around the frog showed bones and 

frayed flesh. Turg spun to throw it off, but its weeping skin 

seemed to glue the creature to the frog. The amphibian's wild 

gyrations threw gobs of rotting meat across the chamber, which 

rained down on the guests and struggling servants. The ambassador 

could see blackjacks plied freely by his mercenaries as they 

struggled to contain the growing riot. Only their fight with 

imaginary demons prevented a total bloodbath as pit fighters went 

down under the swinging sacks of lead shot. Laquatus felt Turg's 

pain as the eel struck again and again, pumping venom into the 

humanoid's frame. The frog tore off portions of its own hide but 

hurled the writhing eel away into a group of musicians the 

ambassador had hired for the evening.

    "Enough!" Laquatus snarled.

    A bolt of energy erupted from his hands, and a ribbon of 

power connected the merman to the eel. Flesh boiled under the 

attack, and the popping of exploding bones could be heard over 

the cacophony of screams and curses filling the chamber. The 

hired servants trembled, and their bones cracked as the overflow 

of energy created a circle of death. Laquatus ignored them as he 

destroyed the last of the eel. Their cooked bodies fell beneath 

the waters as the ambassador cut off the stream of power.

    Fulla gaily laughed from the side of the grotto, her knees 

drawn up like a little girl's. "A wonderful party!" she yelled as 

she toed a drifting corpse away. "You must invite me again." 

Laquatus heard his teeth grinding as he restrained himself and 

the amphibian warrior who crept behind her, his fists raised 

high.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    "I will send over a supply of the oysters you so enjoyed," 

Laquatus said, his eyes locked with the confused merchant's. "I 

am sure a regular shipment can be arranged within the month." The 

eyes slowly cleared, and the man looked down at himself. He was 

dressed in waves of sea silk, the draped cloth more appropriate 

on a young maiden than a stocky man of fifty.

    "Thank you for the loan," he mumbled. "I can't believe that I 

fell in the punchbowl and ruined my clothes. I promise to pay for 

any damage."

    His eyes were clearing, and he looked at the outside of the 

embassy gate. The ambassador could see him trying to remember 

what exactly he had done. The merman sent another tendril of 

deceit into the man's mind, reinforcing images of drunken 

debauchery.

    "Keep the cloth as my gift. I only regret that I ran out of 

clothes for the other guests." Laquatus forced out an indulgent 

chuckle. "A party without a little damage is hardly worth going 

to. I am sure everything will be shipshape by morning."

    His jaw clenched as he shook the man's hand and sent him on 

his way with an escort. His mind drifted back to the grotto. The 

decomposing eel had killed off the coral and filled the cavern 

with an indescribably foul odor. The dead were packed into sealed 

barrels which must be disposed of immediately. Worse, the entire 

cavern must be rebuilt into a completely new environment. 

Laquatus was sure the false memories he implanted in the 

survivors would withstand most reminders of the violent episode, 

but it made no sense to tempt fate. The expense would be 

tremendous, but he could afford no flashbacks by guests at future 

affairs. His face grew forbidding as the last guest left his 

sight.

    He started back to the cavern, but near the entrance he 

drifted off to the side. The pulse of energy he directed at the 

tapestry activated the quiescent spell, and he drifted through 

the wall. He could feel the defensive spells slamming back into 

place as he stepped into the small room.

    Laquatus was alone with his thoughts, his ties to Turg cut. 

The amphibian was sleeping off the exertions of the fight and the 

pain Laquatus had inflicted on him to prevent the amphibian from 

killing the dementia caster. Fulla had proved entirely resistant 

to the merman's attempt to change her memories. Only the full 

attention of the Cabal - should such a powerful figure die - had 

prevented Laquatus from ordering a full scale attack to kill her. 

She was completely insane, but she showed no agitation and seemed 

in good spirits when she left. However, she was a chink in 

Laquatus's armor of deceit and must be dealt with in the near 

future. Perhaps the pits would prove particularly dangerous in 

the next few weeks.

    The room was crudely mined and showed none of the fine 

workmanship that formed the rest of the embassy. Its construction 

had been long and laborious as Laquatus procured a stream of 

disposable workmen. He was forced to install the winch and thick 

trapdoor in the center of the room himself, with only Turg 

providing the muscle to ship the equipment. The merman cranked 

the heavy cover up, the rust falling like red snow. The remnants 

of some long destroyed fortress gate, its metal shielded the 

swirling pool of energy beneath. Without a double system of 

safeguards, magic users throughout the city might sense the power 

of the portal. It was vital that he keep his true strength hidden 

as long as possible. Laquatus removed his ambassadorial robes; 

glad to strip himself of the rags that landsmen expected him to 

wear. He dived into the pool.

    The shock of hitting the icy water surprised him as always, 

and his entire frame shivered for a few seconds before he could 

take stock of his new surroundings. The darkness of the 

environment glistened with the bioluminescence of various 

creatures. Many of them came from the depths of the ocean and had 

been transferred to the deepwater caves underlying much of the 

continent. The shimmering pool of light that he dived into was 

replicated as a glowing vertical portal. The magic bridged a gap 

of nearly a thousand feet. Here, unknown to the city above, an 

army gathered to sally forth in the name of the

    Mer Empire. Laquatus floated blissfully for a moment, 

relishing the fact that only the emperor carried more rank than 

the ambassador in these caves. Above he played the exiled noble, 

but here he was the state.

    "My lord," a quiet voice seemed to whisper behind him, the 

tones swirling through the water. "You were not expected for some 

time."

    Laquatus turned in the water, careful to show no surprise. A 

small humanoid moved from the darkness of an overhang. Long 

whiskers twitched, searching the waters for scent and movement. 

Its body was small and its limbs spindly. For a moment, it 

appeared harmless as it moved into the light. Then the ambassador 

again saw the cruel claws on its hands and feet. Their sheer size 

always startled him, but it was the head that was most 

disquieting. Huge and stuffed with glassy spearlike teeth, the 

mouth beckoned his gaze. There in the center danced a tongue, 

endlessly undulating and shifting color. Blank eyes without 

pupils looked blindly at him as the creature swam closer. 

Laquatus tore his eyes away and looked to the side. The tresias 

and its people were common in the underwater caves and formed a 

substantial portion of the ambassador's guard. Captain Satas was 

a loyal officer, perfect for command of the subterranean force, 

but his appearance was a constant source of revulsion to those 

who swam the sunlit seas.

    "Events on the surface may require action sooner than 

anticipated," the ambassador answered. "We will need more 

soldiers stationed for assault on command." The tresias's tongue 

shifted faster though there was no other sign of agitation.

    "My people are slow to trust and slower to travel; we will 

need soldiers from the empire." Satas signaled to an aide.

    The warrior who swam over resembled a giant octopus caught in 

the process of becoming a man. The tentacles and its great bag of 

a head floated and moved freely in the water, but signs of an 

underlying structure of bone and horn peaked through. "You will 

carry the ambassador's words to the emperor."

    The soldier left in a jet of water, his body sliding through 

a narrow crevice in the side of the cave. The ambassador hoped 

that more cephalids and other soft-body troops would be 

available. With malleable bodies, they could move easily through 

the caves and take the shortest routes. The advantages of such a 

heritage and its beauty made him jealous as he watched the 

trailing tentacles disappear. That the emperor should be blessed 

with such a form while the ambassador should look so ... human.

    "How have the tunneling crews fared?" he asked Satas, 

focusing on the unsightly captain to occupy his thoughts.

    The engineers of the empire were continually opening new 

routes in the natural caves that underlay the entire continent. 

Connecting the largest underground rivers would allow for the 

rapid movement of the large bodies of troops and the giant 

warriors from the open seas, but the secret ways were twisted and 

full of dead ends. The mapping and connection of suitable caverns 

was a meticulous and slow process.

    "Weeks before the way clears," Satas said, drifting back to 

the wall. "However, two more mages have mastered the door spell." 

The tresias moved suddenly, his whiskers whipping as he struck at 

a blind crayfish swimming out of a small crevice. "When more 

soldiers arrive we can open enough portals to flood the city with 

troops," he whispered and devoured the tender morsel alive.

 

                       CHAPTER 3

 

    "I will need the winnings before the matches end tonight." 

Kamahl said seriously, maneuvering through the crowds around the 

arena. Chainer crowded closer, raising his voice to be heard.

    "Why not tomorrow?" the young man asked, slapping a youth 

whose fingers reached for his purse. The gesture was casual, but 

the boy fell down under the feet of the crowd. Kamahl could hear 

slurred cursing growing fainter as they moved toward the 

preparation rooms.

    "The price of my lodging is due tonight and I dislike 

arguments about money," the barbarian responded.

    His massive metal gauntlet nudged a too eager fighter who 

tried to enter ahead of the pair. A cool stare by Kamahl forced 

the warrior back into the milling crowd as they entered the fetid 

air of the common preparation hall.

    The barbarian entered the city with enough money for normal 

times, but the tourney had inflated the prices of food and 

lodging far above what he expected. The last of the fighter's 

funds were totally expended in placing a bet on the matches 

today.

    "What will you do if you lose?" Chainer asked with concern. 

The young Cabal employee had warned Kamahl of the dire straits 

that the destitute could be forced into. The pits devoured a 

steady supply of the indigent to perform jobs too disgusting and 

dangerous for workers with any means. There were darker rumors 

that Kamahl heard hints of, but Chainer had not commented on 

them. "You are in a multiple party match. The other fighters 

could combine against you."

    "I never considered losing," Kamahl said. He smiled and 

motioned the Cabal employee to leave and place the bet they 

discussed. "I also failed to consider a Phyrexian invasion 

destroying the city."

    The barbarian chuckled slightly as he moved to prepare. 

Losing in the preliminaries, before the champions even entered 

the lists? He laughed at the implausibility of it as he moved 

toward the entrance of the arena.

    The screaming and cheering crowd was a continuous background 

noise, overridden as the last competitors staggered in and were 

carried from the field. One lizard man lay on a stretcher, laid 

open like a butchered animal. His hands grasped the wooden poles 

with desperate strength, and Kamahl could see the life ebbing 

from the grip in time with the pulses of blood. The fighter 

expired as he was ferried past.

    "A shame to die so badly," a deep voice commented. Kamahl 

turned and could see only a wall of fur.

    He stepped back, his eyes rising to look at the speaker's 

visage. A centaur looked down on him, smiling with his lips 

closed in apparent friendliness.

    He was huge, towering over the other competitors waiting for 

their matches. He stood at least half again as high as the 

barbarian. His features were simian with glimpses of fangs 

showing as he breathed through his mouth. The lower body was 

catlike though in sheer size it reminded Kamahl of a dray house. 

The fur over the body looked short and coarse. The barbarian 

could see the play of huge muscles under its hide as the creature 

shifted. The gigantic club in the centaur's hands was a mass of 

wood and banded iron. A small granite boulder capped the end, and 

the warrior lowered it to the floor as he offered a hand in 

greeting.

    "I am Seton, from the Krosan Forest."

    The barbarian gripped the massive hand, showing no hesitation 

or fear even as he felt the power in that grasp.

    "Kamahl is my name," he answered. The barbarian gestured to 

the dead competitor being carried out. "Death comes to all. The 

lizard man lost and defeat often exacts the ultimate price." The 

centaur squeezed hard but seeing no response released Kamahl's 

hand.

    "Defeat is often terrible, but the lizard man was the victor 

of the round."

    The centaur held his weapon tightly, twisting his hands as he 

watched Cabal servants clearing the arena of corpses and raking 

in fresh sand. The smell of old blood and rot wafted in through 

the lower entrances to the fighting area. Kamahl dropped his pack 

to a bench along the wall. Other fighters, some almost green with 

fear and dreadful anticipation, made room. The barbarian undid 

his cloak and put it in his pack. A massive armored belt went 

around his waist as he moved his purse and nonessential items 

into the pack.

    "A victory that leaves you dead is no victory," the barbarian 

opinioned, moving his massive sword from his back. The sword was 

a remnant of a massive artifact from the invasion. The fighter he 

had defeated swore it was part of Urza's staff, but Kamahl had 

his doubts. Still, the double-edged great sword channeled power 

exceptionally well. Its only flaw was the lack of a good stabbing 

point. "Better yet is to leave even your enemy alive to grant you 

homage and spread word of his defeat. Dead bodies feed only 

crows."

    "Dead bodies do much more in the hands of the Cabal." Seton 

spat to the side, the spittle running down the wall and across 

the Cabal symbols on this side of the doors. "Unless you have 

made special arrangements, the necromancers will raise your 

corpse or feed it to their monsters." "If you fall, I will make 

sure that you don't end up depending on their tender mercies," 

Kamahl answered, his confidence such that he felt compelled to 

relieve the other's mind. "Why do you care what happens to me?" 

the centaur demanded, anger displacing the worry in his tone. "Do 

you make some claim for me?"

    Kamahl was calm as he sealed his pack and kicked it under a 

bench. The Cabal servant overseeing the room caught the 

barbarian's eye, and he pointed to his gear with a forbidding 

expression. Power flowed from Kamahl's hand and danced over the 

wire interwoven with the cloth of the pack. The centaur was 

almost snarling as Kamahl finally turned his attention back to 

Seton.

    "I came to fight the best," Kamahl replied, checking the fit 

of his armor. "I want to beat the best. Victory

    would be less pure if my opponents worried about what would 

happen to them after they lost."

    The centaur swelled at the sheer arrogance and effrontery of 

the barbarian and then exploding in laughter.

    "You are confident, hero," Seton laughed. "If you fight one 

tenth as well as you boast you will walk away with every prize."

    Kamahl only smiled slightly then straightened. The gatekeeper 

posted three tiles. One of them was the crossed axe and sword 

that Kamahl was assigned upon entering the games. Another was the 

Cabal house tile, stating that the Cabal would have a 

representative in the fight. The last tile showed a branch 

gripped by a hand. The barbarian watched Seton move toward the 

arena and knew the forest warrior was now his opponent. The 

centaur pushed through the thin screen of fighters in front of 

the door.

    "Both against the Cabal fighter first, Kamahl," the centaur 

called to him. "After the undead are dispatched, you and I can 

discuss who should be the winner."

    Seton spun his massive club like a light baton, sending 

others scrambling away as the small boulder seemed to whistle 

through the air. The barbarian smiled and nodded, moving up to 

stand by the mighty forest dweller. He showed no concern as the 

club began to spin even more wildly as they were directed into 

the arena. The crowd noise heightened, and Seton put on a show 

for the crowd. Kamahl attracted little notice, as he preferred to 

save his energy for the fight. The Cabal opponent entered from 

the opposite side, heading for a platform. A dark and tattered 

pennant drooped limply from a metal flagstaff.

    The barbarian remembered Chainer's recitation of arena 

practice and how it echoed the ceremonial fighting practiced in 

the mountains. The Cabal fighter was fair game during combat, but 

the simple act of taking the flag would expel the house fighter 

from the match. The rule allowed overmatched house fighters to 

retreat and lose a flag rather than their lives. Several matches 

Kamahl saw earlier in the week involved the Cabal fighter losing 

to a stolen flag as they were overwhelmed and forced to protect 

themselves first and foremost. One novice Cabal fighter pulled 

the flag himself as he was overwhelmed. The fighter lived, but 

the shame of his cowardly act would undoubtedly make his life a 

living hell. The contestants not with the Cabal had no flag to 

lose. Only total defeat or humiliating surrender awaited them 

should a Cabal fighter prove superior. The barbarian heard many 

complain that the Cabal lost flags more often than lives, but he 

planned to win, so not having an alternate way to be defeated did 

not bother him.

    Kamahl ignored the Master of the Games' speech. The light 

from the flaring torches along the rim of the arena made it 

almost impossible to see the crowd. The viewing pods floated down 

from high above the wall as a few of the important game patrons 

watched the bout. Kamahl could see the ambassador from the Mer 

Empire and his champion taking their ease. The ambassador gave 

him a languid wave, and the barbarian gritted his teeth, feeling 

his color darken. The Order champion Kirtar was in the box as 

well and laughed at Kamahl's discomfiture. The lights brightened 

as Cabal mages fed more power to the torches, and the crowds and 

boxes were washed away in the flood of light. The barbarian 

focused, ignoring the sound of the crowds, blocking out 

superfluous noise until it seemed as quiet as the highlands of 

his youth.

    The Cabal fighter was a woman, her hair braided with beads 

and bones. She looked disinterested even as Seton bellowed a 

challenge, waiting for the fight to commence. Whatever the signal 

to commence the bout had been, Kamahl missed it in the charge of 

the centaur. His club spinning, the giant advanced in great 

bounds, hoping to close before the dementia caster could react, 

but his charge proved too slow as groups of fighters congealed in 

front of the Cabal fighter and her flag. Though humanoid, the 

creatures showed buglike qualities. Their dark exoskeletons 

rasped, and Kamahl could hear their pincers and mandibles working 

as he closed at a run.

    Seton arrived first, the club falling like an avalanche on an 

evoked fighter. The armor broke with a wet crunch that reminded 

Kamahl of a lobster he saw devoured at an inn. Seton was tearing 

through the defenders, his club squashing them like the bugs they 

resembled. More and more flickered into being even as their 

unnatural ichor discolored the sand.

    Kamahl arrived, and his massive sword cut out a great half-

circle among the defenders. The barbarian did not even call forth 

energy to feed the blade, husbanding his power until more worthy 

adversaries appeared.

    The Cabal magic user began to appear more interested, her 

eyes growing brighter as Kamahl and Seton approached, coming 

closer together as they neared the stand. The centaur swung his 

club less wildly, though the creatures still exploded at every 

strike. Kamahl cleared the caster's minions from his path with 

the same amount of energy and speed, his smooth swings showing no 

signs of slowing. The caster motioned, and the creatures tried to 

close on the pair of fighters from behind. Her tactics proved 

futile as the centaur roused himself and with great leaps and 

bounds prevented any from closing with him.

    The barbarian responded to the new attack with wider swings 

and footwork. His mind and spirit cleared, and he appeared almost 

to dance inside the lethal circle of steel. The creatures drew 

closer but died before they could close. The barbarian worried 

more about tripping over a smashed or dismembered corpse than one 

of the monsters breaking through his defense. Seton was proving 

faster as his great leaps took him around the fighters, who then 

closed on Kamahl. The centaur's breath could be seen as great 

gouts of vapor blew out through the giant's nostrils.

    Now the Cabal fighter smiled slightly, and new horrors issued 

from her mind. Kamahl could see a delicate and beautiful face 

coming into being. The eyes opened as the rest of the summoning 

took shape. The eyes were slit like a snake's, and from the torso 

down, that was what the monster appeared to be. As more of the 

creatures flickered into existence, the first attacked. The upper 

arms appeared normal, but from the elbows down, her arms were 

great blades of bone. The leader attacked, and Kamahl dodged one 

strike and blocked another. Though his sword cut through the 

insectile drones like a knife through butter, this new creature's 

arm rang like fine steel. The scrape of the edge along the bone 

made Kamahl's teeth ache. His return strike left only a small cut 

that began to ooze an oily liquid even as Seton joined the 

attack.

    The centaur seemed to swell beyond his already prodigious 

size, muscles writhing under his fur. The club whistled through 

the air, the head a blur as it struck at the monster in front of 

him. Bone cleavers, raised to intercept the blow, were amputated 

as the forest giant literally disarmed the summoning. Seton 

turned to another enemy, but the first was not yet done. Pulses 

of blood jetted out of the form, covering the centaur's chest and 

head. Seton's manic energy leaked out of him as he screamed in 

pain.

    The barbarian ran to intercept the caster's minions falling 

upon his temporary ally. His sword ran with power, the metal 

glowing as Kamahl fed it more energy. He struck at the creatures' 

backs, the enchanted blade once again shearing through his 

enemies. The limbs that fell did not release streams of corrosive 

blood, for the fire of his blade burned its way through the 

creatures' bodies. The corpses piled up; streams of fire burning 

through the skin as they raced through the veins and arteries.

    Seton slowly rose as the barbarian protected him. The scream 

that he gave was deep and filled with pain, but the centaur could 

move. The club rose and fell weakly, but it freed Kamahl to act 

more aggressively. He chopped his way through three of the demons 

and came back to protect Seton's flank.

    The centaur wove like a drunken horse, the fur on his chest 

slowly growing back through bloody strips of skin. But it took 

too much time, and Kamahl realized that centaur was a liability. 

The fight needed to end soon or the centaur might yet fall to the 

Cabal warrior. Kamahl looked to the platform. The flag flapped 

loosely as a new creature came into being.

    It was the smell that hit the barbarian first. His nostrils 

curled, and he breathed through his mouth. The creature was 

enormous, taller at the shoulder than the great buffalo that 

roamed the plains. In appearance, it reminded Kamahl of a great 

mole. Its sharp snout quested in the air even as it moved toward 

Seton and the barbarian. Kamahl ascribed the hesitation to its 

lack of eyes. Empty sockets set in rotted flesh and exposed bone 

left the monster without a means to see. Whether it had ever had 

fur Kamahl could not tell, but it had none now. Its skin seemed 

gone, leaving only rotting meat and a thick layer of mold. Each 

step of the creature left a mark of foulness.

    Seton performed his own summoning. The whine of insects could 

be dimly heard though cries of the crowd and the movement of the 

Cabal castings. A cloud formed, growing thick as insects came 

into being. One landed on the barbarian's arm, and he flicked it 

away before it could do any harm. The green locusts fell upon the 

dark minions. The barbarian absently killed the few creatures 

still in reach as he considered the centaur and the Cabal mage. 

The bodies of the fallen were covered in a moving carpet that 

flattened as the insects devoured the flesh. Bone peeked out 

briefly, but the enchanted mandibles of the insect swarm ground 

down even that.

    Seton raised his arms, his giant club held loosely in one 

hand. The cloud of locusts rose together, then fell upon the 

giant mole. The centaur moved toward the platform, ready to kill. 

Kamahl came as well, walking around the locusts that orbited the 

main mound.

    The attack on Seton was unexpected by the two allies. The 

insect-covered mole lurched into action, leaving a trail of 

twitching bugs. The creature humped itself up, its spine breaking 

through the layer of dead flesh and dying locusts. The huge 

animal left the ground in a prodigious leap that equaled anything 

Seton had shown so far. The shock of the bodies meeting sprayed 

the remains of the insect swarm across the arena. A thick cloud 

hung around the pair as the centaur tried to grapple. The claws 

of the mole carved hunks of flesh from the shoulders and flanks 

of the forest dweller. Showing unexpected flexibility, Seton 

ducked under the attack, scrambling clear. But only a few yards 

away he fell, his features slack with astonishment.

    The mole twitched, each shake spraying spores into the arena. 

The remaining locusts cascaded from the air with each gust of the 

agents of decay. The spores came from the thick ropes of purple 

on the mole's back. The locusts' attack had served only to unmask 

a more deadly response. The mole swung its head from side to side 

as it made for the fallen centaur.

    Kamahl stamped his foot loudly, sending an irregular rhythm 

into the sand. The monster paused, its head swinging and its feet 

shifting. The Cabal caster took her ease, and the barbarian could 

see her discounting the centaur and focusing on him. A smile lit 

her face as Kamahl drove his sword deep into the sand. The shock 

of the tip striking into the rock of the arena floor was a signal 

to the creature. It charged, each lunge releasing another cloud 

of death. It passed the platform as the barbarian stamped his 

feet. The Cabal fighter ignored the spores as her summoning 

closed. Kamahl's hands blurred as he moved-but not for the sword 

stuck into the ground.

    The barbarian plucked a throwing axe from his belt and cocked 

it back to his ear. Like a great sigh, power poured into the 

steel and leather-wrapped handle. The head flashed brilliantly, 

and then, as a comet, it flew toward the mole. The metal glanced 

off the massive skull, and Kamahl saw the Cabal warrior becoming 

still, summoning additional creatures. The barbarian closed his 

eyes as the axe reached the apex of its deflected flight.

    The detonation rocked Kamahl back. The light was bright 

enough that he could see through his eyelids as the edge of the 

energy brushed him. The crowd was stunned into silence. The magic 

ignited the spore cloud, and the explosion sped back to the mole, 

devouring it as the molds detonated in sympathy with Kamahl's 

attack. The dementia caster rolled on the ground, unable to 

stand. She had been flung back several yards, and the sand 

stripped most of her clothes off as well as much of her skin. Her 

teeth bared and bloody, she stood, gathering herself to summon 

more monstrosities. Kamahl did not take his newly gained 

advantage, though his other axe was in his hand. He pointed to 

the platform with the metal head. Scraps of the flag still 

fluttered to the ground, signaling the Cabal fighter's defeat.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    "You won more than five hundred!" Chainer said excitedly. The 

young man gripped the bag of coins tightly, proclaiming to all in 

sight that he held riches in his hand. Kamahl only smiled thinly 

as he waited with the other victorious fighters in the winners' 

box. The arena attendants seated those victors needing no medical 

attention. The winning fighters watched the remaining fights and 

were observed in turn by the crowd. A steady stream of visitors 

and dignitaries cycled in and out, some of them obviously trying 

to steal some of the fighters' glory. Chainer had come from the 

bet-monger with Kamahl's winnings. The barbarian held out his 

hand and was surprised by the weight of the purse. It felt much 

greater than the victory that had won it.

    "The bettors know you now," Chainer said. "You will get much 

lower odds now that you have won."

    A voice interrupted the pair.

    "That is because the servants of the Cabal mistake luck for 

skill," taunted Kirtar. The lieutenant strode arrogantly through 

the other fighters, pushing some out of the way. Kamahl noticed 

how the others took it and realized that the Order champion must 

be even more powerful than the barbarian thought. Perhaps the 

lieutenant's lop-sided victory had prevented Kamahl from seeing 

the bird warrior at his best.

    "Most of the fighters here don't realize how lucky they are 

to be competing with their better," Kirtar continued. His pale 

skin flushed as he drank more deeply from the goblet of wine in 

his hand.

    "I am surprised that you fight at all in these contests," 

Kamahl said slowly. "Surely you must realize how unequal you are 

to those who fight here."

    Kirtar nodded his head and then realizing that the comment 

was more easily read as an insult advanced angrily. A massive 

webbed hand deflected his path. Turg patted the champion on the 

back as he led him over to the food, the ambassador smiling at 

Kamahl and Chainer.

    "You must excuse our friend," Laquatus said. "He fights out 

of duty. The Order considers it their task to rid the world of 

the symbols of past evil. Many of the prizes that he wins will be 

destroyed at the Order's headquarters."

    "He is not my friend," Kamahl said flatly. Chainer nodded 

slightly, a grim look on his face. "And when he faces me in the 

arena, he will discover that I don't need luck to win."

    Laquatus, still smiling, bowed his head, but his eyes were 

serious, not merry. Kamahl turned as he felt a threat directed at 

him. Across the room Turg looked at him even as he shepherded 

Kirtar toward a bar. The amphibian's eyes held the same look of 

deadly concentration as the ambassador's.

 

                       CHAPTER 4

 

    "Hail the conquering hero!" Seton bellowed, ignoring the 

catcalls that quickly followed. Kamahl only nodded, as if 

accepting his due. The centaur snorted as he saw the shadow of a 

smile on the barbarian's face. The other patients in the hospital 

could not read the mountain fighter, and their catcalls 

continued.

    Seton had been taken to the hospital to recover from his 

wounds. Though the druids of the forest were known for their 

healing skills, the punishment they endured to access those 

energies reserved them for life-threatening injuries only. Though 

the poison mold laid the centaur low, Cabal servitors 

administered an antidote within minutes of the fight's end. Those 

who survived the games were taken to the healing halls behind the 

waiting chambers. Kamahl was told to return the next day.

    The centaur lay in a shallow pit, his side against a move-

able board that allowed him to lie as if on a hillside. Other 

than a tendency to turn one's head to match up with the patient's 

orientation, it allowed for ease of access for the nursing staff. 

It also made conversation more convenient.

    The barbarian's eyes swung over some of the patients, and his 

worries for his friend continued. Amputations were common and 

many fighters lay as if dead, their stumps leaking blood around 

the seams of their new limbs. Metal seemed the most common 

substitute, though mismatched furred limbs suggested other 

sources. Mold covered the wounds of some. Kamahl watched a 

caregiver spreading thick mud over the weeping sores of a dwarf 

whose eyes wandered with pain. The barbarian hoped the Cabal was 

trying to help instead of preparing a fresh round of victims for 

rumored rituals. He renewed his vow to avoid injury or at least 

care for himself.

    Seton looked well. His coat was clean, and the patchwork of 

new fur covered the worst of the stitches. The forest dweller 

still made few movements, and Kamahl realized the giant was in 

pain despite his apparent high spirits.

    "I am surprised that you have not already escaped," the 

barbarian quipped awkwardly. He wondered how the centaur stood 

the enclosed environment.

    "I will leave here as soon as her 'majesty' says that I may," 

the forest dweller said, rolling his eyes. The barbarian turned, 

seeing an approaching healer. She stood wrapped in armor, and her 

haughty stare curled his lip. She went past, her robe clinking 

softly with the sound of chain mail.

    "I am surprised to see a representative of the Order here," 

Kamahl said, turning his eyes away from the martial maid back to 

his acquaintance.

    "As healers, some of the Order's party feel compelled to 

offer their services here," the centaur replied. "Though we pay a 

stiff price for their services, being constrained to listen to 

them rail against the pit fights." The centaur spoke with some 

amusement, but Kamahl remembered the snubs offered by the 

lieutenant and now one of his retinue.

    "Rather self-serving to urge competitors of their champion to 

withdraw," the barbarian observed. "I am surprised that you do 

not tell them so." Kamahl came to win honor and respect. That 

other fighters would belittle the contests was extremely 

irritating.

    "We all come for our own reasons," the centaur said. He 

rolled further against the support board. He tripped a lever, and 

the clink of the mechanism sounded as he brought his side down. 

"The Order fights to destroy the prizes. I fight so I can meet 

the Masters of the Games." Seton lowered his voice.

    "I am not here on a lark," he said darkly. "What drives me is 

serious." Seton looked to see if any were listening.

    "The forests are violated and their inhabitants stolen to 

feed the pits." He said softly. "Creatures vanish from under the 

trees and nothing is done to stop them." The centaur shifted to 

bring his head closer to Kamahl.

    "The forest will not suffer these raids forever. I know that 

one day the pit system will have to change, or it will fall. The 

wild will not allow itself to be bled dry."

    "I respect your convictions," Kamahl said, keeping his voice 

even. "But I am not here to become part of your crusade. The pit 

provides the opponents I need to test myself." He turned and 

gestured to the crowds of injured.

    "I have no wish to be hurt, but it is a risk 1 take to win a 

place in this world." The barbarian lowered his hands and hooked 

his thumbs in his belt. His eyes looked inward as he paused. "The 

mountains became too small. Winning a duel meant that a village 

or a family gave you your due. Victory is sweet, but the portions 

were too small." Kamahl shook his head sadly as he thought of his 

many victories.

    "And you think the repast will be so much better in the 

pits?" Seton said crossly. "You think that the crowd will 

remember you for longer than your next fight?" The centaur's 

voice grew louder and other recuperating fighters looked toward 

the pair.

    "I think that it is better we each do as we think best," 

Kamahl said, his voice growing tight. He did not believe his 

victory meaningless.

    "I apologize, Kamahl," Seton answered. "I should not let my 

current injuries make me rude." The centaur waved his hand and 

only lightly groaned at the pain of the movement. "I have you to 

thank for the all this." He laughed. "But truly, I owe you my 

life," Seton said seriously. "I was paralyzed and sure I would 

die when you destroyed the mole. My debt to you is more than gold 

or words can pay."

    Kamahl nodded, accepting the gratitude with same equanimity 

he had accepted the crowd's adulation.

    "I fought for myself, but whatever debt you owe to me can be 

repaid by your friendship." The barbarian extended his hand, and 

the two gripped arms, united as they were in the arena.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    "Over here, Kamahl," Chainer called.

    The barbarian looked to the front of the champions' box. He 

had returned to the arena to see the Mer champion fight. There 

was no posted opponent, and the barbarian wondered who would 

battle the dangerous-looking amphibian.

    "The match hasn't started?" he asked, taking a seat next to 

the Cabal minion. Chainer was eating olives and cheese as he 

sipped from a cup. The barbarian nodded to a servant who supplied 

him with a small loaf of bread and a goblet of wine. Kamahl 

drank, noticing a sour taste and looking toward the servant. 

Chainer noticed his look.

    "Someone delivered lower-quality food to the kitchens 

stocking the boxes," the young man explained. "They're scrambling 

to find decent food for the important patrons." He snorted and 

gestured around as if to comment that the actual pit fighters 

were obviously low on the list of the powerful. Kamahl drank the 

wine without further comment, though deep inside the slight 

rankled.

    "It's all maneuvering to embarrass the current Master of the 

Games." Chainer said, sounding conspiratorial. "Someone is trying 

to displace him and his connections."

    The barbarian listened with little interest.

    The crowd stirred excitedly as the fighters' gate opened. 

Turg strode forth, the massive Mer champion glistening as if his 

skin had been freshly moistened. The placards naming the 

opponents were not posted, and Chainer straightened as the frog 

stalked the empty pit. A concealed gate opened, far from the 

crowd. With a wild bray, an ass ran into the pit, its hooves 

flying with wild kicks as it tore around the sides of the arena.

    The crowd exploded in laughter as Turg swelled up, his hands 

closed up in fists. The amphibian shook with rage as the audience 

continued to laugh. Many of the Cabal servants appeared stunned. 

The frog ran to intercept the donkey.

    "I can't believe someone would try to disrupt the games!" 

Chainer exclaimed as the Mer champion raced to his ridiculous 

opponent. "This prank will offend the ambassador and the Master 

of the Games."

    The frog reached the donkey, and it spun and let fly. The 

sharp hooves laid open the skin, and the laughter increased. 

Kamahl smiled slightly, though the other fighters' grins showed 

half-moons of teeth.

    Turg darted in and grabbed the ass's skull. He turned, 

throwing the donkey in a circle. The animal's neck snapped, its 

body falling limp to the ground. A light smattering of 

contemptuous applause greeted the amphibian. He kept his grip on 

the head, and his muscles bunched, rotating the skull and tearing 

it free. Blood poured onto the sand, splashing up against Turg's 

legs. He cocked back his arms and hurled his opponent's head up 

into the crowd. The spells that protected the seats flared, and 

the lights dimmed as power flowed to intercept the bloody 

projectile. The skull rotted away, diminished by the forces of 

accelerated decay until it fell over the seats in a spray of 

foulness. The sound of retching competed with nervous laughter. 

The ambassador was standing in his box, outrage visible on his 

aristocratic features. The Master of the Games gestured wildly to 

the gatekeepers down in the pit.

    "He's sending out another beast," Chainer said, settling back 

into the seat. "He'll try to write it off as a mistake, but the 

patriarch will have a head before the end of the day."

    A six-legged reptile rushed into the arena, soldiers driving 

it forth with jabs from tridents. Its legs churned, and it froze 

in the center, its head turning in quick jerks.

    "A Krosan dragonette," Chainer said, clucking his tongue. "A 

decent fighting animal but not one with stature enough to balance 

the insult of the ass."

    The dragonette saw the amphibian but did not charge. "They 

need to be driven to battle," Chainer said sadly as the Master of 

the Games went into a new spat of shouting and arm waving. The 

gates opened again, and more animals spilled into the arena. 

Great hounds milled, their foamy jaws hinting at madness as they 

bit at each other before the sight of the dragonette and the frog 

set them running.

    The six-legged beast tore into the pack as they came close. 

The reptile jaws snapped at the leg of a dog several times, 

leaving it a bloody mass. The rest of the pack piled on, but the 

beast thrashed. Howls of pain echoed in the arena as the 

dragonette's rough hide stripped fur and flesh away. The 

amphibian closed, and half the pack turned on him. There was a 

wave of magic, and the frog seemed to fade. Around each of the 

hounds the outline of the mer champion appeared, his legs 

dragging as if hamstrung. The pack fell on each other as the 

spell turned their instincts against them. A biting, dying circle 

spun between the frog and the reptile.

    The dragonette bled from multiple bites, the blood pulsing 

down its hide. Its long whip of a tail rose and then lashed into 

the dogs. A high yelp sounded as the reptile strruck again and 

again. Each strike left an animal with shattered bones. The 

cripples were killed in an instant as the other ensorcelled 

animals fell upon them. Soon only the dragonette, frog, and a 

single bleeding hound remained. Turg snapped into focus and 

struck the last dog, his heavy fist destroying the skull. The 

dragonette lashed its tail, but the amphibian leaped to the side, 

once more fading as multiple images moved away from its landing 

place. The dragonette roared in bestial fury, its cry echoing up 

over the arena walls. Its tongue flickering widely, it stalked 

one image exclusively, ignoring the others even as several 

versions of Turg made short rushes against it.

    The illusions faded as the mer warrior realized the beast's 

sense of smell made the illusions useless. Catcalls rose from the 

benches at the turn of events. The frog crouched, its arms spread 

wide. Power crackled along its arms, and small streamers of 

lightning trailed from the tips of the frog's claws. The two 

monsters leaped at each other, the crowd rising to its feet. The 

reptile caught the skin of Turg's thigh and lacerated it as hands 

closed over the beast's eyes. Both the frog and dragonette 

screamed now, but the cries of the ocean warrior's opponent were 

full of pain and despair. The calls grew shriller as the six-

legged beast tried to escape, its bellows becoming more plaintive 

and fearful.

    Kamahl's magical senses could detect Turg's power forming a 

circuit between the reptile and the amphibian's own flesh. The 

frog's own magic made its flesh shake, but the surge of energy 

increased as the frog cooked its enemy from the inside out. The 

Mer champion shouted its triumph as it fed off its own pain. The 

ambassador across the arena shook in sympathy as his champion 

bellowed in a self-inflicted orgy of pain.

    Some of the crowd threw down tokens of appreciation, the 

valuables reaching the sand floor as the Cabal servants curbed 

the defensive spells protecting the stands. Turg ripped a hunk of 

steaming flesh free and swallowed the meat, reaching for another 

handful as the applause slackened. The mutter of the crowd asking 

for the next fighter was heard as Cabal minions posted new 

placards. Then a cry was heard.

    Kamahl stood, and the bellow repeated. The echoing call was 

filled with rage and came over the arena wall. The sound beat 

against the barbarian's skull as it grew louder. He looked to 

Chainer, but the youth seemed as confused as any. The barbarian 

made his way for the exit, pushing his way through the other 

fighters, the cries continuing unabated. Kamahl slowed as he 

recognized the sounds. Though louder and far deeper, they were 

much like those Turg's dead opponent gave forth. Though the 

dragonette lay dismembered, a response to its dying cries filled 

the arena and perhaps the rest of the city.

 

                       CHAPTER 5

 

    "Something is breaking into the city!" screamed a voice in 

the ambassador's ear. Laquatus struggled from the depths of his 

trance, his senses assaulted by the troubled noises of the crowd. 

The merman shook his head, still confused. On the sands below, 

Turg bellowed and fell into a feeding frenzy, losing any sign of 

civilized restraint. Again a cry filled the air. The rage and 

despair in its tone gave the ambassador's spirit a little burst 

of joy. Something was in great pain, and Laquatus could always 

smile at the pain of others. The erstwhile town crier moved on 

and shouts continued down the line of boxes. "See what the noise 

is about," the ambassador said to a guard standing nearby. The 

mercenary nodded and left at a run. The merman stood, shaking the 

stiffness from his muscles. The amphibian continued to eat 

voraciously and Laquatus saw the difficulty in reining Turg in. 

Better to let the amphibian feed. Usually, the ambassador lost 

himself in the frog's sensations when the opportunity presented 

itself. However, the tumult outside continued as crowds drifted 

out of the pits.

    "See about getting the arena gates open," he directed a Cabal 

servant who came into the box, looking for a way to please the 

ambassador. "Tell the Master of the Games that while I blame him 

for nothing, I want my jack allowed to leave the field." Laquatus 

paused for a second.

    "Right now," he said emphatically as the servant stood there 

stupidly. The servant left at a run, his sandals loudly drumming 

on the stone floor.

    "I wonder if the fools think I will forgive the insults 

offered me?" Laquatus asked himself pensively. The assault on his 

dignity burned, lying like a bed of temporarily banked coals, 

ready to flare up at any moment. Whoever drove the ass out onto 

the field would pay a hideous price. As would the person that 

gave the order, their households, and any with close connections. 

Laquatus idly wondered if the city should be razed to assuage his 

honor?

    Perhaps not, after all he had plans for the Cabal and the 

pits. But the image of burning buildings and corpses seemed very 

attractive. Turg's savage appetite bled into his consciousness. 

Perhaps a minute passed before new events broke his reverie. 

Messengers returned with news, the one sent to the Master of the 

Games speaking first.

    "The official is gone, and all the Cabal servants are called 

away," he explained, bowing in humiliation. "There is no one with 

authority to order the gates opened on the arena floor." Laquatus 

smiled slightly and walked to the refreshments laid to the side. 

A variety of seafood imported at great expense lay cooling in 

shaved ice. Laquatus reached for metal tongs used to crack claws. 

He grabbed the man's hand and grasped a finger quickly. The 

muscles beneath his aristocratic facade showed themselves as he 

broke the finger like a twig. The servant went white as the 

ambassador stepped back to the table. Laquatus picked up a 

lobster claw and some bread to feed the echo of his jack's 

hunger.

    "I sent you to get Turg out," he said merrily, cracking the 

chitin to get to the meat. The servant turned even paler at the 

sound. "I have confidence that you will get my frog free before I 

run out of fingers." The man swayed, and Laqua-tus's personal 

retainer gave him a wide berth, waiting for him to go down.

    "Now, now, now," Laquatus clucked, lightly rapping the man's 

cheek with the metal tongs. "You don't want me breaking more 

bones to wake you up."

    The servant shook his head rapidly, bowing and backing away 

as he stumbled to the door. The ambassador smiled and motioned to 

the retainer. The man smiled as nastily as his master, his bald 

head flushed with excitement at the cruelty.

    "Follow along, and if he collapses make sure he receives 

medical attention." At the disappointed look Laquatus chuckled 

and waved the man away. How could he punish someone for failure 

if he died from shock? These landsmen were such unthinking 

brutes. They had no sense of style. He invited the other 

messenger forward with a wave of his hand.

    "And what is the commotion outside?" the merman asked. "A 

riot? A revolution? Come, come," he said, as the Cabal servant 

gathered his composure. "Use your tongue, or I'll have it out."

    "A monstrous beast has broken through the city wall and is 

making its way through the town," gushed the man. The ambassador 

briefly considered using the crushing tongs again, but business 

before pleasure.

    "Why the excitement?" Laquatus asked. "The arena teems with 

monsters every day. Surely one more should not provoke such 

disarray."

    "The beast, my lord," the servant said quickly, "is huge. It 

overtops buildings and can be clearly seen from outside the 

arena."

    The ambassador nodded, intrigued enough that he decided to 

see the monster for himself.

    The runner screwed up his will enough to speak once more 

before making for the exit. "It also resembles the beast your 

champion just killed." Then his nerve broke, and he left at a 

run.

    The guards made as if to block him, but the ambassador 

stopped them with a barely perceptible motion. The messenger was 

of no importance though his words were intriguing. He waved to a 

skybox, calling it down. The pilot promptly complied, and the 

merman soon stepped into the small floating craft with a single 

guard. He looked to the rest of his household. "Go back to the 

embassy," Laquatus said and dismissed them from his mind.

    The skybox was one of the smaller ones but any affording such 

luxury were rich and important. The seats were of the finest 

leather. Though it had no buffet, there was a collection of rare 

liquors stowed against the side. The mage directing the craft was 

clad in black regalia while the obvious patron of the box wore an 

understated tunic and trousers of deep purple and black.

    "I am so glad I could give aid," the owner said, moving to 

the side to grant the merman more room. "I am Toustos, an 

importer of animals for the games."

    "I thank you for your courtesy," Laquatus smiled back, 

wondering if he should send the two over the side. "I am the 

ambassador from the Mer Empire. In the excitement there seems to 

have been a mistake. My jack, Turg, has been abandoned on the 

field of victory." He shook his head sadly. "If you could direct 

this box to pick him up, I would be very appreciative." The 

importer nodded and, with a look, directed the box down.

    "There is a chance," he said, "that the protective field over 

the fighting area may be quiescent. If not, your fighter is 

trapped until the guards let him out." The ambassador nodded in 

agreement but thought that Turg could escape if he must. The box 

slowed suddenly as it neared the field.

    "Warning spell," said the importer unnecessarily. The merman 

could detect the roused energies waiting to destroy anything that 

trespassed their vigilant watch. The amphibian below tore more 

flesh from the dragonette, and some of the six limbs lay 

amputated. The frog had eaten itself nearly immobile, and 

Laquatus cursed the indulgence of appetite.

    "There's no way we can get through the stand defenses, Your 

Excellency. Is there some other service I might provide?"

    Laquatus curbed his temper. "There," he said, pointing to the 

open air above. "Lift us up that I might see this beast that 

draws the rabble so far from their posts." The box began to rise 

toward the opening. The curving galleries and conduits of power 

loomed over the field, and the conveyance drifted further to the 

side. The rate of ascent slowed as they neared the limits of the 

arena. Finally they peeked over the wall and saw the madness 

outside.

    The merman enhanced his senses, his suddenly sharp eyes and 

ears bringing the scene into crystal focus.

    "Krosan dragon," whispered the importer at the ambassador's 

side.

    Laquatus slapped the patron, his burning gaze demanding 

absolute silence.

    The dragon was Turg's opponent grown one hundredfold. The 

six-legged beast looked down on the buildings it passed. The city 

guardsmen ran screaming before it, breaking down doors to hide 

inside. Its head ducked, and the monster gulped down a flagging 

sergeant as a snack. The other guardsmen put on another burst of 

speed. They slowed immediately, exhausted from their crazed run 

from the city walls. Laquatus could see soldiers converging from 

other parts of the city, but he doubted that many would arrive in 

time. The dragon's huge tail lashed behind it. A steady rain of 

debris from tumbling walls filled the street as the beast came 

on.

    The area in front of the arena was bedlam as carriages and 

palanquins disbursed. Patrons rushed to waiting bearers, the 

servants trembling with fright and frustration. It said something 

for the brutality of the city elite that transport waited. But 

the outskirts of the crowd were fraying away; some chased by 

their screaming masters. A clump of officials rallied the Cabal 

arena guards and handlers into formation. It seemed a forlorn 

hope against the approaching juggernaut.

    Laquatus felt satisfaction at their impending doom. A 

terrible death by monster might salve away the wound to his 

dignity. He thought of Turg below, a slumbering fool in someone's 

scheme, and he hoped the entire Cabal would be slowly eaten 

alive.

    A dementia caster below opened reality to her madness, and a 

stream of undead stumbled up the street. They formed a parade and 

advanced laughing, their clothes trailing rags showing hints of 

past color. Rusty bells rattled, and a chorus of tinny horns 

sounded as more approached the dragon. Unholy mirth dragged 

sodden laughter from their rotting chests.

    One bellowing voice overrode the noise below, and the 

ambassador looked down to see Lieutenant Kirtar directing the 

action. The Order representative oversaw the retreat of those 

patrons still trapped back into the arena.

    "If necessary escape through the rear exits," Laquatus heard 

through his enhanced hearing. The officer waved pit fighters to 

join the city guards as noncombatants retreated inside. Down the 

avenue, the corpses' merriment reached its peak as the parade met 

the beast.

    The street opened into a square, and the zombies surrounded 

the dragon, throwing themselves at it. The monster's tail began 

to sweep in rapid strikes, each movement leaving a trailing 

bundle of rotting flesh. Some zombies seemed to explode as they 

thudded into thick building walls. Others disappeared inside weak 

facades, though the sound of collapsing walls suggested they were 

not spared destruction. Those undead that missed buildings 

entirely skidded along the cobblestones, shedding flesh and bones 

until the remains looked as tattered and strewn as the moldering 

grave-clothes. Some avoided the tail and reached the beast. 

    The giant body thrashed from side to side as a wave of 

guardsmen followed the undead and reached the great reptile. 

Spears leading, they charged in support of the merry corpses. 

They appeared to battle their way onto the monster's hide, and 

Laquatus for a second increased his sight a magnitude before it 

blurred back to simple enhancement.

    The green fur that seemed to cover the reptile was in fact a 

blanket of vines. Wrapping the huge beast in innumerable strands, 

the greenery protected it by a thick covering of long thorns. The 

figures Laquatus saw clinging to the animal's side were nailed 

there as solidly as any crucified slave. The zombies tried to 

crawl to the dragon's head and left a trail of their few 

remaining threads, then what remained of their skin. Still the 

summoned corpses laughed and trembled in crazed mirth.

    The lieutenant and his supporters advanced, power creeping 

along their limbs and armoring them against thorns. Axes and 

swords glowed as they were enhanced, golden flames running along 

the metal. Spears and javelins arced high in the air, then 

pierced the dragon's hide. Enchanted metal cut deep, and the 

monster paused.

    Its mouth gaping wide, it poured out a green mist, the 

emerald haze flowing down the street. The ambassador could still 

see, but the scene was blurred. Only the frog's ground-hugging 

nature and his high vantage point allowed him to view all the 

combatants. For those on the street, everything was lost in the 

attack. The head of the dragon swung skyward, and the ambassador 

realized that the monster could still see. It came forward as the 

lieutenant hurled forces into the air.

    Burly warriors threw small raypen, their spindly legs 

trailing as they spread their deformed arms wide. The magic 

flowed, and their arms doubled in length, feathers spurting from 

their skin as sorcery gave them the wings that their ancestors 

gave up millennia before. Four bird warriors climbed higher and 

began shouting reports to the lieutenant below. The ambassador 

swore as the Order forces moved forward. The destruction of his 

host's city would have pleased Laquatus greatly.

    Shouts of surprise sounded from the fog below. Like the 

tropical jungles of the south, ivy and kudzu spread over the 

buildings and streets. Wild growth exploded out of window boxes. 

Plants and vines unfamiliar to Laquatus curled around windows and 

doorways as thick grasses and brush tore through cobblestones. 

The street swiftly became impassable.

    Weapons once ready to battle a dragon tried to cut a path. 

The fallen zombies vanished as plants tore apart what remained of 

their bodies. The Krosan dragon forced its way through the 

street, its tons of armored flesh finding the plants only 

slightly less navigable than the fog that preceded them. Its 

tongue searched the air for traces of the now hidden troops.

    The raypen called out reports, and the Lieutenant responded 

from below. The bird warriors banked and swooped toward the 

dragon. Long darts fell as they pulled up, the projectiles 

slicing into the animal's head. The creature bled profusely, one 

of the attacks tearing open the scales near the eye. Weeping red 

tears, the giant blew forth a geyser of green mist. It swept 

through the sky, its concentrated green a verdant club that 

swatted at the flyers, hiding them from sight.

    The raypen climbed out of obscurity, wildly pumping for clear 

air. Then they screamed, their limbs flexing spasti-cally. Their 

cries choked off, and Laquatus could see them coughing up gouts 

of green as they went into seizures. Their magic failed, and they 

plummeted, diving into the tall grass covering the street and 

vanishing from view.

    The ambassador felt the lieutenant drawing more power as the 

Order warriors reacted to the deaths of the flyers. The figures 

blazed gold as they tried to protect against infestation, but 

soldiers collapsed as the green fought against them, the 

invisible seeds of destruction sown in the first moments of 

battle.

    The barbarian Kamahl advanced from the arena, his sword a 

long whip of flame that burned a path through the brush. Bursts 

of searing red light emanated from his body, wilting the plants 

nearby. Laquatus hoped for his death as the jack cut a channel 

through the fog. The sweeps of his weapon burned others free as 

he reached Kirtar's position and continued past, ignoring the 

bird warrior's shouted orders. He trailed supporters in his race 

up the street.

    The dragon's head dipped to devour the impudent barbarian, 

but the sword's long flame charred a line of flesh over its nose. 

Fresh gouts of the mystical growth hormone washed over the 

street, but a spreading cloud of flame burned out a circle of 

safety. The beast tried to maneuver, but fiery knives arced up 

and exploded on the dragon's side as it turned away. The fires 

swept away stretches of the thorny vines protecting the animal's 

hide. Cabal armsmen who had run to the roofs of surrounding 

buildings found their courage, and a few arrows and bolts sought 

the gaps in green armor. The huge tail brought down more 

structures, whipping in painful frenzy as rubble cascaded into 

the verdant growth. Clouds of dust set the combatants choking as 

they disappeared from view.

    There was a fresh bout of screams, and Laquatus watched the 

dragon's claws hooking a hapless fighter into the cloud. Unable 

to see into the green haze, he summoned a wind. It took precious 

seconds, but the mass of dust blew over the rooftops, completely 

blinding those archers and spearmen with the courage to be 

exposed. The merman ignored them as the cloud began to clear the 

street He saw the dragon whip its head, catapulting a screaming 

soldier through the air to intercept the barbarian as he came 

into view. Laquatus clapped with delight.

    "Good show," he called, ignoring the looks of the importer. 

The barbarian and his humanoid projectile sailed into a faceless 

building, which shot out more dust as internal walls collapsed. 

The roof pitched sharply, and refugees of the street battle 

screamed as they slid off and fell to the timbers and stone 

blocks below.

    The lieutenant ordered a retreat, driving the fighters and 

the few remaining observers at street level down other avenues.

    "We'll hamstring it as it tears into the arena," he shouted. 

Laquatus started as he saw the beast coming closer. The skybox 

began to drop, cutting off the view of the action.

    "Take us back up!" he ordered the importer, furious at the 

interruption. It was the merchant's servant who answered him.

    "The energy to the transports is being redirected to the 

defensive shields," the pilot explained, directing the craft to a 

cradle against the opposite wall. "They must be planning to drive 

the animal into the decay field to kill it." The ambassador could 

feel the deadly spells below growing more powerful.

    "Why would they think the beast headed here?" he asked. 

"Surely it will chase the cowards running away rather than attack 

an empty building."

    This time it was the importer who answered him.

    "It comes to answer the cry of distant kin," Toustos 

explained. The merchant was nervous, and the merman could tell 

the human tried to control his own fear by showing his superior 

knowledge. "It will break its way in and kill whoever it finds 

when it sees and smells the corpse of the dragonette."

    The ambassador looked to the sands below. Turg lay as if 

dead, stuffed to bursting on wild ass and the monster's caller. 

There was no way to raise him from his slumber, though Laquatus 

sent command after command to the amphibian's mind. His enhanced 

hearing could hear the slamming of bolts as every gate closed in 

an attempt to keep the beast inside after it broke through.

    "I am sure they will kill it before it can devour your 

champion or reach us," the importer said nervously. The 

ambassador grasped him by the throat and with a single motion 

threw him to the sands below. Maggot-ridden meat struck the 

floor, and the merman's guard did not even wait for the order, 

hurling the skybox attendant over the side of the conveyance. The 

mercenary retired back, trying not to catch his master's 

attention.

    "I will trust these incompetent animals to protect me?" 

Laquatus said to himself. "These dry, ungainly fools, unworthy of 

all responsibility!" he screamed as the guard tried to make 

himself smaller. "I spit on these air-breathing tube worms!"

    The ambassador sent his call forth again, compelling 

absolute, immediate compliance. But his demand did not split open 

the skull of the comatose pit frog. Instead the orders passed 

through the rock beneath the arena, resonating in the caverns 

below. Laquatus felt the surge of power as his waiting armies 

prepared to attack.

 

                       CHAPTER 6

 

    "Bloody hell," rasped Kamahl as he opened his eyes. The 

fighter ached over every portion of his being. His mind fuzzed, 

and he tried to remember where he was. It came back to him as he 

coughed up dust and smoke. The fight with the attacking monster, 

the concealing clouds of dust, and the impact of the thrown 

soldier. All of it surged into focus as he pushed his way to his 

feet. Plaster and lumber sloughed from his back as he looked to 

the gaping hole that his flight had left. The small fires started 

during his impact were growing and at his stern glance died down, 

the smoke whistling through every crack in the houses structure 

as his will compelled the flames.

    Kamahl looked for the soldier who had rammed him. A 

congealing pool of blood leaking from another pile of debris told 

the barbarian his likely fate. He shoveled away wreckage with his 

hand and exposed a dead face. A support beam nailed the corpse to 

the floor as firmly as a mountain. The mage could hear cries of 

the beast and stumbled outside, his steps becoming firmer with 

every second. His sword hung from the outside wall, the blade 

sunk deep in oak. Kamahl threw power into the steel and ripped it 

free in a hail of splinters. Armed and aware, he cut his way to 

the street.

    The grasses and bushes that blocked his way had grown only a 

little after his unexpected withdrawal. Rubble from newly 

demolished buildings covered a lush growth that continued to push 

its way toward the sun. The barbarian climbed carefully up a 

slope of debris, accepting the risk of a fall for a better view. 

The tail of the dragon lashed across the street, each beat 

bringing fresh destruction. Kamahl saw no sign of the other 

fighters and wondered if the beast had killed them all.

    The monster reared up against the wall of the arena, its 

front two legs digging at the stones. Thin panels of fine rock 

fell, revealing the brick that formed the walls. Kamahl knew the 

beast would claw its way through in minutes. Whether any yet 

remained inside was unknown, but they would surely die when the 

dragon pushed its way through the ramshackle structure. The 

barbarian sheathed his sword on his back and walked up the street 

toward the stadium, the grass and brush grasping at his legs.

    The mountain warrior stopped and concentrated, ignoring the 

caresses from the growing plants. Kamahl hurled a continuing 

barrage of knives drawn from his mind. The blades burst into red 

and orange flame, casting shadow as they spun before sinking into 

the waving tail of the monster. The dragon's reflexive movement 

from the pain batted aside some of the projectiles, imbedding 

them in buildings. The weapons started fires as they discharged 

into walls and new trees, the smoke promoting fresh cries of 

panic as those guardsmen hiding in rubble and out of sight found 

their sanctuaries set alight. Despite the secondary damage, the 

dragon's tail dropped limply to the ground as Kamahl's attack 

burned through bundles of nerves.

    The beast, maddened with pain, spun in the square before the 

arena. The monster's hips brushed against the exposed brick core 

of the pit walls. The masonry fragmented and stained the 

creature's upper legs a dark ochre, matching its dusty claws. The 

beast slowed as its dead, trailing tail robbed it of speed, 

dragging through the rubble and catching on exposed beams before 

the monster's power tore it free. Kamahl continued his assault, 

more magically forged knives spinning on their trajectories 

toward the dragon. City guard corpses were still impaled on the 

creature's thorny armor, and the barbarian's attack thudded into 

the cooling bodies. The monster's thorny armor and the dead began 

to burn as the mystic metal vanished in gouts of flame. Kamahl 

knew the impromptu funeral pyres were the only ceremony the 

guardsmen were likely to receive in Cabal City.

    The dragon recovered, finishing its turn and roaring at the 

barbarian, its teeth red with the blood of those already slain. 

Kamahl drew his sword, waiting for the beast's charge.

    A new flare of magic lit up the street, surprising beast and 

barbarian. The combatants froze in the glare, the monster blinded 

and the city guards diving for cover. Kamahl stretched out his 

mind, trying to trace the origin of the power rippling through 

the ground. He felt for the stability and strength that he knew 

from his home mountains, but from the depths an alien magic 

seemed to poison the very street he stood on.

    Pools of light expanded out of the ground, their blue 

radiance growing stronger and attacking Kamahl's eyes. Frothy 

ponds formed, stilled, and dimmed, and creatures erupted into the 

upper world.

    Giant crabs surged from the holes, spreading out in a red 

tide. Their massive frames broke through the welter of brush. 

Claws tore out the dragon growth by the roots, revealing the 

cobblestones that had vanished under the beast's attack. The 

snapping of small tree trunks sounded across the battlefield as 

the crustaceans cleared a beachhead, their pincers shredding 

those obstacles they could not simply uproot by sheer strength.

    The dragon blinked at the sudden activity, frozen in 

surprise. Then a building front, damaged by the battle, cascaded 

into the street and broke its trance. The monster breathed out a 

cloud of green mist, beginning a new bout of berserk growth. The 

potent breath swept up the street, settling over the scuttling 

crabs then reaching the barbarian. Kamahl closed his eyes and 

concentrated. Small flames leaped up from his clothes and gear, 

then grew until his entire body was encased in the pale flame. 

The sound of the fire was echoed in the hiss and crackle of new 

growth sprouting everywhere in the street. Cobblestones cracked 

as trees and bushes forced their way to the surface. The flames 

leaped from Kamahl's clothes to the ground and new tendrils of 

growth withered. The warrior started forward, the fire of his 

will burning a path through the resurgent vegetation. The flames 

lit the mist, and he moved as if in a fog.

    The barbarian used his sword now, his fiery armor thinning, 

leaving him more exposed to the mist. The energy clung to his 

sword and each swing of his weapon cast a scything whip of power 

ahead to clear his path. The blade opened the way to the crabs' 

clearing.

    The pools were still lighting the fading mist with their 

radiance. Kamahl felt immediate antipathy to the light. Its color 

pierced the eye, and his weapon's flame curled back behind him, 

expending his irrational hate into the vegetation at his back. 

The dragon was coming into view, and he could not afford 

distractions now.

    The sea walkers showed no reactions to the barbarian's 

emergence from the new jungle, continuing to cut back growth. The 

dragon breathed again, its concentrated wrath billowing over the 

clearing. Many of the crustaceans were covered with growing 

plants, but they continued working, their claws now trimming 

grass and bushes from their fellow workers as well as the 

clearing's edge. A new surge of mer forces began to crowd the 

clearing. The crabs moved on, their claws now raised and 

threatening.

    Kamahl cut his way along the perimeter of the encampment. The 

warrior surmounted a mound of rubble enabling him to look over 

the crab's clearing. New creatures dragged themselves from the 

pools, and the crustaceans charged the dragon. The giant reptile 

reared up, four legs waved in the air as it spun, its tail 

skimming through the crabs. The sea fighters were thrown up 

against a building front, their shells fracturing with a series 

of crackling sounds. The dragon's dead tail still had mass, and 

the reptile used it like a club, slamming it into the structure's 

facade. Rubble cascaded down over the broken shells.

    The giant monster moved into the arena's square, the street's 

buildings blocking the barbarian's view. Kamahl now had to skirt 

the new forces creeping out of the pools. Small humanoids with 

huge heads crawled out onto the surface gingerly, their whiskers 

trailing on the ground. The barbarian recognized the amphibians. 

The tresias were sometimes found in highland caves. The street 

was filling with these new arrivals, and Kamahl swore as they 

blocked the way. The blind creatures' great claws scraped over 

the rubble and slashed mounds of mown grass into mulch. The 

barbarian was nearing the square, and his lashing flame blade 

scythed away the undergrowth. The dragon screamed and came back 

into view. It stomped a crab into jelly, and pounds of meat 

squirted out between the animal's clawed toes. It began to move 

up the street.

    The amphibians' oversized heads rose up, orienting on the 

giant monster. A surreal and hypnotic radiance pulsed out toward 

the common enemy-faint in the sunlight and dust of battle but 

commanding all the same. Kamahl caught only a brief glimpse, and 

it mesmerized him. The battle faded away as his mind lost itself 

in a play of color. His training strained to break the silken 

mental bonds, to reassert his mastery. The barbarian's struggles 

cleared his mind, and as his sight came back, he found himself 

turned around, facing down the street, away from the dragon and 

toward the tresias. He shifted his eyes away, avoiding the 

hypnotic trap that tried to ensnare him once more. From the 

corner of his eye he could see more crabs coming forth, these 

falling upon the rubble and vegetation to expand the beachhead.

    As the hypnotic power of the tresias seemed to dim, a new 

wave of reinforcements crawled from the depths below. Kamahl 

shuffled to the side in atavistic reaction as the new marine 

fighters rolled and oozed over the landscape. The cephalid 

soldiers hauled themselves by their tentacles out of the pool. 

Bags of flesh, they left a trail of slime as they slithered over 

the cobblestones.

    Though they lay like dead jellyfish cast up on the beach by a 

storm, each grasped a weapon. Spear guns and tridents dug at the 

dirt as the invaders rested for a few precious seconds then 

resumed their drive on the still-bemused monster. The hypnotic 

tresias light vanished as each amphibian collapsed, hanging their 

heads and starting to crawl back on their fragile limbs toward 

the pools to the underworld. The cephalids and crabs parted as 

their blind compatriots returned, their manner showing the same 

disquiet with their allies that the barbarian felt.

    Kamahl scaled the side of a building, his bruised hands 

leaving a tacky film of blood as he swarmed up the side. The sea 

forces had cleared a path, but he would not trust their company. 

By the time he reached the third story, the dragon sounded again, 

fury in its voice as it overcame the amphibians' spell. The 

barbarian chinned himself to the rooftop and turned to run toward 

the giant monster, finally free of the undergrowth and mer 

warriors below.

    The cephalids attacked the dragon, propping their projectors 

on rubble and bodies from the battle. The shafts flew wildly, and 

Kamahl congratulated himself on seeking higher ground. 

Incompetence and inexperience could kill as quickly as malice. A 

few bolts from spear guns snapped into reptilian flesh though 

most landed on rubble and cobblestones. The projectiles 

discharged showers of sparks, and the barbarian detected the same 

energies that fed lightning storms. The mountain warrior conjured 

an axe of flame and threw it with all the force at his command. 

The conjured weapon spun through the air and slammed into the 

shoulder of the convulsing dragon. A charred circle expanded as 

the magic destroyed the thorny armor to show the hide beneath.

    "There's an aiming point!" Kamahl shouted to the forces 

below. The cephalids were silent, their tentacles locked around 

their projectors as they compacted springs and loaded new shafts 

for another volley. The barbarian forgot the clumsy fighters in 

the street below as he heard the battle cry of the Order.

    Lieutenant Kirtar maneuvered on the rooftops as well, ceding 

the ground to the invaders from the forests and seas. Kamahl 

could see city guardsmen coming up other streets from his four-

story vantage point. The dragon was clawing down brick and timber 

over the cephalids and the remaining crabs. The sea fighters 

scrabbled to get clear as the monster tried to bury them. Another 

barrage of bolts sputtered and arced, but the huge beast seemed 

to not notice the pain. It hopped from foot to foot, crushing the 

cabs.

    Kirtar was a fountain of energy as he crossed the roofs. The 

Order champion's attack slammed into the giant creature's hip, 

tunneling its way to the bone. With a crack audible throughout 

the street, a joint gave way, and the creature's rearmost leg 

spasmed and dragged. The giant tried to breathe more fog, but 

only a few wisps came out. It tried to back out into the square 

as everyone closed for the kill.

    Kamahl was accelerating as he jumped to the final roof and 

conjured another weapon in his free hand. He hurled the axe at 

the creature's side, aiming for the thickest remaining patch of 

the beast's thorny armor. He was in the air in a long leap when 

it exploded, devouring a broad swath of the deadly vegetation in 

a wave of flame. The barbarian's sword smashed into a mound of 

muscle as his jump landed him on the beast's side. His plunging 

sword burned a deep wound, and the dragon screamed again. The 

giant tried to scrape the mountain warrior off against a 

building, inflicting even more damage to itself in an instinctive 

response to the attack.

    Kamahl levered himself up and over the rise of the animal's 

spine, his sword and an axe acting as pitons. The rumble of 

cascading rubble drowned out the barbarian's angry cry as a 

barbed tendril of the creature's remaining armor sank its thorns 

into the fighter's thigh. One hand held his buried sword as the 

other tore the vine free. Below him, the beast heaved and pitched 

as the warrior cupped his hand and drew flame into the world. He 

clasped the summoned fire against the wound, hissing at the pain. 

A wave of cold swept his body as his flesh tried to shrug off the 

burn. As he lay panting, the mer forces attacked again.

    Soft-bodied sea warriors raised their spear guns, discharging 

magical projectiles to little effect. The dragon's head dipped, 

and its claws scrabbled, tearing apart some of its tormenters. 

The mer eeled their way into mounds of rubble, and others 

suctioned their way up the outsides of buildings. The forest 

creature took advantage of the ascending invaders and snapped 

them down from the buildings. Even as it devoured its foes, the 

crabs made a run for its flanks. Though most died under the 

dragon's heavy stomps, some scuttled under the massive frame, and 

now giant claws nipped at the injured leg and tail.

    The barbarian saw the crustacean warriors moving wildly 

below, their claws shearing at the huge tendons. The middle leg 

on the left collapsed, and Kamahl jumped for safety as the animal 

went down, rolling to crush the sea fighters. The mountain mage's 

sword lashed into a building wall, and the pull of gravity 

dragged the steel down. The power of the blade left a trail of 

smoking brick as Kamahl arrested his slide. As he slowed, he 

pulled the weapon free and fell the remaining distance to the 

street. His leg protested, but he ignored the shallow wounds. The 

back of the beast lay toward him, and he could see the street 

coming apart under its pounding mass. He closed with the downed 

beast.

    Lieutenant Kirtar called for all forces to finish the 

monster. A mer fighter finally showed some marksmanship and shot 

a charged spear beneath an armored eyelid. A shower of ocular 

fluid soaked the fallen grasses, pouring from the empty socket as 

it writhed. The few remaining crabs began to climb the body.

    The barbarian watched the cephalids retreat back to their 

pools, then he could see only the monster. It filled his vision 

as it tried to rise to its feet. Kamahl raised his sword and 

plunged it near the spine. The beast somehow got its legs under 

its bulk, and the barbarian was nearly catapulted free. Only his 

grip on his sword allowed him to stay with the monster. The 

dragon was stumbling away from the arena and up the street, 

headed for the sea fighters and their pools. The crabs tried to 

climb the slack tail, but they failed as the giant swayed from 

side to side. The beast was killing the warriors almost by 

accident as it crushed both hard-shelled and soft-bodied fighters 

from the sea against the broken bricks of Cabal City.

    Kirtar stood opposite Kamahl on a building roof, surefooted 

despite the slope of the crumbling structure. The barbarian saw a 

predatory grin as the aven unleashed another flight of his 

conjured birds. The mountain warrior swore and breathed out a 

cage of flame, concentrating even as his uncontrolled mount 

tottered beneath him. The golden sparrows swooped down and swept 

over the great reptile, their wings of light shaving away the 

remains of the dragon's thorny armor before rising to the sky. 

The spell wrought creatures threw themselves as living knives at 

the beast's head, vanishing in concussive bursts that carved away 

hide.

    Determined to get the kill, Kamahl forced power into the long 

blade of his sword. Inside the monster a scalpel of flame cut its 

way to the backbone. Massive vertebrae parted as the barbarian's 

will sought out the thick cable of armored nerves. New magic 

impacted on the dragon's flanks, but Kamahl was locked in 

directing his final attack. Bone and nerve sundered under 

Kamahl's lethal surgery, parting the spinal cord and killing the 

beast.

    The mountain warrior turned to jump clear, but he was crushed 

against the beast's back as a huge crab came from the rear in a 

wild rush. A crustacean had finally managed to climb the dragging 

tail, and now its vain attack only put the barbarian at risk. 

Kamahl was bowled over and barely avoided the huge claws, which 

clutched for something to hold on to.

    The dragon fell and the barbarian could hear Kirtar shrieking 

victory. New attacks impacted against the already dead flesh as 

additional surges of magic burrowed into the slowly collapsing 

corpse. Fighters left off their attacks, running for their lives 

as tons of flesh gave up life.

    The barbarian snarled, trapped under the crustacean. He 

forced his way through legs, the spindly limbs landing like clubs 

as the mer fighter panicked, and the pair began to fall free. The 

barbarian and crab were directly under the beast and both bolted 

for the closest bit of clear sky, trying to race under the beast 

as the wall of descending flesh loomed over them. But the 

panicked crab yanked the barbarian back, its claws gripping his 

armored belt as it tried to pull itself to safety. It only doomed 

them both. Pressure threatened to smash Kamahl like a bug, and 

his breath exploded out his mouth. Pain flared all over his body, 

and he fell into darkness, his senses fading as blackness 

smothered all.

 

                       CHAPTER 7

 

    The stench of burned flesh and destruction was sweet in 

Kirtar's nostrils. The aroma was nectar the bird warrior savored 

as he stood with his eyes closed. The crackle of fires soothed 

his hot blood, the destruction of the Cabal structures an 

unexpected benefit. The beast had torn a great wound in the 

city's fabric and like draining blood, the citizens flowed into 

the streets. The attack had caught him deep in the arena, and it 

had taken precious minutes to force his way through the crowds. 

The plaza had been a madhouse, bleeding guardsmen forming 

defenses to manage the crowds. With his warriors still lost in 

the clearing stands, the lieutenant took control, instilling 

order into the fleeing cowards, clearing the way for the coming 

battle. True, he was forced into a tactical retreat and the 

sudden arrival of the mer empire forces turned the contest. But 

it was his own blow that laid the beast low when all was finally 

done.

    The bleating of the wounded irritated him, and he directed 

those of his order with healing skills to ply their trade among 

the injured. He pointed to the mer forces to receive healing 

first. The monsters of the deep at least were brave fighters and 

far more worthy of aid than the corrupt gamblers of the city. The 

lieutenant moved down to the street level as he saw his orders 

being relayed. The few Cabal officers he saw looked thoroughly 

cowed, and none disputed his authority.

    "This is the natural order of things," he whispered to 

himself.

    The crabs dragged away the corpses of their dead, despite the 

Cabal servants' furtive attempts to secure the bodies for the 

city's use. The crustaceans sorted through the rubble, their 

immense strength allowing them to move all but the largest beams. 

The exposed corpses not from the mer realm were discarded on the 

rubble piles to be snared by guardsmen. Kirtar made a note to 

have his own forces collect their dead in Cabal territory.

    A centaur staggered to the street, the simian face visible 

over the high grass. He started toward the Order officer, 

carefully trying to find a clear path. Kirtar's mystic senses 

detected a change in magic. The arena defenses, still unbreached, 

were coming down. Servitors slowly walked toward the growth 

obstructing the streets holding staves. One took the lead and his 

staff of black wood and iron passed among the stalks. The plants 

withered into brittle husks as the lieutenant watched. The other 

Cabal reinforcements joined in.

    "Ware the street cleaners," the champion called out with 

derision. A few of the workers bristled but none chal-lenged his 

appraisal. Kirtar expected nothing more from such cravens.

    "Lieutenant," called the centaur, moving into the cleared 

street, barely avoiding a "mistaken" swing of a withering staff 

wielded by an angry guardsman. The centaur bared his fangs and 

shook the huge club that he used as a walking stick.

    Kirtar recognized him as the fighter allied with the bar-

barian. The injuries he had sustained appeared half-healed, and 

the officer assumed that was the reason the forest fighter had 

not joined in the battle. He confessed to himself that the 

warrior, Kamahl, had at least shown rash courage during the 

fight.

     "What is it?" he asked. Then trying to explain his short-

ness, he continued, "As you can see there is much to be done, and 

our hosts seem incapable of doing it." Kirtar ignored the efforts 

of the Cabal to clear the streets and the stream of carts 

arriving to haul away the rubble.

    "The beast was a Krosan dragon," the centaur said. "It is 

found only in the forests of the far northwest." At the signs of 

the bird warrior's exasperation with the lesson, Seton made his 

point. "It has absolutely no business being here. Something is 

wrong, and this attack could be only the sign of greater 

troubles."

    "I appreciate the information, sir," Kirtar said, speaking 

with excessive courtesy, "but what am I to do?" He waved to the 

destruction caused by the single beast. "How does the destruction 

of a pit like this concern the Order?"

    "For the dragon to appear this far east, the reverberations 

of whatever is disturbing the forest must cover leagues." Seton 

explained, his voice showing offense. "As an officer in the 

Order, sworn to protect the Northern Reaches and hoping to extend 

your authority south, I thought you would be grateful for the 

insight. Excuse me if I misunderstood your seriousness." With 

that the centaur moved away, the haft of his granite-capped club 

beating a tune of anger on the cobblestones.

    Shaking his head at the vagaries of forest warriors, Kirtar 

turned back to supervision. But there was little to do, as an 

army of Cabal workers fell to work in concert with the remaining 

crabs.

    "Of course they are ready now," the lieutenant mumbled to 

himself. More movement caught his eye, and he turned to see 

Laquatus, the mer ambassador, and Turg, his amphibian champion, 

coming from the arena. The frog moved slowly, and his eyes were 

glassy. Kirtar had not paid attention to the arena match and 

wondered if Turg was injured. The frog squatted on his heels, 

slowly rocking from side to side as the ambassador came forward.

    "Congratulations on your brilliant victory," the merman 

hailed. Laquatus gave a short bow that good manners demanded the 

lieutenant return. "The beast would have surely destroyed the 

city if not for your quick action." The ambassador looked pained 

as he said it, and Kirtar felt obligated to inquire.

    "Did you take injuries during the battle?" The lieutenant had 

seen nothing, but it must have been a madhouse inside.

    "No, no," replied the merman. "The spells protecting the 

arena sealed me and my champion away from combat. Turg was 

trapped on the arena floor, and a few others and I were locked in 

a skybox during the actual attack. I fear the excitement was too 

much for my companions. In a fit of desperation they tried to 

leap free and perished in the fields protecting the audience from 

the arena floor." Laquatus looked quite distressed, reining his 

voice in with difficulty. "It's desperately sad. One of the 

deceased was an importer with some knowledge of the attacking 

beast. He said it was a type of dragon that came in response to 

the beast my champion killed."

    Kirtar frowned.

    "A centaur told me that the beast never left the northwestern 

forests," the officer said. "He was quite convinced that such 

animals were never here. To come in response to a cry means 

either the animal was tracking the one killed or that it was in 

the general vicinity." Kirtar wondered if perhaps the centaur was 

on to something. There could be a continuing danger.

    Another bird warrior flew through the air. The four in 

Kirtar's party had been killed, so this golden-winged fighter 

must be a messenger from the north. The lieutenant waved his arms 

to signal his presence, but the sharp-eyed flyer was already 

swooping down to him. The raypen folded his wings and shook the 

still settling dust off his feathers.

    "Greeting to my First," intoned the raypen, its high tenor 

piping as it recited the message from memory. Messengers were 

specially trained to give messages word for word to prevent 

written orders from being intercepted. "There have been attacks 

of forest creatures all along the western borders of the high 

plains. You are to return north directly, collecting information 

and offering aid to those whom need it. The villages under the 

Order must be protected. If necessary you will stay and oversee 

the southern defense. We must find out what is happening. Pianna, 

Captain of the North."

    Kirtar cursed the bad timing. Fighters from across the 

continent were here for the contest, and representatives of the 

other continental powers had arrived as well. Here was a chance 

to forge new alliances, and the Captain had just ordered him back 

to the barely civilized plains to protect scores of nameless 

villages. His huge hands clenched in anger, but he relaxed them 

with a conscious effort. The captain was head of the Order, and 

he must believe that she knew what she was doing. After all, he 

thought to himself, he didn't want to stay in this pit of a city 

anyway. There would be other chances to make his presence known. 

News of his victory would help convince others that the Order's 

direction was necessary for the common good.

    "I am afraid I must leave directly," he said to the 

ambassador, waving the messenger toward the main camp. "I am 

sorry to miss the championship rounds, but I am sure Turg will 

triumph now that I will withdraw from the contests." He looked 

toward the amphibian, but he had vanished from sight. Looking for 

the frog brought the officer's gaze back to the sight of the mer 

forces diving into the pools, dragging their dead behind them.

    "I was very surprised to see your soldiers streaming from the 

ground," he stated, his eyes narrowing as he turned back to the 

ambassador.

    Laquatus seemed huge, his form giving off vibrations that 

seemed hypnotic. Kirtar could feel his pulse slowing as the 

violet eyes of the merman expanded to fill the world.

    "But of course you knew of the soldiers under the city," a 

velvet voice insinuated. "They attacked at your orders, being 

already under your command. Don't you remember?" Kirtar fell into 

darkness ringed in purple as the ambassador took hold of his 

shoulders.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    "I must therefore leave immediately for forest's edge." The 

words resounded in Kirtar's head, and he wondered who was saying 

them. It was with some surprise that he realized that he was the 

speaker. "This attack is but one of dozens that have issued from 

the west. The Order is the only force that can protect those 

villages without the walls and guardsmen of Cabal City," he said 

to the assembled city elders.

    Kirtar stood on a rough platform against the arena, looking 

over the square. The fall of rubble punctuated his speech as work 

crews tried to clear the streets. The dragon that he had slain 

filled the street, and blood from the great corpse slowly drained 

into the storm gutters, the smell issuing from the sewers under 

the arena. The crowd of henchmen and ordinary citizen ignored the 

odor. Kirtar knew them to be used to such odors in this pit. He 

gritted his teeth in anger.

    Why was he giving a speech to the Cabal, he wondered 

savagely. The city was contemptible. Only the grave breach in 

civil order had convinced him to fight the dragon attack. Cabal 

City was a sour taste in his mouth. Only the sight of the mer 

ambassador, his invaluable advisor, prevented him spitting in 

contempt onto the arena square. He ignored the growing mutters at 

his long silence to regard Laquatus, his closest ally. The merman 

was the first to see the importance of uniting the continent of 

Otaria, saving its fragmented history.

    The mer agreed it was long past time to impose order on the 

land. The underwater kingdom would lend arms to help the 

lieutenant pursue his dreams. The guards the ambassador put under 

his command proved invaluable in defeating the huge beast. It was 

the first and richest fruit of the inter-power alliance that the 

Order wished to form.

    How lucky the ambassador had ferried his personal guard to 

the catacombs under the arena. Kirtar wondered at the expense of 

shifting so many water breathers. It was fortunate that the 

drowned caves had been available. Even though the forces proved 

effective, he still chuckled at the naivete of the ambassador. It 

showed the merman's inexperience with the dry land that he would 

bring water breathers as guards against land-bound dangers. After 

all, how many flooded caves could there be? He nodded to the 

ambassador, grateful for his support and resolved to do his best 

in protecting Laquatus from his own foolishness and inexperience.

    The officials began clapping after long seconds, and the 

crowd belatedly joined in. The Master of the Games heaved his 

heavy bulk up to the podium beside the lieutenant. Kirtar dragged 

his attention back to the officials of the Cabal, despising them 

but determined to act politely for his ally's sake. The mer 

ambassador nodded approvingly, and the bird warrior felt a burst 

of pride at his own statesmanship.

    "We thank you for your leadership in combating the dragon in 

conjunction with Ambassador Laquatus's guard." The Cabal 

functionary sent an ill-favored glance toward the water dweller 

as he mentioned the valiant sea fighters. It was the base nature 

of the pits that made them so suspicious of such timely aid, the 

lieutenant said to himself. The speaker turned from the 

ambassador as if snubbing him and gestured broadly toward the 

Order officer and his guards behind him.

    "Hurry up, you bag of wind," the aven warrior muttered to 

himself.

    "In recognition of such bravery and valor in cause of the 

common good, we gladly offer the pick of the prizes to Lieutenant 

Kirtar."

    A polite clapping sounded as a representative of the Order 

went to select a prize from the mound of treasure pulled from the 

arena. The champion was unable to restrain showing at least some 

contempt for the proceeding, and he chose an elen to carry the 

prize. Though the giant bird warriors stood close to ten feet 

tall, the gray-skinned humanoids were of the serving class. The 

lieutenant doubted his hosts were intelligent enough to read the 

insult of the great robed figure going through the prizes like a 

ragpicker searching a garbage pile. The elen selected an object, 

the round sphere almost lost in its gigantic hands.

    The ambassador and his frog both looked to the prize, 

ignoring the rambling official. As Kirtar agreed to this farce 

only as a favor to his ally, he wondered what could be so 

important about a bauble plucked randomly from a pile. The elen 

walked slowly, appearing almost introspective as it came nearer 

the officer. The giant bird warriors were known for their lack of 

magical talent, and it appeared, outside everything Kirtar knew, 

that the huge servant tried to use magical senses to probe the 

metal surface. Intrigued by what would drive such a mystical 

incompetent to such efforts, the lieutenant stepped forward to 

intercept the prize bearer. The walker showed no awareness, 

continuing toward the baggage train where the bauble was to be 

stored with the other luggage. The officer plucked it out of the 

elen's grasp, seeing Turg step forward as if to admonish him. 

Then all thoughts of the frog, the Cabal, and anything else 

vanished from his mind.

    The sphere erupted in a shout of power. The dull metal 

surface seemed to burn away, blurring Kirtar's eyes with tears. 

The magic that called so softly now filled the world. As the 

flare of energy subsided, the lieutenant held a globe of perfect 

crystal. The clear depths called to him, drawing his spirit away 

from Cabal City. The aftermath of the battle and the stench of 

the street were gone. Purity and glory surrounded the bird 

warrior. The audience showed its essential stupidity in staring 

dumbly at him, ignoring the vistas that opened at every side.

    Kirtar saw himself striding through a field of enemies, each 

frozen and impotent against him, and his spells swept them away 

to oblivion. The banner of the Order flew over the field in 

victory. The aven's heart sang as he knew the triumph, the glory, 

that waited to be seized.

    The images dimmed until he saw once again the magnificent 

globe filling his hand. Kirtar heard the exclamations of the 

crowd but ignored them. They were not worthy to taste the future 

he had seen. This city was trash and could be ignored now that he 

held real power. His huge hand closed over the prize, gripping it 

as tightly as his mind gripped the visions it bestowed.

 

                       CHAPTER 8

 

    "Everything was going so well," thought the ambassador, 

stunned by the surge of magic. "How, by the stormy seas, have 

things gotten so out of control?" The ambassador was finally able 

to rouse Turg from his digestive slumber only at the end of the 

battle. He was required to lay actual hands on the amphibian 

before he could break the near coma. Seeing the pit fighter too 

stuffed for any use he forced the humanoid to expel much of what 

he had eaten. Thankfully, no one witnessed the thoroughly 

unpleasant scene, but Laquatus pledged the frog would not be 

allowed such behavior ever again.

    Even as Turg scraped his face clean, a soldier from the 

underground army had found the ambassador and reported on the 

battle. The cephalid shifted down the seats of the arena and 

collapsed as it fell from the high walls to the sands below. 

Laquatus thought the tedious importer would have looked very 

similar if he had not dissolved away under the then-active 

defenses.

    "My lord," the warrior had said in a muffled voice, nearly 

inaudible as it tried to speak out of water, "the beast is fallen 

and our forces clear away the debris. Captain Satas has sent 

those who cannot live long outside the water back through the 

portal. He has been forced to retire as well and waits further 

instruction."

    Laquatus cursed the poor timing that found so few warriors 

able to live long above ground. More amphibians would have to be 

found for further battles. The cephalid's tentacles were nearly 

white from exhaustion, and it needed to get back to the water. 

"Tell the good captain that there is no need for further 

operations on the surface at this time," the ambassador said 

carefully. "Sound the recall of all troops. It is not necessary 

for our fighters to act as servants to the inferiors inhabiting 

this land. I will meet with Satas later at the usual place." He 

paused, wondering just what the situation outside was.

    If worst came to worst, he could always find refuge in the 

deep caverns. It was unlikely that any would be able to invade 

the dark subterranean rivers. Whatever happened, he needed to do 

as much damage control as possible. The presence of a secret 

fighting force must be explained and assurances offered to the 

Cabal. Briefly Laquatus regretted the necessity of sending the 

army back below, but further action would undoubtedly create 

substantial casualties without any lasting gains. If only the 

cave digging crews had opened up more of the underwater cavern 

systems.

    He returned the cephalid's gesture of obedience and watched 

the soft-bodied soldier scale the wall. Captain Satas had 

responded promptly, and it sounded as if the quick action of the 

tresias had saved Turg and the ambas-sador from having to contend 

with the dragon. He resolved ro closet himself with the 

diminutive amphibian in the near future.

    The destruction of the city streets put him in a better 

humor. The rubble and still-visible bodies made him cheerfully 

overlook the insults he had suffered for the moment. Though 

whoever made him and his champion an object of tun would someday 

pay the price. He saw the last of the marine dead being dragged 

into the pools as he arrived to talk with the lieutenant. The 

self-important champion had succumbed easily to the ambassador's 

spells, and he dragged the officer into a gaping building as his 

mind overrode the aven's. It took only a few minutes of apparent 

conversation to set a cover story in place.

    Kirtar now believed that days before the ambassador had told 

the bird warrior of a secret guard foisted upon him by the 

emperor. Unwilling to insult the ability of his Cabal hosts, 

Laquatus had hidden them in the secret tunnels under the arena. 

Realizing that the lieutenant was the preeminent military power 

in the city, the ambassador offered his troops to the Order as an 

emergency reserve. The attack of the dragon revealed how 

incompetent the Cabal was in military matters, and only the 

lieutenant prevented a complete disaster.

    The decision of the emperor to send additional troops showed 

the wisdom of the underwater monarch. At the conclusion of the 

battle, the badly damaged marine formation retired back to the 

deep wells under the arena and the embassy. Laquatus created the 

fantasy of a temporary alliance that even now worked at the bird 

warrior's memory. When Kirtar went north, he would take with him 

the absolute conviction that a permanent alliance was the natural 

next step with the mer empire.

    "Lieutenant Kirtar, we have orders to escort you to a 

ceremony honoring your leadership." A gravely voice announced 

almost in the merman's ear. Laquatus broke off his mental 

manipulations suddenly, leaving the lieutenant to stumble and 

look about vaguely at the sudden release. A section of city 

guardsmen stood at ease, one holding a clean standard that 

contrasted with his torn and dusty uniform. It appeared that the 

city was wasting no time in honoring a hero. The ambassador 

smiled brightly.

    "A great honor indeed, Lieutenant," the merman said, gripping 

the bemused warrior's arm and starting off for the square. He 

ignored the guardsmen who had to step out of their way or be 

trampled. The Order's men had been unwilling to interrupt a 

private conversation, but the city soldiers seemed much too 

arrogant.

    "Perhaps an object lesson is in order," the ambassador said 

to himself.

    Turg was resting somewhere in the surrounding buildings, 

making himself scarce as Laquatus rearranged the lieutenant's 

reality. The merman could only make a simple request as he 

shepherded the aven to the ceremony called by the city. The 

aristocrat's usual close mental link with the amphibian was 

strained by the necessity of keeping Kirtar's mind quiescent. 

Laquatus had no idea what he was saying as he continued to 

impress Kirtar with images and ideas under the cover of the 

conversation. The ambassador received only a split second of 

warning as Turg acted on his spite.

    The wall from an upper story fell out, the heavy cornice and 

brick an irregular boulder that flattened an impudent guardsmen 

like a overripe fruit. The ornate carving was followed by a rain 

of other bricks that broke arms and heads and grew a bumper crop 

of pain among the escort.

    Laquatus shouted with loud dismay and pointed to the men, 

calling for aid. Even had anyone looked up it would have been 

difficult to spot the camouflaged Turg scampering away in manic 

glee. The ambassador knelt by the men as Kirtar called for a 

surgeon to treat the fresh bout of broken bones. The merman hoped 

to watch the men as their bones were set, but additional 

guardsmen came to escort them to the delayed ceremony. This time 

the interruption was much more polite, and Laquatus curbed his 

impulse for Turg to create another accident.

    "We thank you for your actions," the fat man said, as the 

Order leader stepped to the stage. "In the hour of our need ..." 

he droned and Kirtar stood in the background, still lost in the 

grip of the merman's spell. Laquatus dared not use his magic in 

the presence of so many. The official was looking askance at the 

ambassador as the subject of the mer forces came up. The 

aristocrat gathered himself to respond only to have Kirtar step 

forward.

    "The decision to use the forces was mine," he said, claiming 

the cover story that Laquatus had implanted. Victory was sweet in 

the ambassador's mouth as his new puppet played his part. The 

lieutenant told the assembly that the forces were under his 

command during the battle. The aristocrat looked on benignly as 

the farce played itself out on the stage.

    The selection of a prize was supremely unimportant to 

Laquatus, and it was only as the hooded elen brought back the 

diminutive dull-gray ball that the merman took notice. The pit 

frog had access to the ambassador's abilities, and he was first 

to feel the beat of power produced by the sphere. The ambassador 

started from his machinations and looked on it as well. Then both 

stared.

    The flare of power blinded Laquatus. The metal ball, so muted 

before, reflected the sun in a brilliant spray of light. The 

strength of emissions from the sphere blacked out his awareness 

of other spells, and it was only his grip on Turg's arm that 

maintained his control. The unbelievable mystic assault died 

down, and the ambassador tried to cast a spell of detection, just 

to convince himself that he had not imagined the event. His spell 

detected nothing but reverberations. It was only when he focused 

directly of the object in the lieutenant's hands that he sensed 

something unusual. Like a night animal staring into the noonday 

sun, all knowledge he might learn was washed away. The confluence 

of might was too much for even a mage of his ability.

    The Cabal officials appeared stunned, and many of the pit 

fighters competing in the games stood like dumb oxen as the 

lieutenant mumbled a few words and walked away. A Cabal 

official's incredulous look of disbelief turned to anger, and he 

spun on the Master of the Games. The tall, spare man jerked the 

fat fool back toward the arena, whispering furiously in his ear. 

The ambassador imagined that quite a few hard words would be said 

to someone who allowed such a treasure to be given away or 

offered to all comers. Laquatus smiled even as he quickly walked 

after the lieutenant. The Master of the Games's head would likely 

pay for the insults in the arena.

    Kirtar continued on, his aides and soldiers gathered around 

him, their instinct in times of uncertainty to protect their 

commander. The ambassador tried to close with the bird warrior, 

but the press of people prevented him.

    "Lieutenant, we need to talk," he shouted, but the officer 

was still lost in his contemplation of the object. Such power was 

fascinating, and Laquatus ached to peer within the orb for 

himself. Mastering such power will take time, he thought and 

waved to a servant.

    "Find out where the Order party is going," he instructed, 

looking to see whom else he could command. "Meet me at the 

embassy as soon as you have the information. Find one of your 

fellows to keep watch if there are any changes." Laquatus was 

almost at a run as he headed for the embassy. The sphere was a 

completely new factor in his plans, one that upset his 

machinations in the city. The challenge was exhilarating.

    By the time the servant returned with his report of the 

route, the embassy was a madhouse. Workers rushed about, closing 

up rooms while the permanent staff was locked over blueprints for 

new architectural wonders. If the ambassador left the city, he 

would take advantage of his absence and expand the residence. It 

was becoming too cramped for his ambitions. In a city of 

spectacle, his home must be the most impressive.

    "A system of waterfalls with a twisted channel of pools is 

the most interesting," the ambassador said to a harried 

chamberlain. "You will have to construct a spur to the aqueduct 

and bribe the Cabal to divert enough water."

    "Most impressive, your Excellency," the man said 

subserviently, "but where shall we procure the funds for such a 

great expansion?"

    Laquatus waved the concern away.

    "The coastal shipping fees are being collected by our agents 

for the quarterly shift to the treasury. Divert all you need from 

that source," the ambassador said, feeling expansive. When he 

gained control of the sphere he would need a dwelling to reflect 

his new status. And perhaps it was time to accelerate his plans 

for reentry into the undersea court. He looked over the drained 

grotto, the artificial reefs being broken by slaves with 

sledgehammers. He had been chief fish in a small pond for long 

enough. The horrified look on the chamberlain's face reminded him 

that he must still win his new status.

    "I assure you that it will be cleared with the emperor," 

Laquatus said and forgot everything as he noticed the servant 

sent to the Order camp. He walked with the man to the entrance of 

the grotto. Making sure that no one observed them for the moment, 

he pulled the man into the secret room. A crab filled the 

enclosure, a sentry reporting to the caves below. After the 

ambassador closed the door, the crustacean lifted the cover and 

vanished into the pool. Captain Satas dragged himself clear 

moments later. The tre-sias paused for a moment, then moved 

toward the ambassador and messenger, drawn by their nearly 

imperceptible movements and breathing. Laquatus shifted as 

quietly as possible, but the tresias adapted, altering his 

course. The merman was unimpressed with the tresias's performance 

during the battle, but it appeared the captain and his kind could 

adapt well to the land.

    "How may I serve, my lord," the small amphibian said in his 

quiet, dead tone. The ambassador waved the spy to speak, noting 

that his hand's passage in the air was tracked by the captain as 

well.

    "The Order will be traveling west to the forest's edge to 

catalog the reported predations of woodland creatures," the man 

said, opening a pouch and taking out a map. "I bought this off a 

Cabal servitor able to sneak into the main tent." He laid it on 

the floor and weighted it down with a dagger and a few coins. 

Then he looked at the blind amphibian, flustered how to use his 

acquisition. The ambassador also wondered how the tresias would 

know how far the cave system ran. To Laquatus's surprise, instead 

of calling for a sighted retainer, the cave dweller chuckled and 

drew a stone from his own pouch.

    "The sound of paper and mention of routes suggests it is a 

map lying on the floor," Satas stated, rubbing the dull gem 

between his hands. "I have always found such methods of little 

use and came prepared with a substitute."

    The short creature tossed the jewel to the ambassador who 

caught it. A spell whispered new knowledge to his mind. A variant 

of the false memory spell, it left him with a sensory map of the 

explored caves and cleared tunnels. The underside of the 

continent was suddenly more familiar to him than the memories of 

his childhood home. Captain Satas's skin broadcast his amusement, 

but entranced with the novel method of information transmission, 

the ambassador did not even feel anger. He did, however, 

experience irritation as he pulled his new memories and the map 

of the lieutenant's path together.

    Kirtar's route led west. The underground rivers did underlay 

the route, but they were unexplored and sure to be nearly 

impassable. Miners connecting the underworld to the sea would 

have to be moved farther inland. The lieutenant planned to swing 

north and an explored cave system lay nearby. Laquatus could 

catch up with the party and capture the newly revealed power 

source.

    "Captain Satas, the northern caves allow us to intercept the 

group of landsmen and crush them. It is absolutely necessary that 

an amphibious force be available for extended action out of the 

water. Find me soldiers and send them to the Cave of Knives." The 

memory of sharp stalactites and stalagmites in the north prompted 

the name.

    "I will send what forces I can, but we are very short on 

long-duration patrols," Satas said in a pun, the unintentional 

humor irritating the ambassador. "It may be necessary to find 

air-breathing slaves to meet you and supply bodies to soften up 

the adversary."

    Laquatus nodded reluctantly, regretting the lack of forces 

able to operate out of water. He dismissed the officer and 

thought of whom he could meet in the forests. Perhaps the Cabal 

could be of aid. He smiled and clasped the spy's hand. "Excellent 

work!" he cried and hugged the man in apparent fellowship. 

Laquatus raised power and cut into the other's psyche. 

Experiences withered, and memories grew confused. He worked at 

the servant's mind, creating a false shadow of drunkenness and 

nameless female companions. It was hard work, and the fellow 

proved fairly resistant. It took real effort, and Laquatus 

wondered if death wasn't a better solution. But as his talk with 

Satas proved, he lacked walking servants. He continued to 

mutilate memories, wishing he had the resources to just kill the 

fellow and swim away.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Kamahl breathed and was struck by deja vu. Buried twice in 

one battle.

    "I am no mole," he muttered.

    The warrior coughed and tried to turn over. He could not.

    Pressure prevented him from more than breathing. Even his 

head was locked in position, his cheek pressed against stone. The 

barbarian could remember the dragon falling and the crab getting 

in his way.

    "I despise seafood," he muttered. More sensations intruded, 

and he could feel multiple small points of pressure digging into 

his back. He remembered the crustacean's armor and realized that 

he must be trapped under it. He tried to move again, his muscles 

bunching in agony, but nothing shifted. He remembered the great 

dragon falling as well and with a shock understood that two great 

beasts lay atop him, their mass making a mockery of even his 

powerful muscles. It was a miracle that he was not pulped as 

well. The cobblestones underneath him seemed jumbled, and over 

the smell of the dragon and the crab he detected strong odors of 

mold. He could hear the dripping of water and the scuttle of a 

rat. The street must have collapsed under the weight and crushed 

a sewer. The stench of filth was the stench of life, and Kamahl 

laughed before coughing spasms ended his momentary merriment. To 

owe his life to a poorly constructed drain.

    The barbarian wondered if anyone would rescue him. He 

remembered the disregard of the lieutenant and the crabs and 

hoped he could count on the Cabal forces. At the very least, 

someone would have to take care of the giant corpse.

    "Perhaps they will enchant it and have it walk away." The 

crab might weigh over a thousand pounds, but he was sure that he 

could get out without the tons of flesh holding the shell in 

place. He imagined a giant undead monster crushing the crab and 

the life under it into oblivion as it tried to rise. Kamahl 

thought of his killing blow. He realized that with no intact 

spine, it was unlikely that even raised, the monster would be 

able to move. It seemed colder somehow.

    The tremendous ringing of magical energy made him believe 

that he was dying, and new planes of existence called to him. 

Then his senses located the source of the power. A locus of 

exultation, a shout of birth, it lay some distance away. His mind 

demanded he move, run to the source, but his body stayed relaxed, 

impotent under the great weight. His thoughts grew hazy as the 

energy retreated. He had sensed this before, though it wasn't as 

strong. The treasure room! He recalled the sphere behind the 

sword. Someone else must have seen its value and called forth its 

essence. His mind swirling, he tried to imagine what champion 

might hold it now. It was harder to think, the air thicker. He 

could not call power, the pressure on his body seeming to squeeze 

the magic out. Just a few more minutes of rest and them he would 

cut his way free. After all, a victory without being alive to 

enjoy it seemed pointless. Just a few minutes more. . . .

    The sound roused his attention at once. The rhythmic cuts of 

a sharp edge into flesh transmitted themselves through the 

corpse. He might have been gathering himself for a few minutes or 

for days, but he shouted loudly, pushing the sound out despite 

aching, compressed ribs. There was a pause in the beat and then 

it resumed, louder than before.

    The leathery scrape of scales signaled the shifting of the 

dragon's mass. Pressure spiked and eased as the giant corpse 

slumped to the side. Shy beams of light peaked under the crab's 

shell, and the crunch of metal in chitin showed the worker was 

near.

    "Have a care," shouted Kamahl trying to shift the beast above 

him. It gave a little, though it still seemed pinned down on one 

side. "The crab is right on top of me!"

    A great hand wormed its way under the shell and another 

joined it. The knuckles went white as the shell lifted a 

fraction. The barbarian forced his complaining body to lift as 

well, and the additional force flipped the crustacean to the 

side. Kamahl reeled at the release of weight, and the light left 

his eyes watering. Seton stood, his sides heaving, with a bloody 

axe beside him. As the barbarian moved out of the shallow 

depression, he could see Cabal servants advance on the crab, 

sledgehammers falling as they smashed armor and threw fragments 

into a nearby wagon. Other servants with huge cleavers attacked 

the dragon's corpse, a steady stream of bloody lumps of flesh 

falling to the street. The meat went to other carts, and some 

rumbled toward the arena.

    "Waste not, want not." Seton laughed as he came closer to 

Kamahl. The barbarian allowed himself to lean on the giant.

    "What happened?" the mountain fighter asked, speaking with 

difficulty from his chapped lips. He waved a water carrier over 

from his round of the Cabal workers.

    "What happened?" the centaur replied incredulously. "You are 

standing in the largest open-air butcher shop on the continent, 

and you ask what happened? As if you missed a few seconds of a 

play?" The simian face writhed with suppressed merriment.

    "I don't mean this," Kamahl said irritably, dismissing the 

battle, his triumph, and his near death with a wave. "What force 

cried out so loudly long after the dragon fell?" The centaur 

moved away from the other workers.

    "The Cabal presented a prize to Lieutenant Kirtar for killing 

the beast," he whispered. "When he held it in his hands, it 

released such power that all the city was stunned by it. He left 

for his camp and soon after went north. Word came of other 

attacks by forest creatures, and the Captain called him away." 

The centaur knelt, bringing his mouth closer to the barbarian's 

ear.

    "They say the Master of the Games has disappeared, punished 

for giving away such power. He has gone to feed the beasts I 

wager. I heard the ambassador's servants tell a Cabal officer 

that Laquatus would be leaving the city shortly for 

'consultations.' " Seton looked over the destruction and the 

blood running into the gutters. "What happened here is merely the 

beginning."

    Kamahl thought of the prize that he desired given to the 

Lieutenant.

    "They rewarded Kirtar for killing the dragon?" he said hotly. 

"They gave him what was rightfully mine, and he has run away 

north." He began to pace, his injuries momentarily forgotten. He 

ran to the pit where he had fallen, shouldering aside the 

workers. Kamahl went to his hands and knees, looking determinedly 

over the ground, ignoring the complaints from offended servitors. 

Seton followed and quelled the comments with a frown. Kamahl 

stood suddenly, his great sword in his hand. The long blade 

whipped through the air, the dragon blood burning away in a trail 

of smoke.

    "I will go reclaim my prize from Kirtar," the barbarian said, 

steel ringing in his voice. "1 will have my reward though the 

entire Order stands in my way."

 

                       CHAPTER 9

 

    The early morning dew made the grasslands a jeweled vista, 

the sun's rays glittering off the small droplets. The rider 

nudged the sides of her steed and set it through the tall grass.

    The woman looked alertly over the landscape, the slight fold 

of her eyes hiding some of the intensity of her observation. Her 

black hair trailed down her back, bound in a long rope by 

silvered ornaments. One arm rested on her saddle pommel, encased 

in leather and steel. The bracer's ancient power was temporarily 

quiescent. A tall asymmetric bow tilted forward in its case, the 

fine wood of the box repelling the morning moisture.

    The unicorn ran easily, its gait almost gentle but covering 

ground faster than a horse could run. Its horn glinted, the 

delicate spiral supported by steel laminated and magically bonded 

to its skull. The mount's saddle was a tangle of straps, and the 

rider's legs were half-enclosed by the stirrups.

    The need for such careful securing was obvious as the unicorn 

turned at an incredibly sharp angle, altering its run in response 

to a nudge from its rider's knee. Dirt showered as the steed 

accelerated, its enchanted hooves casting pebbles and dirt clods 

up into the air like slings.

    The loudest sound was the jingle of the woman's scale mail 

and the slap of the long cavalry sword against her back. A field 

of tall wild flowers lay in a depression, and she directed the 

steed toward them. The tension was obvious in her first strokes 

as she tried to loosen her muscles. The first cuts took great 

swathes of flowers as she struggled for precision. She turned the 

unicorn in a tight circle almost peeling her out of the saddle. 

Again she went through the flowers. Now the sword strokes took 

single blossoms, and she nodded in satisfaction at her skill.

    "If only the forest beasts were as easily understood and 

directed," Pianna, Captain of the Order, whispered to herself. 

For weeks, animals from the west appeared and acted 

unpredictably. Solitary beasts that naturally subsisted alone now 

roamed in large groups. Skittish herd animals became insanely 

aggressive. Beasts plowed through the fields and villages of man 

doing destruction but only sporadically, leaving some settlements 

completely alone while only a few miles away numberless herds 

destroyed everything. She sent messengers to druids and other 

holders of wisdom, but no answer issued from the forest, only 

more animals that pursued some unknown path or goal. The 

purposeless attacks were becoming the Order's crucible.

    For years she had extended the Order's message of new unity, 

and now it was being put to the test. Unfortunately, it was a 

test the organization was failing. The raids continued despite 

her best efforts. There seemed to be no plan or direction to the 

strikes. Animals and monstrous plants appeared at villages and 

struck out in frenzy. Sometime the attacks stopped before much 

was destroyed, even if a hamlet had no real defenses. Other times 

the assaults continued until all was destroyed and the 

inhabitants were dead.

    The Order-sponsored militias were swept away by the 

unrelenting aggression. For a second, Pianna regretted the lack 

of war machines imposed by the Strictures. In the past, 

mechanisms might have turned such assaults without casualties. 

Her losses were precious members of the Order.

    "But such machines breed more destruction and contempt for 

life because they are so easily replaced," she reminded herself. 

The legend of Urza provided a chilling lesson of the madness 

artifacts led to. Armies of unquestioning automatons fought wars 

for centuries, stripping the world down to a husk from which it 

was still recovering. Even after a century, there were still vast 

fields of machines being found, the rusted and crushed 

instruments of a world's destruction. Each one an opportunity for 

evil, to be rebuilt until an unquestioning army might march 

again. The Order might be beleaguered, but it was still a living 

expression of noble ideals.

    She fingered the sword at her side, her hands running over 

the pommel worn smooth by generations of commanders. It had 

belonged to one of the original members of the Order, a symbol of 

authority transferred from leader to leader, its steel in service 

for hundreds of years. But it acted on the choices of its 

wielder. It was an extension of her soul, not a free-ranging 

engine of destruction. Her skill was what controlled it, and 

before every fight she dedicated her life and ideals to the 

Order. If it could act on its own, such a servant would dilute 

her involvement in her soul's journey.

    In such a case, she would throw it in the crusher that very 

second.

    The crushers were devours of the past, great engines the size 

of a manor, their interiors filled with swinging hammers and 

blades. Their power derived solely from the great wheels turned 

by knights and squires. The engines were an extension of the 

individuals like a sword, or so the captain told herself. Pianna 

hoped that the machines were not corrupting the Order even as 

they tried to save the world. Those artifacts and instruments of 

the past, which had led the world so astray, were committed to 

the bowels of the device, ground between wheel until only small 

scraps remained. What was left was sold to blacksmiths and 

tinkers. What corrupted the world was devoured by the forge and 

rendered into simple blades and pots. Those items of unusual 

lethality were melted down and cast into ingots, the metal bars 

hidden in Order fortifications or dropped into the deep waters of 

the ocean. Better to rely on one's own humanity than sacrifice it 

for soulless fighters.

    The unicorn's hooves carried her far as she ruminated, and 

her shadow on the ground lengthened. On the horizon a line of 

trees was visible, stretching several miles across. The mount 

accelerated as the captain used her heels, her hands checking her 

equipment as they leaped forward. The wood lay in a section of 

the plain, exposed like an outrunner of the forest. The copse was 

only a few miles across, but the trees soared hundreds of feet 

into the air.

    Villages grew nearby, and races of all description tried to 

make a living through the forest's bounty. Those brave enough 

harvested the wood, depending on the isolated nature of the grove 

to prevent attacks from dangerous animals found in the forest 

proper. But Pianna had recently received disturbing reports of 

animal attacks and missing villagers. A small detachment of the 

Order followed behind her but farther west. The captain continued 

alone to question the heads of the villages about these recent 

occurrences.

    The forest was a wall, and she still saw no sign of the 

villagers. Where was the smoke from cooking fires or signs of 

timber wagons working the forest's edge? It had been years since 

she came this way, and perhaps her trail sense had misled her. 

The road might have shifted or the loggers moved to new ground. 

She doubted such rationalizations and drew her bow from her case. 

The laminated layers of wood, horn, and metal were smooth in her 

hands. She checked the tension of the string, and her pluck 

sounded almost lyrical as the various components vibrated and 

provided a rich tone. Her spirit settled, the single note calming 

her worries. Her quiver was full and her bow strung, her mastery 

practiced and ready. She moved laterally along the forest edge, 

the sure hooves of her steed laughing at fallen trees and 

gullies. Still no sign of life, and she nudged the unicorn to a 

faster pace.

    Howls seemed to rise from the ground as she rode around a 

green peninsula. The stumps in the clearing revealed a deep cut 

into the forest. Dozens of dire wolves ran from the forest, 

joining the giant pack that surrounded an isolated tree. In the 

branches of a giant pine, a group of loggers waved their 

distress. A grove of whisper trees sighed softly in the breeze, 

their branches swallowing the yells of the men and the screams of 

the horses.

    Whisper trees grew in small numbers, and somehow the movement 

of their branches muffled sounds. Such groves were notorious for 

traps, but a lively market in paneling that absorbed noise was in 

high demand in the larger cities. Men of wealth lined homes to 

cut off the bustle of the town, introducing pastoral quiet in the 

most densely packed markets. Plotters and conspirators paid a 

premium to line rooms where their councils might be kept from 

prying ears. Prisons were said to have rooms where the screams of 

starving and tortured souls were never heard.

    But now the loggers might pay the price of their craft. She 

knew that there would be guards to protect the loggers somewhere 

nearby. Harvesting trees from the forest was dangerous and often 

disturbed creatures that only well-armed fighters could 

discourage. Her own troops were across the forest, and Pianna 

doubted they would arrive in time. Only the vagaries of the 

afternoon air had allowed her to hear anything at all.

    There were still loggers scaling the lone tree, trying to get 

out of reach of canine teeth. Ropes swarmed with men as a circle 

of wolves around the trunk contracted. The rotten gaping wound on 

the tree's trunk explained why it had not been harvested. A lurch 

of the bare branches suggested that it could not bear its current 

crop of panicked men for long.

    Most of the wolves seemed little interested in the men, 

rooting through the wagon scattered and overturned in the 

clearing. Red jaws howled silently as the beasts rose from 

feasting on the draft animals still in their traces.

    Members of the pack leaped from the tumbled wagons, dragging 

away equipment as they worked furiously. Whatever the animals 

were looking for, Pianna could tell that they were not finding 

it. Now the mass of animals seemed to find new energy and 

converged on the few men still fighting on the ground. A few 

loggers swung their axes and heavy chains, giving their fellows 

time to ascend the ropes.

    The number of men on the ground shrank, but each successful 

retreat made the rearguard's job more difficult.

    Her arrow was laid and launched in a heartbeat, the shaft 

driving through the ribs of a wolf to drop it in its tracks. 

Others followed, her shoulder muscles rolling as she sent 

missiles flying. The wolves did not turn as she killed the rear 

animals. The whisper trees masked her attack, allowing her to 

slaughter at will. However, the wolves did not cease their 

attack, and she watched a logger get dragged down. The dire wolf 

was the size of a small pony, and the man came apart like a 

sickly rabbit as the canine head tossed his body. Pianna could 

hear no screams thanks to the surrounding trees.

    Power flowed through her veins and into the threads of metal 

in her bow. Her bracer glowed brightly as she let loose another 

arrow. This one flew to the head of the pack, and its discharge 

was blinding, the flash leaving wolves writhing as their eyes 

tried to adapt. The loggers were blind as well, and one went 

down, tripping over a rolling wolf. The animal did not attack, 

but the man's own axe laid his leg open. His enemy's lolling 

tongue lapped at the blood as everyone's vision cleared.

    Pianna drove the unicorn closer, more magic singing through 

her bow. Now the projectiles swelled until they seemed javelins, 

nailing the wolves to the ground. The animals still did not 

react, bizarrely intent on the men on and around the tree despite 

the ample carrion everywhere. The captain drove her steed into 

the rear of the pack. The unicorn's horn dipped and punctured 

sides as the pair tried to turn the attack from the loggers. 

Finally, her slaughter made the wolves react in self-

preservation. The beasts spun and tore at her, but the Order 

leader's magic rose as a shield.

    Golden light encased Pianna's legs and the unicorn's sides as 

she tried to draw the pack away.

    Her steed was a kicking and screaming demon, its hooves 

shattering skulls and ribs as the wolves tried to overwhelm them. 

The captain swore as she saw there were still loggers on the 

ground. She rose in the saddle and fired back toward the tree, 

killing a beast tearing off a logger's leg. Two wolves leaped as 

she provided covering fire to the final men. Power still flooding 

her bow, she swung it like a stave. It struck, destroying the 

animal's ribs. The other beast's jaw stopped inches away as the 

unicorn twisted its neck with a sinuous grace, stabbing its horn 

deep into the wolf's side and piercing the heart. The weight of 

the forest hunter nearly toppled her steed, and the equine weapon 

flared with power as it shook the corpse free.

    The pack was converging on her, and Pianna spun the unicorn 

on its rear legs to ride free. She killed an attacker as it tried 

to duck under her steed. Another wolf tried to hamstring her 

mount, but the invoked armor defeated its teeth. More converged, 

but the unicorn's acceleration stopped them from being buried by 

the pack. One beast nearly defeated the captain as it clambered 

on top of its fellows and leaped to snatch Pianna from the 

saddle. The unicorn reacted to the captain's sudden signal and 

turned again, flattening into an all-out run. The wolf's 

outstretched paws hooked her quiver and tore it open. It was only 

the strength of the unicorn and the semi-locking stirrups that 

prevented the leader of the Order from being dragged to the 

ground.

    The unicorn's pace took it out of danger, but Pianna hauled 

her steed about, looking to see if the pack still followed. The 

wolves were turning back to the men at the base of the tree. The 

branches looked overloaded, and desperate loggers cut the ropes 

to the ground, spilling a few straggling climbers. One person in 

the crown had a light crossbow and loosed a bolt. The projectile 

did nothing more than return the wolves' attention back to the 

encircled woodsmen. Pianna cursed the man's vain attempts even as 

she circled her steed and raised more power. She was not as 

strong as her lieutenant in the mystic arts, but bursts of power 

left her bow despite her lack of arrows.

    More of the canines dropped, the shafts of energy burning 

away limbs and exploding inside the animals. Many of the crippled 

animals were torn apart by their fellows as the beasts raged out 

of control. In a second, the circle around the tree was breached, 

and the men on the ground died, despite the captain's flurry of 

arrows and rain of impromptu weapons from the loggers above.

    The animals were insane killing machines, snapping at 

everything. Pianna turned her steed to ride out of danger now 

that the men on the ground were dead. A branch broke, and two men 

fell to their deaths. Each extracted a measure of vengeance as 

they crushed the wolves they landed on, but they died by the jaws 

of the others. The captain's arrows swept the successful killers 

away, but the pack did not turn. The animals threw themselves 

against the tree, which shuddered, revealing the rottenness at 

its core. Pianna saw the despair on the loggers' faces and sent 

the unicorn forward once more.

    The captain's bow shot shards of pure energy, but she paid a 

steep price for each shot. Pianna's skill as a archer created 

arrows that enhanced her power in concert with her spirit, bow, 

and bracer. Now the magic flowed like a river and drained away 

the mystic armor from her legs and steed.

    She was surrounded now, using her magnificent bow as a club 

until it was dragged away by foamy jaws. Her sword arced out and 

cut down the wolf that thought her helpless. Now bare steel 

carved into the pack as Pianna directed all her power into armor. 

The mesh of power over her and her steed grew as tattered as lace 

as her last reserves of strength drained away. The silence of the 

battle made it seem a dream as she readied herself for death.

    A shower of javelins and spears fell from the sky, promising 

life like spring's first rain. Pianna drove toward the tree, her 

sword cutting through the snarling wall as more weapons plummeted 

from above. At last she was through and turned her steed, backing 

into the rotting cavity of the trunk. The armor on the unicorn 

flanks evaporated. Now only a thin web of armor on the unicorn's 

neck and fore-quarters offered resistance to the dire wolves' 

teeth. But that thin protection was enough as an Order aerial 

unit came to the rescue.

    Griffins dived from the sky, their shrieks of rage lost in 

the whisper trees. Another flight of javelins stabbed into the 

wolves as the soldiers used the last of their throwing weapons 

and closed with the pack. Talons flashed. The fliers snatched up 

the maddened animals. Beaks and swords were red with blood, and 

the flying steeds and their riders pulled clear. Other griffins 

landed out in the clearing and advanced on the tattered edges of 

the pack.

    The elite soldiers swung long flails and maces. The wolves 

turned to overwhelm the reinforcements. Bones exploded as the 

enhanced weapons swatted the animals away. Some of the animals 

tried to run, but most closed with the fighters. The fresh mages 

were encased in magical power and nearly immune to the dire 

wolves. The detachment reaped the clearing free of their 

opponents, the furry bodies pinwheeling away. A few mounted 

archers overhead unleashed waves of mystic arrows, peppering the 

wolves in front of the tree that still tried to reach Pianna. The 

loggers overhead might have screamed with joy, but the captain 

could only guess, for the whisper trees smothered every sound. 

Pianna's magic faded away, but the battle was over, and the pack 

broke apart.

    A few remaining wolves fled deeper into the wood, the trees 

preventing aerial pursuit. Many of her command dismounted, but 

Pianna sent her tiring beast in front of her rescuers. Using 

battle sign, she directed them to help the wounded woodsmen. They 

obeyed, the power that armored them fading as they prepared to 

heal those still hanging onto life.

    She waved for the leader of the griffin riders to follow and 

took the unicorn away from the whisper trees, the sounds of the 

plains once more in her ears as she left their sphere of 

influence.

    "Sergeant Paige," Pianna said, her arms feeling the burn of 

her archery, "what of the villages nearby?" The griffin riders, 

due to their speed, were the premier scouts of the Order.

    "Captain," he replied, coughing up dust, "the villages have 

all been set upon by creatures of the wood. Bears and other 

monsters are common, and there are rumors of great beasts 

annihilating everything in their way. We escorted those willing 

to come to the fort before returning to check on you." The 

soldier showed the irritation that all sergeants had with too-

brave officers. "You were fortunate that we arrived to . . ." He 

paused, his lined face working as he considered her bland 

expression. "... support your charge, Captain. I am sure you were 

moments from victory." "In protecting those under my care, there 

is no choice, Paige," Pianna answered. "We need to get these 

people back to the fort if their village is evacuated." She 

considered the wagons rolling away now from the whisper trees. 

"But how many we can move away from danger, I just don't know."

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Despite its crude construction, the fort looked like heaven 

to Pianna. The walls were nothing more than upended logs, 

standing only fifteen feet high. Clumps of longer trunks provided 

cover for archers, but it was nothing compared to the mighty 

ramparts of other Order fortresses. The fort was on a broad rise, 

surrounded by a dry moat and the wooden wall. An artificial hill 

rose some seventy feet, and it was capped by a large tower 

providing the final refuge from assault. The tower was 

constructed of treated timbers, and the Order's sigil flew from 

the top of pole.

    Any cover would be welcome, for madness seemed to grip almost 

every animal of the forest. Large predators attacked, even though 

instinct should have sent them miles from such a large gathering. 

Groups of normally solitary hunters erupted from the grass and 

were fought off only when almost all were dead. The villagers' 

accompanying herds of livestock were ignored, their owners the 

targets of tooth and claw.

    The gates were open, and Pianna and her party rode into the 

fort. It became nearly impossible to move, the numbers of 

refugees filling the enclosure. Soldiers stood on scaffolding 

along the walls, runners moving on the elevated paths rather than 

daring the tangle of people. Many of those seeking shelter inside 

the walls were woodsmen and loggers. Their glassy faces showing 

the shock of being driven from their homes. Children ran and 

played among the tumult with the easy care that youth could 

bring, while their parents and guardians were too numb to rein 

them in. Traders and merchants of all descriptions sat with their 

goods piled high. Pianna resolved to cache such cargoes outside 

the walls. A group of hunters stood by, their clothing and manner 

marking them as Cabal minions. They laughed at the crowd, and 

each shocked face going by provoked a new burst of merriment.

    The keys and chains in their stack of gear told the captain 

they were pit hunters. The Cabal paid well for a fresh flow of 

creatures from around the continent. Pianna had, in scouting the 

forest edge, come across the leavings of such beast caravans. 

Starved and sick animals were abandoned without even the benefit 

of death. The predators trailing such columns lost their fear of 

people and associated them with food.

    The group noticed her regard and grew silent, then turned and 

looked in other directions until her attention was diverted. The 

Order was pledged to protect all peaceable people on the plains, 

and the Cabal was careful to obey the letter of the law.

    Orderlies made their way through the crowd, moving toward the 

wagons of wounded to conduct them to the healers. Pianna wondered 

bleakly how many had died on the way to the fort. Her warriors 

tried vainly to magically heal wounds when the bulk of their 

training was inflicting them. She was unable to have a healer 

flown out because of the current crush in the other Order holds.

    The captain dismounted, her hand pressing against her steed's 

side as the unicorn was finally led away. The stables were full 

of refugees, so the animals were being picketed outside. The 

griffins screamed, so all could hear their displeasure at being 

refused their own stalls.

    Pianna headed for the gatehouse. The officer in charge of the 

fort rose to his feet, giving her a salute that she returned 

absently. A sack of beer lay on the table, and she filled an 

empty flagon and washed down the dust of the road.

    "Sergeant Sumer," she said, her voice raspy from herding a 

column of refugees, "what news?" She wiped her eyes, clearing 

away dirt and wondering if the bathhouse was plugged with asylum 

seekers as well.

    "Not much of a change since this morning," the sergeant 

answered, a long scar down his face created the illusion of a 

leer. "The refugees are still coming in, and all reports confirm 

widespread attacks." He turned to the map behind the table, a 

cluster of pins showing attacks and sightings of animals. It 

appeared random, and the sergeant tapped the blank spaces 

representing the forest's interior.

    "These attacks might presage an attack by the western 

tribes," he opinioned. Pianna's snort of disbelief punctured the 

soldier's theory.

    "I see no benefit to the forest folk in arousing our defenses 

and clearing the villages of hostages against our behavior," she 

said, reining in the temper which the journey had roused. "The 

random nature of the attacks mean we are looking everywhere. 

Whatever is directing these attacks is doing so for no benefit 

other than destruction." She walked around the desk and 

considered the map more closely.

    "The only pattern these attacks have is that they radiate 

from the Krosan forest." Pianna thought of the patrols that 

scoured the edge of the woodlands. "Perhaps the focus of these 

troubles lies elsewhere." She looked to the southern reaches of 

the map.

    "Is there any word of Lieutenant Kirtar?" she asked, thinking 

how valuable he and the other aven would be.

    "There was a dragon attack which he defeated, and he says he 

will be back after sweeping the southern sectors." The sergeant's 

faint tone of distaste reminded Pianna that many considered 

Kirtar and his bird warriors to be arrogant and abrasive.

    "He is your superior officer, and he and his people have 

power we need." She regretted that most of the lieutenant's 

people were far to the northeast and insular except for those 

taking service in the Order. "He should be able to rally the 

south. I know that he hoped to impress the Cabal and Mer Empire 

in the pits, but we need him here. Once again she considered the 

map. The concentration of her forces along the forest was drying 

up her information sources.

    "Maybe Kirtar will discover something in the south," she said 

finally. "We need to know what is going on, but for now we must 

protect our own."

 

                       CHAPTER 10

 

    "I hate the forest," Laquatus snarled as he exited the 

transport pool. Days swimming through caves and river systems 

under the continent had left his eyes unprepared for the light 

and heat of the upper world. Turg came out of the pool behind 

him, his arms hurling sodden luggage. Crabs scuttled and set up a 

tent for shade as Captain Satas sat in the sun. The amphibian's 

blind eyes sought the orb's warmth even as his skin burned, 

exposed to light nature never meant for his people.

    "I trust you will be available should I need aid," the 

ambassador said as he walked to a chair parked under an awning 

and settled into it. The blind officer tracked his movements.

    "I serve your will, but I must travel slowly as we map out 

routes through the underwater caves," Satas announced, clicking 

his claws together as he gasped in the heat. "Until more warriors 

and miners arrive from the sea, you must depend on hirelings," 

Satas said, his skin beginning to peel away. His eyes were 

growing dim and sunken as he stayed in the hot, dry air.

    "Turg can handle any small difficulties, my good Captain."

    Laquatus sipped from the goblet left by the chair. How 

unfortunate that decent attendants must be left underwater. 

However, it was a willingness to make sacrifices that defined 

great leaders, he thought to himself. Besides, a trail of dying 

servants would have attracted far too much attention.

    "Stand ready to reopen the portal should the mercenaries 

prove unable to meet my needs. You are sure you can open the 

portal directly beneath me?" Laquatus asked as Turg slunk into 

the tent and settled in a sullen mass. The large amphibian's skin 

was already looking dry, and the frog would be difficult to 

control if the situation went badly.

    "The stone calls out to those who know it, Your Excellency," 

Satas replied, having given the merman a tresias stone. "Finding 

you will never be difficult while you bear it. It is reaching you 

that will be hard. Once you begin traveling, I cannot guarantee 

immediate support."

    The ambassador only nodded before remembering that Satas was 

blind and dismissed him and his men.

    Though he appeared at ease, in reality Laquatus seethed with 

anger and frustration. The lieutenant's path kept him from the 

explored system of caves and the underground rivers. Those that 

did exist were clogged with falls and tiny diverging passages. To 

truly develop the underwater roads would take decades of effort. 

So instead of leading an attack by mer forces, he was condemned 

to once more work with drylanders.

    The lands were hilly and dusty, a buffer between the plains 

and the forests to the west. No buildings or civilization as 

those above water considered it. Turg moved in the tent, and 

Laquatus heard breaking glass. The gurgle of pouring liquid told 

the ambassador the jack had found his cache of seawater. He 

considered disciplining the frog, but the heat of the day drained 

away all initiative. His hatred festered as he wondered how long 

it would take the mercenaries to arrive.

    The first scout into the camp surprised the ambassador, 

interrupting the merman's sulk in the heat. The man was small and 

covered in more warts than the aristocrat's jack. He dismounted 

and bowed. "Your Excellency-" he began.

    "Surely there is a spokesman less repellent than you," 

Laquatus interrupted, looking back the way the scout had come. "I 

paid for the best, not the worst." The merman watched teeth grind 

as the man reached for a sword. Actually, the discolored skin 

reminded the ambassador of certain breeds of fish, but he was 

bored and needed entertainment. "I will return with my captain," 

the red-faced mercenary ground out. Laquatus waved and watched 

the fellow jerk himself into the saddle and start up the trail. 

The ambassador went into the hot tent to rouse his protector. 

Turg lay somnolent, broken glass all around him. Laquatus found 

an unopened bottle of salt water and smashed it against the tent 

pole bracket, ignoring the shards that fell on his champion. The 

merman took a long draught and poured the rest over his body. 

Already the frigid waterways down below seemed a dream in this 

heat. He kicked Turg viciously in the ribs, driving him up and 

outside. Laquatus saw the broken glass slash the frog's feet. He 

followed, resigning himself to only petty cruelties until he 

could once more call upon mer warriors.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    The village was only a wide spot in the road, completely 

overwhelmed by the caravan camped around it. Laquatus hammered 

his heels into his steed and sent the long-suffering mare 

forward. The brisker pace cooled the ambassador down, his sodden 

garments losing heat as they dried. The mercenaries leading him 

watched sourly as he passed, water dripping down to the ground. 

The aristocrat had appropriated and emptied most of the column's 

canteens. The fighters' drinking water dribbled down the 

ambassador's back to the dirt as he passed. The mercenary leader 

was lost in a cloak, trying to seal off the heat. Laquatus could 

feel Turg closing from behind as he sprinted from a mud hollow to 

get to the camp. The hot breath of the amphibian seemed to fill 

the merman's lungs as he crowded against the column commander.

    "All the hunting parties bring their captures here," the man 

said pointing to the swathe of activity. The encampment was 

swollen with the cries of animals and people. Bears, cougars, and 

wolves were caged, as well as fauns and Krosan dragonettes. A 

huge elk, nearly the size of an elephant, was secured to a stake 

by a nose ring. Though the noise enveloped them, it was without 

the frenzy expected from wild animals. Many seemed docile, even 

lost as they lay within the enclosures of steel. The hum of 

controlling spells called to the ambassador. The merman felt his 

champion slowly entering the camp behind him and drifting toward 

the pens. Laquatus broke the spell, and Turg started at the surge 

of will. The amphibian ran to his master, goaded by the 

aristocrat's bad humor.

    "Sorry ambassador," called Laquatus's escort as the 

mercenaries peeled off for other duties, leaving him and the 

amphibian with only the company of their baggage. "It takes some 

effort to avoid the magic controlling the animals."

    Laquatus nodded in recognition. The Mer Empire special-ized 

in spells of control and illusion, and a profitable business was 

made in training and equipping the hunters who entered the 

forest.

    "Without the spells provided by the empire it would be 

impossible to manage these animals," the ambassador muttered, 

taking control of the giant elk. His mental bludgeoning sent it 

rampaging across the camp, its painful cries of no interest to 

the ambassador. Despite its matted hide and sores, it still had 

enough power to rip the stake out of the ground. He nodded at the 

ease with which he could hijack the spells.

    The leader of the caravan approached. At least Laquatus 

thought him a leader in his finery. The man was tall and slender, 

his clothes of sturdy leather dyed in subtle hues with fancy 

stitching. A sword with a jewel-encrusted handle hung at his 

side, and in his hand he carried a quirt made of bone or ivory 

wrapped with many shades of leather. The merman could feel the 

quiescent magic humming in the tool as the man came closer.

    "How may we serve your Excellency," he said, bowing and 

sweeping his hat low as if at court instead of a dusty camp. The 

mercenary knew Laquatus as the backer of the caravan, having been 

hired in Cabal City.

    "A valuable bauble has mistakenly come into the possession of 

the Order," the ambassador said carefully. "Lieutenant Kirtar 

received a prize that belongs to the Mer Empire. The officer was 

called west before I could retrieve it."

    "Indeed, the Order can be most troublesome about baubles," 

the man said and nodded to a group of wagons. Laquatus could see 

the loot of many a rediscovered battlefield. Such expeditions 

must be hidden lest the Order take offense. The Order routinely 

fed almost all recovered artifacts into great crushers. The 

ambassador feared that the prize might be destroyed in the name 

of such stupidity.

    "If you are as determined to reach Lieutenant Kirtar as your 

earlier communications indicated, you might find this of 

interest." The mercenary led the aristocrat to a wagon. Chained 

by the foot to a wheel and lying in the mud was a Knight of the 

Order. Burns and knife cuts recorded the camp's hospitality. An 

arm was torn off, the stump wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. He 

was feverish and mumbling in delirium.

    "He's perfect," breathed Laquatus, considering the miserable 

prisoner. Kirtar would welcome him anyway, but a present always 

made a guest more popular. This rescue would also diffuse some of 

the nastier rumors that the lieutenant's men might have heard 

during their time in the city. With a lot of coaching and an 

array of false memories, the fallen knight would make a splendid 

passport. The only question was whether the miserable tool could 

survive reaching Kirtar's forces.

    "How far is the good lieutenant?" asked the ambassador, 

irritated that he must be dependent on these mercenaries. "I 

would bring this pitiful wretch to his commander as soon as 

possible." The mercenary captain looked at Laquatus kneeling down 

and laying soothing hands on the captive. The merman saw a flash 

of pity on the mercenary's face as the ambassador opened the 

shirt and inspected the wounds. His wounds were nasty, but he 

might survive a hard ride in the saddle with proper incentive.

    "Kirtar is at least five days' ride west," the caravan leader 

said, turning to stare down the road. "In these conditions, I 

could not guess how long it would take you to reach the aven."

    "What do you mean?" said Laquatus, already impatient to 

continue.

    "The creatures of the forest lie in your path," the mercenary 

explained, gesturing to the ranks of animals captured in the 

camp.

    "Creatures are no threat," Laquatus said with a snort. "You 

capture the dumb animals wholesale."

    "But something disturbs them," the mercenary said worriedly. 

"We followed in the Order's wake, hoping to capture what 

remained, but the beasts circle ahead of us. Moving continually, 

they block the way and sweep across our path. My men and I have 

hunted for years, and never have I seen the beasts so disturbed 

save during a fire or sudden storm. The animal world is in 

upheaval, and I have no explanation. Something west drives the 

beasts to a frenzy."

    "Yet you control your camp," the ambassador said acidly, 

standing up. If this was an attempt to extract hazard pay, it 

would go hard for the mercenary. Turg raised his head from a 

supply wagon he was stealing from at the merman's pique and began 

to move closer, anticipating violence.

    "The spells of the empire close their minds," the captain 

said, fondling the carved ivory wand. "They move in a paradise 

that we control and mold. But out there, a continent is on the 

move, and no one knows who shapes events."

    "I need a small band of attendants to bring my knight with 

me," Laquatus said, nudging the wounded man with his foot.

    The ambassador let his silence at the mercenary's wild 

outpourings show his contempt. If the animals of the wood posed a 

danger, he would handle it. If only Satas had explored more of 

the western caves instead of forcing him to deal with these 

fearful idiots. The mercenary called to an aide and gave orders 

for a small group of riders to accompany Laquatus and the 

prisoner.

    "Does the Order know you are in this village?" the mer 

aristocrat asked, looking beyond the camp to the few houses.

    There were no signs of the inhabitants save for the smoke 

from the chimneys. The caravans had a bad reputation. The 

ambassador knew that on occasion his employees took slaves for 

use and sale to the pits.

    "Kirtar's scouts are oriented west. I doubt they know we are 

here," the mercenary captain said, looking toward the men 

selected rousted from eating and sleep.

    "This brave member of the Order will be useful in earning the 

organization's trust," Laquatus said, licking his thin lips. "But 

the risk of witnesses telling how he chanced into my hospitality 

... No, I think it best if this village and its inhabitants die 

now. Unknown and nameless."

    Turg leaped toward the houses. The amphibian pushed camp 

workers out of the way as he raced to the closest cottage.

    The stone-and-timber structure was covered in moss. It 

hunkered down in the plain, the heavy walls stubbornly resisting 

the elements and those who would attack. The windows were small, 

and heavy shutters shielded the inside from view.

    The door was seasoned wood, thick and hung with care-the 

builder's attempt to keep the dangers of the world outside. Turg 

summoned his power, drawing on the ambassador's magic. A thin 

stream of lightning flared, blinding those foolish enough to run 

after the amphibian. The jack closed his inner eyelids, cutting 

the glare as he looked through the thin shield of flesh. The lock 

and screws holding the door shut glowed as power arced over the 

door. An agonized scream sounded as someone in the house tried to 

brace the panel. Rock-hard boards sundered in quick succession, 

coming free in a series of concussions.

    Turg, impatient to get inside, smashed into the door, his 

hide smoking briefly as it touched the charred wood. Laquatus 

stood, lost in the rush of violence, savoring each death as the 

amphibian rampaged through the structure. The mercenary's 

distaste was plain, but he called to his men.

    "Clear them out!" he shouted, pointing to the remaining 

houses. He drew a short sword to lead squads in the unpleasant 

task. Animals started at the noise, and the ambassador felt the 

animal herdsmen increasing the strength of the spells calming and 

misleading the beasts. Death and deception played out in the 

caravan and the village, and Laquatus stood in appreciation as 

the jack and the mercenaries began to kill off anyone who might 

derail his scheme to lull the Order once again.

    An explosion shattered his contentment. What fool was 

employing such spells in a simple bout of murder?

    The merman looked to the perimeter. Bodies popped as flame 

burned its way free of fighters in his employ. As the mercenaries 

fell, Laquatus could see two riders charging. No, not riders, but 

instead a centaur and his mounted companion advanced on the camp. 

A glimpse of brass-colored skin placed the pair. Seton and the 

barbarian fell upon the caravan, killing without hesitation as 

the village was massacred.

    "Destroy them," the ambassador bellowed, dragging Turg away 

from the easy slaughter with a mental command. The guards left 

off their half-hearted killing to face the attackers entering the 

camp.

    "A rich reward to whoever brings me their heads!" the merman 

called. Greed and self-preservation sent warrior converging on 

the pair. The merman laughed, sure that murder would solve most 

of his problems.

 

                       CHAPTER 11

 

    Kamahl closed his eyes as the axe exploded in a ball of 

flame, the pulse of magic leaving an afterimage even through his 

eyelids. His horse shied, nearly toppling him despite his 

precautions in turning the mare's head away from the spell. Seton 

roared and sprang, his apelike features furious as he raised his 

mace and swung at a caravan guard. The man shattered under the 

force of the blow, blood spraying and spotting the centaur red as 

he moved toward a new target.

    The pair had tracked Kirtar and his forces west for days.

    The Order rode hard, and the barbarian and the forest warrior 

had closed slowly, if at all. Then the tracks were obscured by a 

caravan. Seton had sworn loudly as wagons and herds of animals 

obscured the trail. Casting along the road to see if Kirtar had 

left the western highway consumed even more time. It appeared 

that the caravan followed the lieutenant, and Kamahl stopped 

tracking and rode hard, gambling that Kirtar would not change his 

path until they passed the obscuring travelers. They had hit the 

outer perimeter, and Seton watched the frog, Turg, break into a 

building and other guards from the caravan advance on the 

villagers. Such evil would not go unpunished.

    Kamahl hurled flame. The magic congealed into dull red globes 

that sank into the bodies of the cowardly murderers. The caravan 

guards laughed at their apparent immunity to his attack. They 

came a few steps closer, then stopped and gasped as the 

barbarian's spell began to burn its way out. Kamahl felt a wave 

of weakness as the mercenaries charred to ash. His anger was 

drawing too much power into the spell, and he paused to control 

his rage. His horse shifted under him, and he jabbed his heels, 

sending the mount into the fight.

    Seton rampaged through the camp, his club spraying his 

opponent's brains each time it landed. The caravan guards tried 

in vain to corner him, but the centaur's prodigious leaps carried 

him free. Seton then turned to take mercenaries from behind. He 

pushed his way through the herd of captive animals to reach their 

tenders. The barbarian could see his club raising high, then 

falling again.

    Kamahl's horse froze, then began bucking under him. The beast 

that had stayed controlled through so much tumult went wild and 

spun. The barbarian could feel the horse dropping and beginning 

to roll. He threw himself from the saddle, drawing his sword in 

midair. He landed at a run, turning to see what creature attacked 

his mount. There was nothing tearing at the beast, though it 

screamed in rage and fear as it twisted in the dirt.

    A leather-clad mercenary charged toward him, an ivory baton 

raised in the air as he regarded Kamahl and his horse. The leader 

waved as if in introduction and turned toward the animals closest 

to the barbarian. A herd of simple cattle stopped chewing their 

cud as one.

    Kamahl knew that magic controlled the animals, for these cows 

were huge with heavy horns that stretched more than three feet 

from side to side. These were not dairy cows or animals being 

driven leisurely to the butcher but animals with fighting spirit. 

Whatever spell had kept them docile ceased, and he found their 

attention focused upon him. The cattle bellowed and charged, 

three bulls forcing their way to the front of the herd in their 

rush to close with him.

    Kamahl spun a pillar of flame around himself, but the 

maddened animals disregarded it. He threw himself to the side as 

a long horn hooked through his shield and scored his armored 

belt. He gasped, his air knocked out by the impact. The barbarian 

did not want to play the butcher to livestock, and he ran under a 

wagon as the rest of the herd closed. The cows collided with the 

freight wagon, and he hobbled farther into the camp, gaining new 

strength as he shook off the bull's blow. A mercenary considered 

him an easy target as he struck from the rear. Kamahl's sword 

sheared through the falling club and cut the man's arm free. The 

stricken guard could not even scream as Kamahl's return stroke 

set his head free as well. Guards closing with the barbarian 

slowed, waiting for others to converge on the mountain warrior.

    Seton broke into the ring of guardsman, trailing his own 

clump of pursuers. The centaur's club was covered in gore, and 

every swing sprayed blood wide. He moistened the club's head anew 

using Kamahl's opponents, smashing men down in three quick 

strokes before leaping. The barbarian could see the forest 

fighter's fangs clearly.

    "Too slow!" the centaur shouted, raising his club like a 

standard. Blood ran down it and drenched his arm. "Where are your 

nets and snares now, hunters?"

    He swung and knocked the wheel off a wagon, the oak and iron 

flying away in pieces. The centaur's arms fell again and wretched 

the other wheel free. Seton jumped to the side as the heavy 

freight bed tipped over and spilled a load of furs and hides over 

the ground. A heavy skin reminded the barbarian of the centaur's 

own hide.

    "Murderers!" The cry was bestial in its fury. The giant 

dropped his club and leaped upon a guard, grabbing him up in two 

hands. Seton tore the man apart, hurling limbs.

    Kamahl threw fiery knives into the stunned guards, reaping a 

deadly harvest before they turned to respond to this new attack. 

The outmatched mercenaries were caught between the barbarian and 

the crazed centaur, and Kamahl thought they stood no chance. Then 

they seemed to disappear, sidling into nonexistence. The mountain 

warrior shook his head violently and loosed a barrage of darts. 

Wails of pain sounded, and a guard faded back into existence, 

screaming as the projectile burned its way to his heart. Then 

silence fell again.

    Kamahl threw more darts as he dove for cover, scrabbling 

behind an overturned wagon as he considered what was happening. 

Malign magic pulsed in the encampment. A mage was clouding his 

senses, hiding his enemies from him.

    An opponent might be running to stab him from behind at this 

very moment. Kamahl hurled more darts behind him, but there were 

no screams. That meant nothing. Wild sprays of weaponry could not 

long protect the barbarian, and Kamahl focused, trying to see 

past the spell. He shoved his sword into the ground, taking 

strength from its solidity. He must see his enemy before he was 

struck down.

    His vision wavered, images fading in and out of focus like a 

mirage. For a moment, everything was clear, and he could see the 

mercenary in the fancy clothes stepping carefully over the 

corpses of his men. The ivory wand was raised, and Kamahl focused 

on that as he willed the magical tool to combust, to explode into 

flame. The barbarian reached into the center of his own innate 

magic and brought it forth. The mountain warrior had to prop 

himself up with his sword as the ivory began to char. The 

panicked captain threw it away, and it blossomed into flame as it 

left his hand. The force of the magic took the man's arm, the 

fancy leather shrinking under the fierce heat and closing off the 

amputated limb. A fire elemental rose from the wand's remains.

    The summoning grew greater; the inferno seemed to float a few 

feet off the ground, its colors pulsing. Shafts of ruby red flame 

danced in the heart of the creature. The center of the elemental 

was in constant motion, and a tendril of fire dipped down to the 

earth. The dirt fountained up as it burned, throwing off ash and 

clinkers. The soil had sand, and glass began to form. Obsidian 

began to solidify and merge with the debris orbiting the flame. 

The barbarian could feel his creature and its appetite. The 

elemental existed to burn, to devour substance. His hate, rage, 

and even fear had called with uncommon strength, and the fire 

creature crouched, ready to sweep away the enemy. Kamahl watched 

it drift, and a lick of flame reached out to a guard. Before he 

could make a sound, the elemental was on him. Flesh shrank away, 

and bones flared as the mountain warrior's summoning grew a 

little larger. Within seconds only ash remained to merge with the 

volcanic glass that hissed and popped as it fell away from the 

creature.

    The cattle that chased Kamahl still followed the caravan's 

leader commands, and they charged from the wagon they had reduced 

to splinters. The elemental jumped to the herd, and the smell of 

cooking beef filled the air. There was only the sound of searing 

fat as tendrils of the creation pierced the thick hides and 

destroyed internal organs in an instant. The elemental grew 

larger still as it rendered the animals down and sucked up their 

bones and horns. These danced inside the flame as hunger 

temporarily gave way to curiosity. The remains of the bulls 

dwindled away, shards of hoof and bone becoming encased in glass 

as the fire weakened, then strengthened in new hunger.

    "Such a marvel," Kamahl said and groaned in frustration. It 

was too strong! A creation to fight armies, and he had called 

this chaos. The barbarian looked around. Seton still bellowed, 

now some distance away, his club turning mercenaries into clumps 

of broken bones. The caravan animals were waking from their 

spells, and they voiced their confusion. A few houses in the 

village still appeared intact, but who knew how much longer that 

would be the case. His creature was hungry, and there were too 

few meals for its appetite. He caged it in its current place, 

ready to send it away. Regret at banishing so fine a creature 

filled his heart.

    Turg jumped from a crowd of animals, his fist drawn back as 

he swung at Kamahl's head. This time the barbarian was not mired 

in spell, and he dodged. The mountain warrior's sword swung as he 

dropped, and only the amphibian's wild contortions in the air 

kept the monster from spilling blood onto the ground. The jack 

seemed to vanish as it landed in a pack of wolves. The beasts 

circled uncertainly, giving confused cries. Throughout the camp 

animals vented their confusion, and Kamahl vaulted to the top of 

the freight wagon to see if perhaps Seton was responsible.

    There were few living guards anywhere nearby. Kamahl and the 

centaur had cut a bloody swathe, and no one seemed brave enough 

to close with the pair. Seton was standing amongst stacks of 

cages. The barbarian could see him ripping locks off to release 

the confused animals inside. He looked for signs of Turg, 

wondering where the treacherous frog lay hiding. As his eyes 

swung back to the village, he saw the ambassador and a group of 

mounted mercenaries.

    Laquatus smiled. The merman waved, and Kamahl looked around, 

trying to see whom he was signaling. Mounted next the ambassador 

was a knight of the Order. The figure swayed, and the barbarian 

could see the man was missing a limb. He wondered why Laquatus 

would include such a wounded man in his party.

    "I see you and your companion decided to join our little 

expedition," the aristocrat called mockingly, his horse shying as 

more and more of the captured animals vented their distress. "It 

appears the centaur has found one of his relatives," he called. 

Kamahl turned to see Seton back at the wagon reverently lifting 

the pelt of one of his people from the dirt.

    "You will die," yelled Seton, laying aside the hide and 

grabbing up his bloody club. The few mercenaries not with the 

ambassador were running from the camp, leaving everything behind 

to avoid the coming battle.

    "There are more important matters than you to attend to," the 

ambassador called back. "Besides, you will be far too busy taking 

care of all these animals to worry about me."

    The ambassador was casting a spell, and it echoed over the 

encampment, redoubling in strength as old commands combined into 

new purpose. Kamahl felt it coming and crouched into fighting 

position.

    The animals that had milled so uncertainly minutes before 

turned toward the barbarian and the centaur. Bears rhat Seton had 

freed from their cages snapped at the druid. Kamahl could see the 

surprise on the giant's face as beasts turned and saw him as an 

enemy.

    Animals screamed in the remaining cages as Seton moved away. 

The malign spell picked up intensity, and a giant elk charged the 

centaur from the side. Its sore-matted hide still covered 

impressive muscles, and it threw itself at the druid with horns 

lowered. The line trailing from a ring in its nose caught a wagon 

wheel, and the heavy oak circle skidded through the dirt as it 

came at Seton. The centaur threw himself sideways, his flanks 

heavy with effort after the fight and his grief.

    Kamahl threw spears of fire that formed a barrier against the 

approaching animals, covering the druid's escape. The barbarian 

looked to his penned elemental, the boundless hunger of the 

primal being perhaps the only answer to the carnivores that 

struggled from the cages and pens.

    Bears, cougars, and wolves moved together toward the pair. 

Two Krosan dragonettes struggle from their enclosure, the six-

legged reptiles ignoring the surrounding carrion as they closed.

    The mountain warrior eyed the ambassador. Perhaps killing the 

merman would end the unnatural animosity. But the aristocrat and 

his escort had already disappeared, lost behind some piece of 

landscape or illusion. He readied his sword and the elemental-the 

coming slaughter of spellbound beasts a foulness to his soul.

    "On my back," Seton commanded as he threaded through the 

flaming barriers Kamahl had formed to stop the animals. "If we 

stay, we only do the ambassador's will."

    The barbarian looked for his horse, but it was lost in the 

madness.

    "We can return once the spell has run its course, or I have 

turned it, but for now we must be away."

    Kamahl paused only to free the elemental from his call. 

"Another time you will feed," he promised the flame. The ruby 

shafts in the creature seemed to pulse in agreement, and then the 

glass and ash collapsed to the ground in a superheated pile of 

debris. The barbarian sheathed his sword and swung himself up on 

Seton's back. The centaur's muscular body was as wide as a draft 

horse, and Kamahl resolved to reclaim his mount as soon as 

possible.

    "We will meet again, Ambassador," he promised.

    The animals came around the flaming barriers.

    Seton left at a run.

 

                       CHAPTER 12

 

    There was a stillness to the air around the camp. Lieutenant 

Kirtar sat in his tent wondering if he dare look into the orb he 

had won in Cabal City. The globe brought visions, dreams of glory 

and control. He had imagined such possibilities throughout his 

life. He ached to smash the power of the Cabal, to finally order 

the restless mages of the Pardic Mountains to the southwest. 

Everything seemed possible if he just had time to investigate the 

orb, experiment with it. His huge hands clenched as he restrained 

himself from digging through his baggage for it. The visions 

became so compelling that he lost himself, and he could not 

afford the time-these meaningless patrols along the forest.

    Kirtar stood suddenly and went outside, breathing deeply to 

calm himself. A fragrant breeze brought him a whiff of the 

forest, and his face pinched at the smell. Give him the cold, 

clean air of the plains, he vowed. He moved to the camp 

perimeter, absently accepting hails from his soldiers. The forest 

had always been chaotic, unstructured. He regarded the line of 

trees with a deep ambivalence. The tribes and races of the forest 

interior cut themselves off from the rest of the world. Kirtar 

felt contempt for such behavior. The world cried out for a firm 

hand, he thought, and his knuckles cracked as his fists tightened 

once more.

    "Lieutenant," said a soldier bringing wood in from the trees. 

The fires for the night were being laid. Another day spent here.

    "I saw bison moving deeper in the trees," the soldier 

volunteered uncertainly, obviously new to the unit. Kirtar 

wondered that the sergeants had not beaten such hesitation from 

the new recruits. Let the lower ranks police themselves, he 

thought to himself.

    "Bison are no danger except when surprised or in breeding 

season," Kirtar reassured the soldier.

    The sentry still looked nervous, but the bird warrior ignored 

him and walked on. The anxiety in the lower ranks was quite 

disgusting, the aven thought. He must admit that the sheer number 

of attacks, sometimes from animals well known for their timidity, 

was unsettling, and the frequency seemed to be increasing. 

Nevertheless, it was no excuse to be a coward. Nature was 

chaotic, and it was only natural that it must, occasionally, be 

curbed.

    The rumble of thunder made him look to the darkening sky. No 

sign of rain clouds. The rumble became stronger and more 

continuous, never breaking. He turned to the forest. The soldier 

he left dropped the gathered wood and ran for his gear. The bison 

came out of the trees, a dumb relentless tide.

    "To arms!" Kirtar yelled, echoed by others throughout the 

camp. The Order tents and animals were atop a small rise, and the 

lieutenant could look down to the forest's edge. As far as he 

could see in the dimming light animals were coming out, not 

driven by the weather or any sign of fire.

    "Stand your ground," Kirtar bellowed, as he move to the line 

of men and bird warriors forming in the path of the bison. The 

beasts were coming up the rise, slowing but still advancing. Why, 

he wondered. A raypen launched himself into the sky, his wings 

spreading in the setting sun as he flew over the camp.

    The sergeants in the line began chanting, a song of the 

Order's glory. Magic flared as warriors united their will and 

cloaked themselves in power. The bison slowed but still came 

closer, the leaders not pushed by those behind but advancing on 

their own.

    "They are only dumb animals!" Kirtar cried as he strode to 

the head of the line. The mass of animals seemed a personal 

attack after his words to the sentry, and he responded as he 

would to any attack. The magic flowed to his hands and left them 

as golden birds. The power flew to the leading bison and struck 

like a catapult burst, killing the animals instantly. There was a 

moment of silence as others looked at him.

    "Attack!" Kirtar yelled, and other projectiles followed. 

Arrows and javelins arced into the air, but the dead were lost in 

the mass of new animals, and Kirtar howled in anger, determined 

to stop the assault. Perhaps if the ground were better, he might 

have succeeded, but the animals lapped around the growing bulwark 

of corpses.

    Kirtar's cries to his men were lost in the noise and 

confusion of battle. Bison circled through the camp, their humps 

more than eight feet off the ground. Calves bawled and tripped, 

finding their feet with difficulty as the torrent of animals 

ebbed and flowed like a river.

    Kirtar wondered how thousands of animals might remain unseen 

in the forest. They continued to leave the trees, all apparently 

aimed for him and his men. The beasts were disorganized and 

showed little of the frenzy of previous attacks, but the sheer 

number of bison made them dangerous.

    Ten-foot-tall elen stood with long pikes set, a steadily 

growing wall of corpses protecting the hooded bird warriors. The 

massive soldiers were proving useful, despite their lack of 

magic. Simple muscle might carry the day.

    The line of soldiers contracted as sergeants tried to form a 

perimeter. Now relentless pressure spilled bison into the lines. 

Trapped bulls gored the men who turned to oppose them. Kirtar 

watched a soldier fall to the ground, the sudden thrusts of the 

heavy horns splintering the man's chest. The lieutenant leaped 

forward, his fist encased by power, and broke the bull's spine. 

He called out in triumph as he stood over the beast he killed 

with a single blow. However, the victory was lost in the 

unrelenting tide of animals

    In the skies above, the raypen swooped and dove. Kirtar could 

see them exulting in their flight. The flyers swept down and 

plied their long maces and lances before rising again, untouched 

by the sprawling chaos below. The rumble of hooves made speech 

impossible as the animals milled, fresh reinforcements constantly 

coming to test the camp's defense. Aven were lost in the midst of 

the herd, occasionally appearing atop animals they killed, but 

soon disappearing back into the crush of bodies. Kirtar felt a 

thrill of pride at how the bird warriors succeeded while the 

other races vanished under the milling hooves.

    A group of bulls threw themselves up a pile of bodies and 

forced their way among the elen. Now long axes rose and fell, two 

feet of heavy-edged steel hewing its way through bone. The raypen 

congregated over their land-bound brethren, and darts showered 

down more heavily. The giant bird warriors rolled the bulls back 

down the pile of corpses surrounding their position.

    The lieutenant saw it all from his perch at the center of the 

camp. Poised on top of a light wagon, a steady stream of power 

flowed from his hands in the shape of golden sparrows. He 

directed the magic to support his fellow aven, a flock falling 

suddenly to create barriers of cooling flesh. The buffalo still 

flowed over the rest of the plain, their numbers seeming endless, 

as he was forced to direct more attention to protecting himself.

    Kirtar had been fighting and patrolling ever since leaving 

the Cabal. Most of the attacks were over in seconds, and the 

monsters that destroyed towns were rarely sighted. A series of 

pickets and militias pushed the incursions back, but these waves 

of buffalo were unprecedented. Now he received reports of vast 

herds washing over positions, their numbers absorbing all the 

power that the Order could bring to bear.

    Lines of small trees along the forest's border cracked and 

were trampled as more of the bison came out of the woods. The 

raypen swooped and trailed flails behind them. The iron bars rang 

against the bony skulls, but the stampeding animals came on 

regardless.

    "Use your magic," he cried, and a single bird of power flew 

to take down a small cow. The raypen wheeled in the air, their 

feathers dim as they exhausted most of their energy in enhancing 

their attacks.

    "We will bring back aid!" they cried and flew away east. 

Kirtar cursed them tiredly, though he knew they had spent 

themselves into impotence. At least the elephantine elen still 

fought, but he could tell by the turning of their hoods that they 

watched their brethren flying away.

    A fresh surge of beasts threw itself against the wagon, and 

it tumbled to kindling as the lieutenant fell. His magic now 

armored his flesh and his fists. He fought his way through the 

maelstrom to the piles of dead animals killed before they could 

reach the wagon. A bull took him to the ground, the heavy skull 

battering at his shield, threatening to crush him. Two strikes of 

his dagger marked the animal, and it was swept away.

    He threw himself between two huge corpses, wondering for a 

moment if he should just hunker down, wait out the attack and 

protect only himself. The snapping of tent poles changed his mind 

in seconds. He should have been unable to hear the sound of 

breaking ash staves, but some portion of his being had waited for 

the sound throughout the battle.

    The lieutenant's tent had been erected amongst a clump of 

boulders and by happenstance the silken walls withstood the tide 

of animals even as warrior mages fell. Now its respite ended, and 

the structure collapsed, shrouding the bull that had torn its way 

into the tent.

    Fresh strength thundered through the bird warrior's limbs as 

he thought of the sphere, the wondrous ball whose power inspired 

such visions. The Order's future-and his as Knight Champion-was 

in danger. He came out of hiding like a striking snake. A lance 

of golden power burgeoned from his fists, and the point parted 

bone as it stabbed relentlessly. Without the power of a steed 

behind it, the golden spindle still exploded through ribs, the 

showers of blood churning into the soil as still more buffalo 

swirled into the combat.

    He held the lance high, calling for his warriors to rally, 

but his brothers were trapped behind the walls of corpses. He was 

alone, and the herd still tore through the camp. As stubbornly as 

any bull, he forced his way closer to his former pavilion. The 

long lance slapped against the ribs of animals in the way, the 

enhanced spear breaking ribs as Kirtar beat his way closer to his 

objective.

    Then he saw it. His prize, his destiny was being kicked by 

the wrapped bull. Like some monstrous pillow, the bull inside the 

tent's fabric rebounded off the ring of boulders, its splayed 

hooves tearing at what remained of a knight's pavilion. More 

animals spilled into the ring of boulders, and Kirtar flew to a 

low stone. The metal sphere, which had glowed with such promise, 

was duller, its glory muted.

    "You've soiled it!" cried the lieutenant and threw his lance 

through the trapped bull and pinned it to another animal. He 

dived into the scramble, the sphere tucked behind his feet 

against a rock. The attack seemed to be dying down, and there was 

less noise, but he stood furious and with bare hands beat the 

animals trying to escape. His blows, which once shattered 

boulders, rebounded from simple bone and hide, but still his arms 

rose and fell. The ring of corpses trapped the animals. Kirtar's 

opponents soon dripped blood from their noses and ears. A cow 

tried to crush the bird warrior against the boulder, but he 

grappled still, his power healing broken bones even as he killed 

the animal with an especially frantic blow that shocked the heart 

into stillness.

    A figure blocked his vision, and he almost swung before 

recognizing the massive form of an elen. The robe enveloping it 

was torn, and the gray skin was bruised and swollen. The long axe 

cut the spines of wounded animals, the pain of their broken bones 

washed away by death. Cries for help sounded throughout the 

remains of the camp, a surprising number of soldiers still living 

despite the length of the assault. Kirtar stooped and tucked the 

sphere into his purse, taking a moment to regard it. It was less 

brilliant, but the echoes of his former visions lurked in the 

corner of his soul as he tried to will it to its previous glory.

    An aven bird warrior strode over the hills of dead flesh, 

coming to deliver the report on the survivors. "Sir, the mounts 

have returned. The outrider managed to save the string and 

brought them back."

    The company's steeds had been hobbled some distance from the 

camp, and a quick-thinking guard managed to herd them to safety 

as waves of buffalo swamped the camp. "The wagons and most of the 

equipment were destroyed though efforts to salvage what we can 

have begun. The wounded are stabilized and await the efforts of 

the more powerful mages."

    Kirtar laced up his purse and strode away toward the steeds. 

"We have no time to waste healing bruises," he stated to the 

officer, who gaped as the lieutenant raised his voice.

    "Men, we have triumphed over the forest in spite of its 

attempts to destroy us. We have lacked only the will to seize our 

victory."

    Most of the soldiers were stunned, but Kirtar could see the 

lingering battle madness in the faces of his bird warriors.

    "It is long past time that we took action against the beasts 

that disturb our dominions," he announced. "We must recognize our 

duty and destroy the forces that would overwhelm us!" He pointed 

toward the disappearing buffalo.

    "The herd could not sweep us aside and withdraws to renew 

itself in the hidden glens. Would you fight it again?" He swept 

his hand over the destroyed encampment. "Would you fight twice as 

many beasts when someday there are half as many of us?" The bird 

warrior drew himself up proudly.

    "Tired and exhausted as we are, I know that only by 

continuing the attack can we win this war." A feeble cheer went 

up, but it was magnified a thousandfold in Kirtar's visions.

    "Mount up and ride into the forest," he commanded. "We will 

kill until nothing remains to oppose us!"

    Ignoring frantic signs from the healers, he took those 

warriors who could move to the steeds and mounted. He led the 

charge against the retreating heard. A bestial sea flowed before 

him, and he vowed to empty it, one sword stroke at a time.

 

                       CHAPTER 13

 

    "It is like a picnic," Laquatus decided, as he shifted in the 

saddle, directing his mount around another clump of dead animals. 

"One is invariably bored and must create one's own amusement." 

The horse shied away at the scent of blood, and he sawed the 

toothed bit in the animal's mouth.

    The plains were thick with destruction as the Order and the 

forest's forays clashed. After a week of piled corpses and 

devastated towns, Laquatus ached for a change. The death of 

drylanders was always enjoyable, but even a favorite dish might 

loose its appeal if sampled too often.

    Turg felt the ambassador's lack of interest, and the 

amphibian did its best to enliven the journey. Forbidden from 

attacking the villagers along the way and banned from assaulting 

the mercenaries, it took a few days for the frog to act. Laquatus 

could feel his champion drawing on the merman's cunning though he 

lacked enough interest to interrogate his servant.

    A horse's scream made the ambassador look up, wondering if 

they had fallen into an ambush. One of the pack-horses fell and 

thrashed, a caltrop sunk deep into its hoof. Laquatus could see 

iridescent glitter on the metal and knew it to be a deadly 

poison. A mercenary ran to care for the beast, stooping to draw 

the iron from the leg. But Turg seemed to appear, blocking the 

way.

    "It appears to be poison," the ambassador called as the hired 

servant hesitated to force his way past the frog. "If you touch 

it, you will be too weak to walk within the hour. If you cut 

yourself, you might as well dig a grave." The frog nodded 

emphatically and turned to the downed horse. Borrowing a knife, 

he slit the beast's throat, moving slowly as if expressing grief. 

The ambassador would be ill at the mawkish sentiment if he were 

not sure that Turg had dropped the caltrop into a pouch.

    The mercenaries patted the frog awkwardly on the back. They 

expressed that night their gratitude for his quick thinking. They 

saved him the first cuts of the dinner. The merman sneered at 

their stupidity. They neglected to ask how an aristocrat from the 

depths of the sea might recognize a poison on sight, especially 

one volatile enough to be deposited for contact use. Did they 

think him a sage to know every toxin? He knew the deadliness of 

the concoction because he carried a good supply of it secured in 

the depths of his luggage. The frog was cheered at dinner, and 

the ambassador wondered what else might happen.

    A mental command reinforced his previous orders. He could not 

afford to lose any of the men, though the steeds were expendable 

as long as there was a surplus. Perhaps this game might keep his 

attention until they reached the lieutenant.

    The frog did not use poison again, and the ambassador was 

glad. It could be an indiscriminate tool, rather like the 

amphibian. Instead the jack amused himself and the merman by 

daring the mercenaries into dangerous lapses in judgment, 

primarily by example. The frog took to taunting the forest 

animals who were gripped by the strange com' pulsion. He seemed 

to turn his back on them with unconcern. Laquatus knew the 

champion's peripheral vision was extraordinary, especially in 

seeing movement. But to the ignorant, and there were few air 

breathers who were not, he appeared oblivious.

    The frog also took to helping with the horses, always quick 

to step in when a strap came undone or a stone was in a shoe. The 

animals shied away from the champion, showing better judgment 

than the fools riding them. However, even Laquatus was hard-

pressed to see the camouflaged frog sabotaging the packs and 

saddles. The merman wondered at the ingenuity of the amphibian. 

The race was known for its savagery, not playing petty tricks and 

doing small injuries. It could only be the mental link, the 

ambassador decided. With other things to control and plots to 

tend to at the Cabal pits, Laquatus was the overwhelming dominant 

partner. But now his aggression and deceit flowed in ever-

increasing amounts to the jack.

    It doesn't matter, he said to himself. Joining spirits was a 

difficult task, but surely his control would prevent things from 

getting out of hand. If only they could reach the lieutenant. He 

forced himself to look at their prisoner. The knight smiled 

absently, the stench from his wound strong enough that none cared 

to ride close. In camp the confused man was left alone.

    The knight was already broken, and it was the work of a few 

minutes to invade his mind, inserting new memories. Now he could 

only babble that the ambassador was his savior, his rescuer from 

forbidding odds. Occasionally he would lapse into spasms and 

blurt out the names of his supposed tormenters. Laquatus amused 

himself by inserting the names of fighters who had irritated him. 

Kamahl and his noxious partner Seton had prominent roles. But 

like a pie, the situation's humor grew more stale every day. 

Furthermore, he must force his temporary minions to care for the 

madman.

    The next morning the knight was still alive, though Laquatus 

doubted he would last the day. A perfectly good plan ruined by 

the lieutenant's stubborn insistence on staying hidden. There 

were villagers, but the ambassador wanted a performance for the 

Order. A preview was performed for the cheap crowds, but he moved 

on before the man could say more than "He rescued me," and name a 

few names.

    He stopped only one time at a village. The headman, seeing 

the poor condition of the knight, offered hospitality. The 

ambassador was forced to influence his mind and leave a cover 

story with the others.

    "The messenger," he explained, "suffers from an infection of 

the blood. Only healing magic might offer a chance."

    So they continued. The merman opened his kit of poisons and 

drugs. Some elixirs were deadly but in miniscule amounts could 

give temporary strength. The knight rallied, his eyes growing 

brighter. No longer did he lie strapped like a sack to the back 

of his mount, his arm tied to the bridle. He tried to sit up, to 

move with his steed. But it was a feverish energy that gripped 

him, and Laquatus knew they were running out of time.

    Turg was free of scrutiny as the ambassador worked on his 

project. The malice that the merman planted in the jack took full 

flower and blossomed as Laquatus mixed another stimulant for the 

knight.

    The mercenaries set up the midday camp, making a bed at 

Laquatus's orders for the knight. The dying man was cut from his 

saddle. The ropes parted to let him fall to the piled blankets.

    "We must continue," the wounded warrior insisted, trying to 

rise, only to fall back. He attempted to push himself up with his 

hands, forgetting somehow that he only had one. The stump bled 

once more, even through the heavy cushion of bandages.

    "Perhaps a sedative or a smaller dose of the stimulant," 

Laquatus muttered, boiling water to prepare an infusion. All that 

he carried was deadly, and he tired of trying to make poison give 

life rather than take it. Rarely had he worried his potions might 

be too effective. Laquatus tried to calm the knight's spirit even 

as he worked to rebuild the body. False memories and commands 

were increasingly useless as the captive's mind lost itself and 

could not remember the impulses he implanted. He mixed more 

powerful drugs, knowing that he was buying hours without 

sustained rest or magical healing.

    The merman needed time to mix the potions properly, and he 

went to the perimeter of the temporary camp. He concentrated, 

tying a spell to the line he traced around the tent and mounts. 

With each step Laquatus took, a subtle cry sounded from the 

ground. "Look elsewhere," it seemed to say. "There is nothing 

here," the magic whispered. The wards were based on misdirection 

and would keep beasts way from the camp. The ambassador had grown 

piqued at being unable to command the bizarre attacks of 

wildlife. He could no longer command the animals by his magic, 

but he could mislead them.

    Turg and two of the hunters made for the perimeter, watching 

for signs of danger. Laquatus mixed the poisons inside the tent. 

He wielded the mortar and pestle, selecting the herbs and sealing 

everything into a porous bag. Then he went to the fire; to the 

eyes of the ignorant he was brewing a healthy tea. He wondered 

how long they would survive if he invited them to share with the 

patient.

    His champion watched a swarm of insects pass, their buzzing 

creating background noise. Like a rolling cloud, the tiny 

warriors dipped and flew over the plain. Sometimes they moved 

with the wind and at other times against it. Barely aware of 

them, Laquatus measured out a cup of the tea.

    Screams sounded from the perimeter, drawing everyone's 

attention. One of the soldiers was outside the wards, twisting on 

the ground. A mercenary ran outside to help him, then swatted at 

the air. Stinging insects boiled from the ground, settling on the 

would-be rescuer and pumping venom into his body. The first man 

down convulsed. The rest of the soldiers took a few steps to help 

but stopped, unwilling to risk death for one already doomed. The 

warrior still standing turned and came back to the camp in a 

drunken stagger. The mercenary's face swelled until he was blind. 

He called for help, his bulging throat choking off the cry in 

mid-word. Turg grabbed a spear and put out the butt end. As the 

dying man came closer he pushed him, the jack's muscles sending 

his victim reeling head over heels backward. Unable to stand, the 

man crawled. He set off away from the camp, having lost his 

bearing in the fall. After only a few yards he collapsed and was 

still.

    "Stop!" commanded Laquatus as other mercenaries grabbed 

weapons, closing on the frog. He poured the tea down the knight's 

throat ignoring the sputters, sure his minions would hold until 

he finished the unpleasant chore. Swords whispered from 

scabbards, and he stood up, livid, seeing a few fools edging 

closer to the champion. Turg stood hunched over with arms spread 

wide. The ambassador could see the gloating on his face. The 

merman threw the filled teapot at the bravest fools, the hot 

metal burning a man, putting him down.

    "I said, stop!" Laquatus bellowed. He stalked to the edge of 

the wards, slapping armed men out of the way. "Leaving the camp 

is death!" he shouted. "The moment those two men stepped outside 

they were dead!"

    He stalked to the leader of the mercenaries and hissed into 

his face.

    "If your incompetent minion had crossed back into the wards, 

they would have fallen. We would all be kicking our last!" he 

said, inches from the warrior's face. "Now tell these fools to 

sit down and wait until the insects pass."

    Fear and loathing was in the other man's eyes, but he nodded 

curtly and stamped back to the fire, his hands holding an animal 

prod. Those still standing against the frog saw the hatred rising 

off the man and slunk away, not wishing to call attention to 

themselves.

    Laquatus moved back to his tent and put away his poisons. 

Once his equipment was packed he called Turg to him with a mental 

command. The moment the amphibian let the tent flap close the 

ambassador bludgeoned him immobile with a mental assault.

    "You have had quite enough fun for one trip," the merman 

whispered, looking into the frog's spirit. The flow between them 

had changed the jack. The amphibian's intelligence had soared, 

and mentally he bore little resemblance to the near animal he 

once was. Laquatus pondered the champion, wondering at the signs 

of familiarity the new creation showed.

    "Why, it's me," the ambassador said. His murderous impulses 

and controlling nature had bonded with the frog's savagery. Like 

a baby taking its first steps, the amphibian was manipulating the 

people around it. Like a proud parent, the ambassador admired how 

far his offspring had come in luring the mercenaries to their 

death. But sadly, like a child, the frog had no grasp of the 

larger plot. With a faint sigh of regret, Laquatus channeled 

power along their connection. Turg screamed, his body thrashing 

as a flood of energy scoured his mind.

    "Just stay out," the merman said to panicked questions from 

the mercenaries at the tent flap. "I am working with Turg on a 

question of discipline."

    The mental constructions giving the amphibian its 

independence and reasoning power melted under the assault, 

dissolving like sandcastles before an incoming tide. Laquatus 

scarred the frog's mind, crippling its ability to grow mentally. 

Even as he attacked the mind he could feel the frog vainly trying 

to repair its shattered spirit.

    "Strong, aren't you," the ambassador chuckled, bearing down a 

little harder. "We'll just have to make this a daily ritual 

then." He tore at the soul, pleased by the jack's agony.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    It was a somber expedition that moved through the plains. The 

casualties kept the mercenaries close to the ambassador, scared 

to leave the safety of his wards. Turg was as he used to be, a 

sullen mountain of muscle. The frog could barely restrain himself 

from attacking anything that moved. The ambassador devoted more 

attention to managing the jack, amazed at how much more work it 

required, but the extra effort engaged his attention. The boredom 

that plagued him vanished under the workload. The soldier was in 

a coma, drugged to near-death in the hopes that they might find a 

healer. Laquatus regretted the delay Turg had created , but he 

must have absolute control.

    The cries of battle sounded, and the ambassador stood in his 

stirrups. The forest was closer, but most of the land was open 

ground. The ground was dry, and the merman could see only the 

dust of the melee. He cursed the mercenaries' newfound timidity. 

If they were to be useful, his guards should be scouting ahead. 

The noise was dying down, and he feared the fight might end 

before he could join. The chance to finally receive accolades for 

rescuing the dying knight riding behind him was too great to 

resist.

    "Attack," he ordered with a great cry, unleashing his 

champion as he spoke. There was movement from ahead. Mounted 

figures becoming visible as a breeze began to clear the scene of 

dust. The mercenaries broke into a charge and echoed a battle 

cry. Turg was obvious as he ran toward the fighting, and the 

guards knew that if the amphibian left the ambassador's side then 

the wards protecting them from observation were gone. Laquatus 

waved the laggards forward, his frown driving them to overtake 

their fellow. Fear could create as bold a fighter as courage, the 

ambassador said to himself.

    It was an Order detachment, the ambassador realized with 

glee. The mounted knights maneuvered against reptilian beasts 

that gathered in a circle as the soldiers dressed their ranks. 

Laquatus's mercenaries drew near the formed ranks, but except for 

a few glances, the soldiers ignored the rough irregulars racing 

to join them. The merman kept back, wanting disposable minions 

between him and any dangers. Besides, he must tend his captive, 

who showed signs of life as he approached a detachment of his 

fellows. Laquatus's passport gave a feeble cheer before lapsing 

unconscious. Only the straps and webbing kept the man on his 

horse. The merman drove his horse and that of the sick man 

faster. All his hard work could not expire within sight of the 

finish line.

    The Order finished dressing its lines, and boots thudded into 

mounts' sides. The knights moved forward, lances dropping to ram 

home. Their opponents were great lizards, their sides heaving in 

the sun. Dust settled over their scaly bodies, making it 

difficult to count them despite their size. The knights shifted 

their angle of attack, their lances tearing at weaving heads and 

opening up necks.

    Laquatus's mercenaries arrived in a disordered mob, but their 

attack did more damage. Doubtless this was due to their 

experience in gathering animals for caravans, the ambassador said 

to himself as he slowed and tried to appear more solicitous of 

the wounded man.

    Familiar with the species, the mercenaries dodged strikes and 

unleashed blows to the joints and fragile bones at the back of 

the head. Despite their size, thousand-pound creatures fell as 

easily as cattle in the slaughterhouse. The Order forces swept 

back to attack again, but this time they cheered the irregulars 

as the last reptile fell. The ambassador led his passport 

forward, interrupting the victory cries as he struggled to get 

the Order's attention before the knight could inconveniently die.

    "I have a man in desperate need of healing!" he cried out, 

his face flushed in apparent fear for his prisoner's life. "He 

might die any minute!"

    A sergeant of the Order threw himself from his horse, rushing 

to the wounded man's side. He drew a dagger and cut away the 

restraining cords.

    "Bring blankets and erect a tent!" he ordered his men, easing 

the patient to the ground.

    "I prayed to find someone who could help," the merman said, 

trying to sound relieved. "I am Ambassador Laquatus of the Mer 

Empire. Can you do anything?"

    The sergeant ignored him, already falling into a trance. The 

energy rolling from his hands was almost invisible in the 

sunlight. Used to the rich golden color of healing, the 

ambassador wondered if he misunderstood the sergeant's 

intentions. But the one-armed man's breathing seemed to improve 

by a miniscule amount as more power soaked into the body. "The 

sergeant is exhausted," a soldier explained, coming from a 

packhorse with a bundle of wood to start a fire. "We've been 

marching for days, slaughtering anything we can find." He dropped 

the fuel and began cutting a circle of turf away for a fire pit. 

All the Order soldiers looked exhausted. Some stood with still 

bloody weapons, too tired to clean them.

    "I am Corporal Vale," the soldier continued as he stacked the 

wood, laying down the kindling, then the heavier pieces. The 

warrior was twisted as if a healing had gone wrong, but 

intelligence glinted from the slack face.

    "Why are you here so close to the forest?" Corporal or not, 

there was suspicion in his look.

    "Attacked," came a gurgling cry from behind them.

    The corporal spun, his dirt-covered knife ready to stab.

    "I was attacked," the wounded knight repeated, his eyes 

glassy as he looked toward the sky.

    The corporal crowded closer, his knife still ready but his 

attention on the wounded man.

    "Who attacked you?" Vale asked gently. The knight's face was 

flushed, and the corporal motioned for one of other soldiers to 

continue the fire building. "How were you injured?"

    The sergeant was deep in his trance, his face growing hollow 

as he poured more healing power into the wounded man. Laquatus 

watched with interest, for the stimulants and poisons he had 

poured down the knight's throat were nearly as deadly as the 

seeping wounds.

    "A metal-hued barbarian and a centaur," came the implanted 

answer. "They fell on us behind a wave of animals, killing 

everyone before I was rescued. A frog carried me away," he gasped 

and passed out.

    The ambassador restrained a wide grin, all the work had been 

worth it. He tried to look concerned.

    "He means my jack, Turg," he said, pointing to the 

battlefield where the amphibian tore away raw flesh and gulped it 

down. "I was coming after Lieutenant Kirtar when we happened upon 

the ambush. We were only able to save the one man before being 

forced to flee. We were lucky to make it to you alive."

    The corporal grunted, then knelt to catch the sergeant as he 

toppled. The healer looked as wasted as his patient, and Laquatus 

wondered if they would both die. Vale looked lost as he held his 

superior's head, already tucking blankets around the drained 

figure.

    "Kirtar is five miles farther in the forest," he said 

distractedly, "Follow the main path, and you will come upon his 

camp." He turned to the ambassador. "If you could leave a few men 

to help protect the wounded, it would be greatly appreciated."

    "Of course I can," Laquatus said expansively. He waved three 

mercenaries over. "I will leave these guards here with supplies 

and food if you could give me one man to lead me to Kirtar."

    Vale nodded, exhaustion catching up with him. Even three 

unknowns would be an infusion of strength to the weakened 

command.

    "Toltas," he called. A soldier stood up from the fire 

building. "Escort the ambassador and his men to the lieutenant. 

Tell him of the aid they provided."

    The soldier made no protest, looking like a sleepwalker. 

Laquatus accepted the guide, for the rest of the command looked 

like the walking dead.

    The detachment appeared asleep as the ambassador's men and 

their guide left for the lieutenant. As they proceeded, the 

ambassador looked for further signs of the forest's aggression. 

He kept a ward up to deter attacks from whatever they might meet. 

Scattered groups of animals lay piled, killed by the Order. The 

guide took them around the corpses, too tired to speak. Turg 

jumped to inspect each mound, but Laquatus kept firm control over 

the frog's appetite.

    They came to the main Order camp, nearly abandoned except for 

five guards. They did not even challenge the ambassador and his 

party, their faces dull as they ate. The distant sounds of battle 

could be heard, and Laquatus and his mercenaries drew weapons.

    "Where is the lieutenant?" the ambassador barked. A soldier 

eating beans gave only a vague wave toward the noise.

    Laquatus looked at his guide, who was glassy-eyed and swaying 

in his saddle. "Stay here. We can find Kirtar on our own."

    Too tired to argue, the soldier dismounted and slowly walked 

to the cook pot.

    "Come on men," Laquatus said loudly. "The lieutenant might 

need our help." He put his heels to his steed's side and moved 

out at a bone-jarring gait. Once they were out of sight of the 

camp, he slowed down. "Pull up, you fools," he said to the 

mercenaries. Caught up in the moment, half of his riders forgot 

he was no friend of the Order.

    "We will slowly scout out the situation, and if Kirtar truly 

is in trouble, we'll finish him off," Laquatus said coldly. "If 

he appears to be winning or there are flying messengers, we will 

act in support. But do nothing until I give the order."

    At a mental command,Turg faded from view. His camouflaging 

skin mimicked the small undergrowth on the border between the 

forest and the plains. Laquatus fed more energy to his wards. The 

mercenaries and the ambassador moved slowly ahead while the frog 

sent mental pictures back to the merman. Laquatus threw his reins 

to a mercenary and slumped in his saddle as his champion's 

visions filled his mind.

    There was a clearing in the brush, and inside it the Order 

laid siege to the herd of giant animals. They appeared reptilian, 

as large as dragons, though without wings or signs of magical 

ability. They sounded cries of distress like mighty elephants, as 

the lieutenant sent mounted squads against single animals.

    The knights lowered their lances, the wood and steel 

flickering as magic flowed through the weapons. The horses 

approached at a slow gallop, closing obliquely with the group. 

The hills of flesh shifted, trying to retreat farther into the 

herd, but there was no more room. The points cut into the belly 

of a huge reptile, tearing through the hide. Blood poured down, 

gallons soaking into soil. The final lance tore through the 

ligaments of a leg, sending the animal down. Turg was overwhelmed 

by the smell of hot blood, and Kirtar sent another squad after a 

different animal.

    The ambassador came out of his light trance, disappointed at 

Kirtar's strength. He must come in as an ally, he realized. He 

drew his personal weapon, a trident, and called softly, "We will 

support the lieutenant, men."

    They came out of the concealing brush nearly opposite the 

Order. Laquatus sent his steed around the perimeter of the 

clearing to link up with the lieutenant, seeing little point of 

charging into a battle before making sure the effort was 

appreciated.

    Over the bellow of the giants, the screams of griffins 

carried on the wind. A flight of Order soldiers came down, their 

weapons ready to be unleashed. However, instead of charging the 

herd, a woman dismounted. Kirtar saluted her, and Laquatus 

realized this must be Captain Pianna, head of the Order. He 

enhanced his senses and drifted back to the brush.

    "Captain, you are just in time to join us," Kirtar said, the 

bird warrior standing proud. In contrast to his men he seemed 

alert and eager.

    The captain drew off her helmet and handed it to a mounted 

subordinate. "I need to speak to you alone," she said, her voice 

flat.

    Kirtar looked to the animals, as if to mention the lack of 

time.

    "I am sure your butchery can wait." She walked away, her 

sword of command sheathed over her shoulder providing an easy way 

for Laquatus to track her movements through the detachment. 

Finally they were far enough away that she stopped and turned to 

Kirtar.

    "What, by all the stars in the sky, are you doing here 

Kirtar? What insanity drove you to attack into the forest? I 

directed you to scout and protect the western villages, not 

initiate a war." She looked over the slaughter and the dead 

animals.

    "The forest and its creatures are part of the natural order. 

Why would you order needless killing that goes against our basic 

ideals?" she asked passionately. Laquatus focused his attention 

on Kirtar hopeful that he could use the answer to good effect.

    "To protect the plains, the enemy must be destroyed," the 

aven replied, his tone growing hot. "These attacks are only a 

symptom of the chaos deep in the forest itself. It is long past 

time something was done to tame the west and its beasts! For now, 

only destruction can protect our land from the contagion here."

    Laquatus chuckled to himself as the captain stood stock 

still. "Rank hatred and insanity," the ambassador whispered 

lovingly. "I can make use of that."

    Pianna rallied and pointed to the lieutenant's men.

    "Setting aside your unique views of handling the current 

problems," the captain said carefully, "there is still no excuse 

for the condition of your men. I just came from your camp. After 

a flight of griffins landed, I was forced to wake your guards to 

find out where you were. Your men are completely spent, their 

magic dissipated in these pointless attacks." She pointed to the 

few remaining herd animals in the clearing. "You have dragged 

your pickets so far forward you are beyond support. You have 

nowhere to fall back to in an emergency. We should be back where 

the militias can act in concert, not driving for the depths of 

the forest!"

    The few remaining animals broke their instinctual response to 

band together for protection and started for the woods. The 

lieutenant's men moved to attack, sending their mounts in pursuit 

of the giants. Their lances dropped parallel to the ground. 

Pianna called out for the men to stand, but only a tired blood-

thirst remained in their minds, and they did not obey.

    Laquatus thought quickly, the captain might obey the Order 

Strictures and destroy the prize. He sent Turg to find the sphere 

in Kirtar's camp, burning the need to stay concealed into the 

frog's mind.

    He raised his trident and shouted, "Kill the animals!" The 

mercenaries followed.

    The ambassador sent his troop to head the beasts off. Only 

after the charge began did he realize the true size of his 

opposition. Just the whales and great sea beasts were larger, and 

he wondered if the mercenaries could do anything with their 

swords and spears. But these men hunted the forests, and they 

were ready for such foes. A few nets flew up, trailing long 

ropes, to land against the reptilian sides. They stuck, the throb 

of magic bonding them to their targets. The entangled beasts 

trailed long lines behind them as they bolted. The nets tore 

trees from the ground, but the lizards fell as they became 

tangled with massive rocks. The Order followed, and their lances 

pierced the unprotected bellies, letting out rivers of lifeblood.

    The ambassador swung his trident, power snapping among its 

tines. A lash of lightning danced along the lead beast's side, 

the current destroying nerves and locking muscles. Tons of flesh 

piled up as the Order and the mercenaries worked together in the 

slaughter. Laquatus turned toward the leadership, the lieutenant 

and the captain already mounted and closing. The griffins spread 

out in a half circle behind their leaders.

    "Always glad to be of service," the ambassador called out, 

enjoying the rage threatening to boil out from the captain's 

demeanor. "We met a detachment of your men after rescuing one of 

your knights. Arrived here just in time to help you deal with 

these animals."

    The captain visibly forced herself to be polite.

    "Thank you for your aid, Ambassador. We are thankful that you 

could come, but it would be best if we adjourned back to the base 

camp," Pianna said with a tight smile.

    The merman still had no response from Turg as to whether the 

prize was located. He needed to keep the leaders out in the 

field.

    "Surely the best thing is to continue killing your way into 

the forest," Laquatus said, swinging his trident to point west. 

"The business of the Order is to end the threat of attacks."

    "The business of the Order is what I say it is. Ambassador," 

Pianna said, interrupting any comments that Kirtar might have 

had. "We have lived with the forest for generations. It is 

foolish to risk everything when we do not even know why these 

attacks have begun or how we can stop them. We are not the Cabal 

to believe that death is the final answer and first response."

    She turned the horses and started back to camp, forcing the 

rest of her troops to follow. The merman could see the rebellion 

in Kirtar's face. He could race after her, but that lacked 

dignity. A spurt of animals showered from a cluster of brush.

    "Beware," Laquatus cried, and a bolt of energy arced from his 

trident to the bushes at the side of the trail. Soldiers drew 

weapons as small animals flowed out and up the legs of their 

mounts. They were stoats and shrews, and Laquatus cursed the 

fates that supplied him with such diminutive foes. He needed some 

great menace to impress the Order and help cement an alliance, 

but only vermin presented themselves.

    The Order steeds pawed the ground, starting in fright as the 

small animals tried to scramble up their legs. The lieutenant 

swung a long flail with gusto, the heavy ball tearing its way 

through the creatures as his soldiers and Laqua-tus's mercenaries 

maneuvered to give him room. Swords and lances swung, and 

creatures died, though their numbers seemed undiminished.

    The captain and her officers dashed the ambassador's hopes 

for any victory by. summoning their own creatures. Several of the 

griffin riders concentrated, letting their steeds snap up 

mouthfuls of the furry foes. Huge single- and double-horned 

beasts set the ground shuddering as they stamped their way into 

the flow of sharp-toothed vermin. Gray rhinos dipped their heads 

and swept the small animals away. Tiny teeth worked at their gray 

hides in vain as the Order-directed creatures shattered the flow 

of small beasts.

    Laquatus, however, was not willing to give up. He raised 

power, but the blasts that ripped from his trident barely stung 

the stoats. That was not where his power had gone. The merman's 

sly summoning drew greater beasts from the brush, attracting 

creatures that had fled Kirtar's murderous attacks.

    Great cats leaped at them from cover, throwing themselves on 

the rhinos. The horned beasts rolled and tried to scrape their 

feline attackers off as larger teeth worried at their hides. A 

few giant bulls thundered out, shoving panicked rhinos and goring 

the gray beasts' sides. Laquatus ceased his call, concerned that 

he might destroy himself in calling up more dangerous animals. 

Predators, large and small, attacked the Order, and the 

ambassador watched as his mercenaries aided the beleaguered 

knights.

    "Hold them for a few seconds," Pianna cried, a bow in her 

hands. The captain's arrows flew low to the ground. The missiles 

were for cutting harnesses and standards, but the curving blades 

instead dismembered the stoats and badgers. Then the razored 

half-moons lodged deep in the legs of the bulls coming from the 

forest.

    The small animals were so easily killed, the ambassador 

lamented, and not even poisonous. Laquatus threw arcs of energy 

that leaped from small animal to small animal, stunning them. He 

drove his horse among the unconscious creatures, cursing his 

horse as it failed to trample enough.

    The lieutenant and his men had dismounted, swords killing the 

last of the small creatures before they closed with those slyly 

summoned by the ambassador. The rhinos returned, finally free of 

the great cats. Huge horns sundered ribs, and the bulls died 

quickly. The Order knights killed off the last of their attackers 

and turned to help the mercenaries.

    A lion leaped at Laquatus, pulling down his horse and 

spilling him to the blood-soaked ground. His guards tried to 

spear it but missed, allowing the lion another chance to kill 

Laquatus. He laid his image over his horse, sacrificing the beast 

as he rolled away. The gaping jaws locked on the equine throat as 

the merman's steed did him a final service. The ambassador called 

for his champion, regretting that Captain Satas and his 

dependable minions were far to the east, still mapping their way 

to the Order's Citadel.

 

                       CHAPTER 14

 

    Kamahl and Seton drove themselves hard up the road, pursuing 

both Kirtar and Laquatus. It took days to finally flush 

themselves of the ambassador's animals. They had been 

relentlessly pursued, the beasts continuing long after the merman 

and his party departed. Only the combination of the barbarian's 

flaming barriers to impede pursuit and the druid's constant 

effort to break the spell finally won them through. Each time the 

druid erased the implanted commands, he turned the creatures back 

to the forest. The repetitious contact with the animals led Seton 

to suspect that something beyond the ambassador and his lackeys 

was affecting the creatures of the west. Riding in the wake of

    Kirtar's forces confirmed that something was wrong.

    They returned to the village where they had battled Laquatus 

and his minions, but the site was deserted. Kamahl found his 

horse grazing in a deserted field and moved to a narrower mount, 

much to the relief of his legs. They continued west, looking in 

vain for the ambassador and his minions. Whether by magic or good 

trailcraft on the part of Laquatus's mercenaries, they could not 

track the aristocrat and his murderous cronies.

    Soon enough they did find the trail of Lieutenant Kirtar. 

Dead animals and markers for fallen Order soldiers began to 

appear. Within a day of leaving the village they came upon a 

gravestone. The marker was nothing extraordinary, a simple 

boulder with the sigil of the Order and the troop name.

    "The warriors of Eiglin," Seton said, identifying the 

unofficial symbol of the lieutenant's command. The soldier was 

interred in frozen ground. The dirt was enchanted to be as 

resistant as iron, denying scavengers an easy meal. The resting 

place would be recorded for eventual reburial in the mausoleums 

of the Order or the graveyards of the soldier's people.

    Filled with hope that they would soon meet Kirtar and their 

search would be over, the two continued on. Instead they found 

more of the Order's passing slaughter.

    They followed long runs of animals hunted down by soldiers 

until there was nothing left alive. The barbarian and the centaur 

were forced to backtrack as the trails ended in piles of dead 

flesh. Soon they neared the edge on the plains and entered the 

realm usually ceded to the forest.

    The killing of animals continued even as the villages were 

left behind, angering the druid to greater and greater heights.

    "There is no sign that these animals threatened anyone. The 

Order destroys anything in its path. Perhaps," he said darkly, 

"the waves of animals are right to kill, with such enemies 

waiting to come within the trees."

    The barbarian rode with his axes loosely tied to his saddle, 

instantly ready at hand. Such destruction seemed pointless to the 

mountain mage. The Order had the right to protect itself from 

attack, but such indiscriminate slaughter must provoke a 

reaction. Seton assured him that the peoples of the forest were 

not behind the current attacks. The killing would not curb 

further animal incursions, for the beasts lacked the intelligence 

to react to such dangers. To kill every dangerous creature would 

be the work of decades. Even though the barbarian had spent his 

life in the mountains, he knew that one roused the forest at his 

own peril. The random attacks could change into a real campaign 

of destruction.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    The dust and the cries dragged the pair onward, both 

desperate to see at last the events whose aftermath had filled 

the land for days. Seton went forward, his face sick and angry at 

the slaughter. Kamahl followed hoping to finally catch up with 

Kirtar or the ambassador. A camp with exhausted Order soldier 

appeared as they rounded a corner of the road. The centaur 

charged through, drawn to the combat beyond. Kamahl followed, 

knowing that both of those he sought were more likely to be near 

the tumult of battle.

    The barbarian looked to the camp as he passed, seeing the 

line of wounded stretched out. His heart raced as he saw the face 

of the injured knight, the fighter he had seen with Laquatus. But 

the man was down in the dirt, a surgeon and orderly working on 

his wounds. The knight's shirt was cut away. Festering sores and 

weeping gashes lay open to the dusty air. Kamahl directed his 

steed forward more strongly, trying to regain the time lost due 

to his pause.

    Seton slowed unexpectedly ahead, allowing Kamahl to come 

closer. The big centaur crowded a man on a horse, fear and strain 

plain on the guard's features. The druid's club was in a carrier 

strapped to his body, and rather than waste time fumbling at the 

straps he used his hands, as he had back at the caravan.

    "Murderer." Kamahl heard him growl as he swept the mercenary 

off his horse and turn his head until the fellow could see behind 

him. The dead man's steed stood placidly, apparently accustomed 

to death in close proximity. "Take a centaur's hide and die!" 

Seton spat. Kamahl assumed that the centaur had found another 

member of the ambassador's party. The druid dropped the corpse in 

the road and reached back to draw his club. Kamahl looked, but no 

one else saw the killing, and the dead man faded into the 

background with the other corpses.

    "Such a criminal deserves death," the barbarian said as Seton 

breathed deeply. "But perhaps vengeance might wait when we find 

the others. Especially if they be in the company of the Order."

    The giant grimaced but nodded reluctantly. The pair advanced 

more slowly, the detail of the fighting beyond becoming clearer 

as they rounded a clump of trees.

    Animals of all sorts, both large and small, moved chaotically 

between riders and infantry. Seton turned his head, waving off a 

bobcat as it ran at him and tried to climb to higher ground on 

his back.

    "Sheer madness!" he exclaimed, and Kamahl agreed with him, 

turning his horse from a badger headed for the trees behind him.

    The druid moved tentatively into the confusion. The mountain 

warrior could feel energy hum as the druid neared a pack of 

wolves. The beasts snarled, and Seton snarled back, reinforcing 

the sound with a wave of the club. Kamahl stayed close to his 

friend as the druid tried to drive the animals away from the 

killing field.

    "Difficult," huffed the druid as a bull elk threatened him 

with its antlers.

    The centaur tried to nudge the animal on with his club, but 

the beast fenced the stone-tipped weapons with its velvety 

antlers. Kamahl whipped a fire lash into the ground at the 

animal's side, and it broke away. The centaur grunted and tried 

to control other animals as the barbarian raised a line of 

flickering flame that began to prod the animals to the side. 

Kamahl ached with the effort of controlling himself, but the 

druid wanted to stop the battle, not join it, and the barbarian 

felt constrained to honor his friend's wishes.

    The pair worked their way through the animal refugees, 

turning those outside the fighting back to the forest. Now they 

crowded the Order soldiers. Kamahl stayed the peacemaker, though 

more and more he ached to smash a profane soldier to the ground. 

This fighting was wrong, and they must stop it. The barbarian's 

frustration mounted higher, and it was with relief that he found 

another member of the ambassador's party.

    Turg announced himself by springing from ambush, as he had so 

often before. The faint flames Kamahl used to herd animals roared 

higher, drying the amphibian's skin as the creature came at him. 

The barbarian ducked as the frog's hind leg thudded into his 

mounts shoulder, his sword out of position. The jack threw 

himself onto the centaur. The frog was red with blood and gore 

from the battle. Kamahl wondered if the champion's fury was 

directed at him for following the ambassador or attempting to 

quell the slaughter. Regardless, the amphibian jumped to the 

druid's back and tried to rip his throat out.

    The centaur showed the flexibility of his kind, turning 

around at his humanoid waist to fight the frog face to face. 

Kamahl saw them gripping arms, and he waited for parts of the 

amphibian to fly over the battlefield. As massive as the frog's 

muscles appeared, they were dwarfed by the forest warrior's 

mighty shoulders. He turned to his own defense as he left the 

centaur to his.

    Without Seton's will, the animals swung back to fight. Two 

bears and dragonettes converged on Kamahl, and now the 

barbarian's fire lash burned away fur and scales. Other animals 

came closer, some fleeing battle, the others seeking it. The 

Knights of the Order came together, and a new summoning burned 

through the magical ether.

    New creatures shimmered into being. They seemed huge mounds 

of crystals, some over twenty feet high. For a moment, Kamahl 

wondered if the Order forces were trying to construct a fortress. 

Then the apparent masses of rock began to move. Ponderous legs 

swung into new positions as the creatures started across the 

field. Light began to glimmer inside the crystal, rotating wildly 

before leaping out to engulf animals. The magic congealed, slowly 

trapping its victims in glowing layers. Bison and great bears 

struggled as if in tar until the bands of golden light hardened 

and left the victims immobile. The monstrous creatures knew their 

allies and rhinos ran freely among the trapped creatures, 

trampling and goring the helpless animals.

    The megoliths moved their crystalline masses over their 

captives, both the living and the dead, and settled down for a 

moment. Then the legs raised the crystal bodies, and new bands of 

magic jumped forth to trap fresh prey. A cow kicked and thrashed 

as the energy tightened and locked it rigid, waiting for a 

rhino's killing thrust or a crushing death from the advancing 

giants. The megoliths had moved far enough that Kamahl could see 

the lane they left behind. Every drop of blood, morsel of flesh, 

or sprig of a plant was gone. A floor of corpses lay in front of 

them, and the crystal grew rosy as the mineral creatures helped 

the Order sweep the field clean.

    "The drive is broken," Seton croaked from behind Kamahl. The 

barbarian turned to the centaur. The druid's face was black with 

an oily liquid, and water wept copiously from his eyes. Of Turg, 

there was no sign.

    "The ambassador's jack vomited his bile into my eyes as we 

struggled," Seton said, peering myopically into Kamahl's face. "1 

wrenched his shoulder and would have pulled his arm off but for 

the burning of its juices."

    The centaur tried to wipe his eyes clear, and Kamahl pulled a 

canteen from his gear. The forest warrior tilted his head back 

and poured the water directly into his eyes.

    "I think the battle is done," he gasped and handed the nearly 

empty container back to the barbarian. Animals fleeing the 

conflict proved the centaur's word good. A bear lumbered by, 

giving only a glance in their direction before continuing on its 

way. However, there were other creatures on the field. A rhino 

stabbed its way through the flow of animal refugees and headed 

for Kamahl. His axe spun into its skull, dropping it into the 

bloody mud. Others converged on him, and he drove his horse 

forward, trying to get away from the approaching beasts. The 

megoliths reversed course, and energy folded over the barbarian 

despite his horse's efforts to outrun the spell. The mare's 

gallop suddenly stopped, and the horse tumbled to the ground. 

Kamahl threw himself free before he could be trapped beneath the 

body.

    He rolled, the sword flying free from his grip. He came to 

his feet with knives of fire in his hands. Seton swung his club, 

snapping a rhino's horn free as he struggled against the 

megoliths' magic. Kamahl ran to his aid, his power severing 

crystal as he turned to destroy the mineral giants. But the 

battlefield held only the victors and the dead. The creatures of 

the forest merged back into the trees as the rhinos and megoliths 

began to fade away.

    The barbarian hobbled to his horse, a deep gaping wound on 

her side telling him that a rhino had attacked while he scrambled 

to his feet. He knelt and laid his hand on her side.

    "Thank you," He whispered, then stripped the saddle and gear 

from the corpse.

    "My friend," Seton said tremulously, "I can't see you-" The 

centaur collapsed, rolling up against the other corpses in the 

field. Kamahl paused for a second and threw away everything, 

racing to find a healer.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Kamahl did not know how long he searched before he found 

someone willing to help his friend. He was sure that the 

exhausted sergeant came more because of the barbarian's sword 

than belief in his story. Once he checked to see if Seton was 

alive, the Order soldier fell into a healing trance.

    The mountain warrior struggled to clear the centaur's eyes, 

scouting for water among the fallen to wash away the poison and 

quench the druid's raging thirst. Kamahl waited, wondering if he 

should fetch others to help, but the cries of the wounded could 

be heard in the distance. The barbarian counted himself lucky to 

have found the sour sergeant.

    "I have done what I can," the Order soldier announced 

suddenly, standing up and moving away from the patient he had 

lavished so much care over.

    "I do not know how to repay you," Kamahl started to say.

    "Don't bother," came the gruff reply. The man stretched, his 

back crackling at the movement. "I saved the eyes. I don't know 

if he will be able to use them. Bring him to the main camp when 

he feels able to walk."

    "I will thank you as soon as I can guide him up the road," 

Kamahl said. "I will do it right before I speak with Lieutenant 

Kirtar."

    The sergeant laughed harshly. "I won't be seeing you then. 

Kirtar has been recalled. The captain was going to haul him back 

to the citadel to explain his conduct. If 1 know Captain Pianna, 

he was on griffin back within a minute of the battle's end."

    All that riding and he must have missed Kirtar by only 

minutes. The barbarian stood rigid, wondering how he would catch 

up with the lieutenant now.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Kamahl sat in his camp, eating a piece of travel bread. 

Despite the tons of meat lying in the field, he had gathered none 

of it. Besides being no scavenger, he could not afford the 

trouble a fire might bring.

    Seton recovered some, and the barbarian was able to lead the 

centaur to the Order camp perimeter, though he did not follow the 

druid to the healers. He left the giant and returned to his 

solitary tent.

    He waited for a day, eating dry travel food and ignoring the 

stench. The barbarian meditated, but the core of his anger made 

his attempts to find peace meaningless. On the second day, Seton 

returned.

    The druid's face was discolored, the apelike features 

splotched with what looked like blue-and-black dye. His eyes 

seeped a steady stream, and he advance slowly into the camp, 

watching where he stepped.

    "It looks worse than it really is," the forest warrior said. 

"The healers believe that with time my sight may improve." The 

giant tried to sound cheerful, but it was obviously difficult. 

The barbarian came closer, gripping his friend firmly by the 

lower arm.

    "I have not wasted my time in the Order's camp," Seton 

explained, lowering himself gingerly. "The lieutenant was called 

to the Citadel to explain his policy of slaughter.

    "The captain sent word that all forays into the forest would 

cease pending further information. There is talk that the bird 

warrior might be demoted or transferred far to the East." Seton 

paused, speaking more seriously. "The Mer Ambassador and his jack 

have also left for the Citadel, 'hoping to resolve the current 

difficulties,'" the druid repeated, the bitterness plain in his 

voice.

    "The quest must not end here," Seton urged. "Reclaiming the 

orb or foiling the ambassador's plans, your journey must 

continue." The druid stood and picked up Kamahl's gear.

    "This was not my first stop after the Order's healers 

released me," the woodland fighter said. "I was able to secure 

you another steed. Come and I will introduce you to him." The 

centaur picked up Kamahl's gear with a single hand and headed 

into the forest, not bothering to wait for a response.

    The druid walked through the trees, his huge strides 

tentative but still forcing the barbarian to step rapidly to keep 

up with him. They arrived at the foot of a tall cliff after a 

long walk, one that obviously taxed the giant's strength. The 

vertical rock face climbed hundreds of feet, the limbs of trees 

seeming to peek out over the top of the ridge.

    "Unless this steed can fly or is invisible, I do not see it." 

Kamahl quipped as he reached the centaur's side. The druid 

chuckled painfully as he dropped the barbarian's gear and looked 

blearily to the sky.

    "Emerald!" he called. "Your rider is here!" A head popped out 

over the top of the cliff, eyes swiveling separately to peer down 

on the two below. A lizard stepped onto the side of the sheer 

wall, standing vertically a moment before it started down.

    "Emerald volunteered last night to provide you with 

transportation. He fed this morning and should be ready for days 

of hard riding."

    The barbarian moved back, nervous to be under a creature of 

such size descending with no visible means of support.

    "Do not worry," said Seton. "Emerald's kind can walk on a 

ceiling as long as the surface can hold the weight."

    The lizard was at the bottom of the cliff and stepped to the 

ground. Its body stood as high as a horse, though it was much 

longer. Emerald's long tail beat against the rock.

    "Exactly how am I going to ride it?" Kamahl said as he 

approached the beast. The centaur said nothing, swinging the 

saddle onto the animal's back. A long tongue darted out of the 

gecko's mouth and worked along the underside of the saddle. When 

the druid settled it all the way down, it squelched and then 

locked solid.

    "That will hold you and your gear even if you are upside 

down," Seton said with satisfaction. "Though you might want to 

grip with something besides your knees. Now climb aboard, and 

tell me how it feels."

    Kamahl approached cautiously and, using the saddle horn, 

pulled himself up. The lizard was huge, but the barrel of its 

body was close to the same width as a horse's.

    "How do I care for it?" Kamahl said uncertainly.

    Seton laughed. "Emerald is as smart as you are, even if he 

can't talk," the centaur explained. "When you want to get the 

saddle off, just tell him and lift. That tongue will smear 

something on its back that will break the saddle's grip. When you 

want to start out again, just do as I did." The druid lifted the 

rest of Kamahl's gear to him and helped secure it. "Emerald knows 

the way to the Order and how to avoid trouble. Just trust him to 

know where he is going."

    The forest warrior stepped back and settled down to rest. 

Before Kamahl could say anything the gecko started with a jerk.

    "Good luck in your quest, Kamahl," Seton called.

    The barbarian could only wave, hoping the druid saw him as he 

concentrated on adapting to the lizard's gait.

 

                       CHAPTER 15

 

    "The air is no place for a merman," Laquatus muttered as he 

held tightly to the soldier's waist. The ground was distant, and 

he was reminded of long swims in tropical seas. The clear water 

revealed the ocean floor far below. However, the air would not 

support the ambassador as he drifted down. He felt his jack's 

fears and knew only his unbending will and orders kept the frog 

from panic. He wondered how bruised the amphibian's companion 

would be when they landed again. He had convinced the captain his 

contacts with the Cabal and other continental powers would help 

her in discovering the source of the disturbances. Laquatus hoped 

to get her alone and work his mind-altering magic, but she gave 

him no chance. The strain of controlling Turg and his own fear 

sapped his energy throughout the griffin ride. Now the final 

destination was in sight, and he could hardly wait for the feel 

of dry land beneath his feet.

    Laquatus regretted his diminished power. He had been forced 

to abandon the mercenaries. Pianna was barely willing to allow 

the ambassador and his champion to accompany her. The merman 

hoped the underwater explorers had finally reached the Citadel. 

The promise of sea warriors and competent minions made the loss 

of the mercenaries bearable.

    The Citadel was a massive conglomeration of stone. The castle 

itself was on top of a rocky hill, the only visible road to the 

gates exposed to attack from above for its entire length. Double 

walls of stone reinforced with dozens of towers enclosed the top 

of the mesa. The central keep was less martial, the fineness of 

the stone work contrasting with the crudely worked blocks of the 

outer walls. But however brilliant the white rock appeared, 

Laquatus still noticed bars on the windows.

    There was a town at the base of the hill, tucked between the 

living rock and a stream flowing down from the north. The slate 

roofs of the tall houses nearly hid the cobblestone streets. The 

avenues looked crowded, and the ambassador could see wagons and 

tents in the town squares. The griffins had often soared over 

long caravans of refugees headed for the Citadel. The merman 

wondered where the additional people could be placed. The 

courtyard that the griffins aimed for seemed clear of any but 

Order officials, and Laquatus tried to guess how much longer that 

would be the case.

    The landing was a blur as the ambassador closed his eyes. The 

skybox had felt rock solid in comparison to a living steed, and 

he wondered if his sudden fear of heights would be temporary. The 

griffin landed with a lurch as it stumbled to a halt. Laquatus 

turned and watched Turg's ride land. The moment the flier's claws 

touched the ground the frog was off, running his hands over the 

solidity of the cobbles. It took the merman several moments to 

dismount, his legs locked with cramps. Finally, he commanded his 

champion to aid him to the ground. The Order soldiers showed 

disgusting ease as they hurried to unload their steeds of cargo, 

saddles, and harnesses.

    The stablemen moved slowly, as if listening for news. They 

looked at the pit frog and the ambassador with wide eyes, and 

Laquatus wondered what wild rumors would be circulating by the 

day's end. The officers and their guests stepped to the main 

keep, the several-story building looming over the merman like a 

cliff.

    They moved into the darker room, Laquatus's eyes adapting 

easily to the dim light coming through the narrow windows. Food 

was laid out on trestles. It was an example of the journey's 

hardship that Turg did not immediately fall upon the buffet but 

squatted down at the ambassador's side. The hugeness of the hall 

seemed to siphon the noise of its few inhabitants away. The 

ambassador carefully enhanced his senses and ached at the sudden 

cacophony. He carefully reined in his energy, hoping that the 

casting of his spell was undetected. The journey had taken quite 

a toll on him as well.

    The officers were off at an isolated table, small portions of 

food set before them, though neither ate. The merman's enhanced 

vision could see the irritation on both of their faces. The rest 

of the griffin scouts gave them a wide berth, and the server left 

a flagon of wine at the table rather than standing ready to pour. 

The ambassador was assaulted by thunder, and Turg stood with a 

threatening gesture. A serving man stumbled back with a tray of 

bread and wine.

    "Give it here, and then leave me alone!" Laquatus grated out. 

The impertinence of the man to disturb him while he was 

concentrating. Only the importance of eavesdropping prevented him 

from calling for the servant's supervisor. He made a note of the 

man's face for punishment at a later date. His attention shifted 

back to the officers in mid-argument.

    "I did not return to stay behind these walls," Kirtar said 

with obvious exasperation. "The fight is to the west, against the 

creatures of the forest." The bird warrior looked at the captain 

as if the stupidity of the original question could not be 

believed.

    "I ordered you back to oversee the deployment of militias. 

Your fighting has changed nothing except to strew corpses amongst 

the trees." Pianna drank quickly, trying to gain breathing room, 

to the ambassador's eyes. "Ever since your entry in the Cabal 

tournament you have lost interest in the Order. Have you 

succumbed to the lure of wealth and prizes?"

    "Wealth is a tool we can use to build the Order," Kirtar 

said, hammering down a goblet with a peal that split Laquatus's 

ears. "As for the prizes, I procured one that was worth any 

number of villages that fell while I competed."

    The lieutenant ignored the captain's indignant gasp and 

opened his pouch. Pianna looked down into the pouch, her eyes 

locked on the sphere. The lieutenant's fingers cupped it and 

raised it before her. The room fell silent as Order mages 

detected the throb of contained power and looked to the officers. 

Laquatus felt a surge of envy as the lieutenant pushed the sphere 

back into his pouch. The ambassador was surprised by the sour 

expression of the officer's face and could barely hear him 

mutter, "It's dimmer still."

    "Impressive enough," the captain said agreeably. "And I can 

understand your fascination with it. But what have you done since 

you received it?" The silence seemed to echo in the merman's 

ears.

    "I see," continued Pianna as several seconds passed without 

response. "Your prize was not used nor provoked any response 

other than influencing you to ignore your recall and engage in 

indiscriminate slaughter." She shook her head sadly.

    "You are less than you were when you left," she stated 

emphatically. "You had plans, but once you held that power in 

your hands you could only use violence. It corrupted you without 

doing anything but offering you magic you had not earned." 

Bitterness and resolution filled her tone. "I have never seen a 

better example of an artifact curbing and shrinking a soul. You 

must give it up."

    "I will not!" replied the lieutenant hotly. "It is only that 

I don't know how to use it," he confessed, his pale skin flushing 

in the dim light. "It was bright with glory once, but every time 

I look at it, the visions grow fainter. I don't know what to do. 

I know only that this is valuable, and it represents the 

salvation of the Order."

    "It is a chain that is dragging you down. You speak of what 

you can do, what you know," she said gently. "You must give it 

up, even if it must be destroyed."

    The bird warrior started but with visible effort stifled his 

initial response and nodded.

    "The Order and the Strictures must come first," he said 

reluctantly. "Only give me time to examine it a little more. You 

are right that I have done nothing with it other than let dreams 

of glory lead me astray. Give me a chance to investigate it a 

little more before we give it up to those who use the crushers." 

The captain nodded doubtfully as Laquatus tasted his heart in his 

mouth. Give the orb to the fanatics who thought the past should 

be erased? Those who spurned objects of enchantment and condemned 

wonders to the grinding wheels of their one sanctioned machine? 

He would see the Citadel ground to dust before he allowed the orb 

to be damaged.

    Kirtar excused himself and left. It took a moment for the 

ambassador to break his trance and send his jack after him. 

Perhaps it would take an obvious intervention to take the sphere 

from these fools. He hoped the underground explorers would find a 

route soon.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Turg lurked behind a pile of heavy canvas, waiting for the 

lieutenant to speak. The frog had followed the officer and stayed 

at a distance. Laquatus soon begged off any further talks with 

the captain or her representatives, citing his exhaustion from 

the journey. Now the ambassador rode the frog's spirit, nudging 

him closer to hear the conspirators.

    At least that was merman's belief. The bird warrior left, but 

instead of retiring directly to his room he spoke to several 

knights before visiting the armory. Laquatus had a bad moment 

when he saw the shape of a great crusher filling a building's 

interior. Several squires pushed a capstan, driving the interior 

mechanisms. A robotic bird was thrown into the machine's gaping 

mouth, and a series of smashing collisions sounded, then died 

down as tiny pieces of the forbidden technology came out the 

other end. A pile of mechanical limbs and less definable work 

filled a basket that the presiding officer continued to empty.

    Laquatus very nearly sent his champion charging for the orb 

at that moment. Kirtar had shook himself and left the crusher 

with a look of fresh determination on his face. Once more he 

stopped to give a message, and this time Turg was able to hear.

    "The dungeon just after midnight."

    The frog spent hours waiting in sight of Kirtar's quarters, 

but the bird warrior did not come out again. Dinner came and 

went, and the frog's belly grumbled.

    In camouflage, he raided the remnants of the evening meal, 

then headed for the dungeon. Rather than the vast cavern that 

Laquatus expected, just several empty cells in a tower's base 

served as the Order's prison. Only the distinc-tive smell allowed 

the frog to find it without asking for directions. Laquatus was 

heartened that even the Order's ideals could not negate the need 

for small rooms reeking of despair and filth. The frog breathed 

the odor in deeply before hiding behind stores in the main room.

    Kirtar arrived first, inspecting the chamber carefully. 

Laquatus fed a minute portion of power to Turg, and the spell, 

combined with the champion's natural camouflage, prevented his 

discovery. Other knights arrived until five moved to a table. 

Laquatus noticed with little surprise that all were aven bird 

warriors. Kirtar spoke, and the others listened silently. The 

door was not whisperwood, so the lieutenant talked softly.

    "I and my fathers have served the Order loyally. You have all 

been warriors in the Order without any blemish on your service. 

None may say otherwise."

    Turg could hear the rustling of nods and crept out a bit 

beyond the bags to see the conspiracy.

    "But to be loyal to the Order means that sometimes the 

Strictures must be disobeyed, ill-conceived commands must be 

ignored."

    There were fewer signs of agreement, but there was an 

affirmative air about the group,

    "I won a great prize while competing in the tourney," Kirtar 

continued. "While defending the helpless, even in that evil city, 

I defeated a dragon."

    Another nod of assent and a bit of pride showed among the 

warriors at one of their own overcoming such a beast.

    "These are difficult times for the Order," the lieutenant 

said quietly. "The forest has risen and assaulted our lands as 

never before."

    "Aye," said a grizzled voice as one of the others 

interrupted. "So many refugees have arrived that they are filling 

up the town. The captain says that soon we will have to start 

bringing families within the Citadel walls."

    "Exactly," said the lieutenant, showing irritation at being 

interrupted. "The captain has a good heart and believes in the 

Strictures, but that is not enough in these difficult days. It 

will take boldness, and while Pianna is no coward, she is not 

bold. The best way to protect the refugees is to stop them from 

being displaced." A murmur of agreement filled the room. "We must 

take the fight to the forest."

    The dead silence through Turg's ears told Laquatus that this 

extreme step was not popular. The lieutenant seemed to know that 

and quickly continued.

    "The prize that the rumors speak of I have with me," he said, 

opening his pouch. The thrill of power shook everyone in the 

room. Turg's camouflage flickered, but such was the group's 

fascination that no one saw. "The captain saw its strength but in 

blind obedience to the Strictures wants it destroyed. She would 

not consider using it and never held it. Touch it now," Kirtar 

said and laid it on the center of the table.

    Each bird warrior stroked it, and one and all were lost in 

some interior vision. Turg tensed as Laquatus wondered about 

attacking the gathering while they were stunned. But they shook 

off their bemusement, all except the lieutenant, with reluctance. 

Kirtar looked dissatisfied.

    "Once it filled the heart with peals of glory, but now it is 

only a ghost of what it was." Disbelief showed on the other 

faces. "I know what the problem is. I have let my own reluctance 

to use this power destroy the potential that originally resided 

in this prize. I can afford to wait no longer. The magic must be 

used, and we must take the Order in a new direction." The officer 

looked each warrior in the eyes in turn.

    "Tomorrow I will take the captain's place, and you must all 

act to support me when I do."

    Turg retreated as the members of the coup left.

    "Treachery, always a popular choice with subordinates," 

Laquatus mused as he directed his jack away from the plotters. 

This betrayal might be just what he needed.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    "There is no reason for these attacks, your Excellency," the 

captain said to Laquatus. The ambassador had begged an audience 

with Pianna, hoping to find some other angle to grasp advantage. 

Besides the excellent news of a power struggle within the Order, 

Laquatus had felt a whisper from the tresias stone during the 

night. An explorer had finally proved a path to the Citadel 

through the underground rivers. Further reinforcements followed 

to give Laquatus enough power to take action against the Order.

    The ambassador sent Turg below with the stone, telling

    Satas all that occurred and that he must bring soldiers as 

quickly as possible. It might be possible to pluck the prize 

right from the Order's fingers without any of the knights being 

the wiser. While he waited for the frog's return, he sat in the 

captain's office offering his services to the Order.

    "The lieutenant's incursion into the forest seemed to provoke 

even more of a response," she said as she showed the merman her 

intelligence maps.

    "I always believed that he might be exceeding his authority," 

Laquatus said in a sweet tone. He waited for a response to his 

overtures, but Pianna was looking at the map. Then she grabbed a 

set of reports and began rifling through them, checking 

something.

    "Yes, yes, yes," she cried out, relief plain on her face. "I 

couldn't see it before because we never put down the dates of the 

attacks." She grabbed up a pen and put a series of broad arrows 

on the map. She ignored the rattle of pins falling to the floor. 

"We never saw a focus to the attacks because the center pulling 

the attacks shifted over time. Kirtar was what the forest reacted 

to."

    "The lieutenant?" Laquatus said nonplussed. "He can be 

irritating but surely not to an entire forest. Do not give him 

credit for being more than he is."

    "Not the lieutenant," Pianna said. "It's that damn prize of 

his. He was awarded it where we saw the strongest attack, and the 

rest of them seem to be moving in his direction when he rode to 

the southern plains. We need to destroy that orb immediately."

    "I knew that would be your thinking," Kirtar said as he moved 

into the room. Laquatus could see the bird warriors lining up in 

the room beyond. "Anything that violates the Strictures must be 

destroyed."

    "It has nothing to do with the Strictures, Lieutenant," 

Pianna replied, drawing herself upright as she heard his insolent 

tone. "I believe your prize is what provokes the forest. There 

will be additional attacks in this direction even as we speak. We 

must destroy it or dispose of it immediately."

    "Get rid of it?" laughed Kirtar. "Even if I believed you, why 

would I want to throw it away?" He put his hand in his pouch and 

drew the orb forth. Its power once more struck the ambassador.

    "Anything that can rouse the entire forest can be used to 

tame it," Kirtar stated. "That is what the Order is dedicated to, 

is it not? Curing the world of its wildness and chaos?"

    The captain moved around the table, her face calm. "But what 

about the villages destroyed and the refugees made homeless as 

you search for a way to use the orb?" Pianna walked slowly toward 

the door and Kirtar. "As a knight, you took an oath to protect 

them." She raised her hand as if to pluck the orb from his 

oversized fist. Energy flared and coated her, locking her in 

place. Laquatus could see her expression slowly starting to 

change from determination to astonishment only to stop halfway 

through the shift.

    "Unlike you, I know it is sometimes necessary to make a 

sacrifice," Kirtar said as he retrieved Pianna's sword, her 

symbol of Order authority.

    Power poured from the orb. A growing mass of purest crystal 

shimmered into being as Laquatus stood, feeling for his soldiers 

below. The throb of ocean magic reassured him as the lieutenant 

turned his attention toward him. The orb's magic seemed to light 

up the bird warrior's features, and the ambassador bowed slightly 

as if to acknowledge the aven's superiority.

    "I trust there will be no problems, Laquatus."

    The merman nodded, thinking how he could take advantage. The 

power continued to grow, and the ambassador wondered if the 

lieutenant was preparing to destroy him. But Kirtar's look of 

victory changed to one of confusion and then fear. The crystal 

around the captain pulsed and began to grow, inching across the 

floor as the bird warrior gripped the orb tightly, concentration 

freezing his face.

    He seemed to collapse inward, panting. Cries sounded beyond 

the room. "Mutiny" and "Save the captain" could be heard as the 

lieutenant once more tried to force his spell to stop. He fell, 

and his supporters rushed into the room.

    "I can't control it!" he gushed, stricken with fear. The bird 

warriors looked at Laquatus, threats in their eyes, and one 

started toward him, murder plain in his face.

    "There is no time," another soldier exclaimed. The crystal 

grew faster, and the ambassador unconsciously retreated.

    "Let the spell take him!" With that they plucked the 

lieutenant up and retreated through the door.

    Laquatus tried to follow, but the crystal was already too 

close to the wall. The stone began to sparkle, and then it too 

was engulfed in crystal. The merman was trapped with no way out, 

the spell expanding in irregular spurts. He tripped over a chair, 

holding the seat out as if to halt the effect. The wooden legs 

froze in place well above the floor.

    "Turg," he called to below, "Captain Satas! Open a portal! 

Immediately!" He backed up against the wall. Could he cut his way 

through the stone? He was trying to raise power when he felt the 

tickle of the portal forming at his back. He fell through the 

wall screaming, "Close it! Close it now!"

 

                       CHAPTER 16

 

    Once more Kamahl ran to a city, his legs pumping. But unlike 

the roads to city, Cabal people were everywhere, packing the 

trail to capacity. He threaded the crowds as he once threaded 

razor shards in the mountains during his training. The travelers 

were refugees from the western border's violence. Ever since he 

left the giant gecko, Emerald, he had run through despairing 

crowds. As he approached the Citadel, there were expressions of 

hope in the faces about him. However, the crush in front of the 

gates seemed to press out the travelers' optimism. The low wall 

surrounding the town was unguarded except for a frustrated 

soldier trying to direct the incoming traffic. He never saw the 

metal-hued barbarian with the great sword, his eyes nearly blind 

from staring at the constant flow of refugees.

    Running was impossible now, but Kamahl persevered. He shoved 

his way through the masses, aiming for the great castle on the 

hill. If there were guards in the city, they were lost in the 

crying crowds. It seemed the entire world tried to reach a place 

to eat or sleep. Large men with clubs stood before every inn.

    "There is no room, move on. Move on," they called to those 

trying to enter. The staves were not used except to prod the 

persistent away. Kamahl wondered how much longer that would be 

true.

    The road up the side of the hill was thick with people. A 

steady stream of Order uniforms came down to the town to help 

with the crowds. A few refugees struggled up the path, pressing 

on to the greater safety of the castle walls. Despite all their 

martial posturing, the Order compromised their defenses, so those 

on the road would not fail to find shelter.

    Kamahl continued through the multitudes, confident that he 

finally had his bearings in the narrow streets. He arrived at the 

bottom of the road and there tasted the ambassador's duplicity.

    "Hold!" a sentry cried. More guards converged on the mountain 

mage.

    "It is the barbarian!" yelled the corporal commanding the 

lower detachment. "Take no chances with him!"

    The people around Kamahl tried to retreat as the soldiers 

formed up, their spears still in the air as they jockeyed for 

room to maneuver. On the walls of the fortress above, the 

barbarian could see other soldiers drawing weapons. Should he try 

to lose himself in the crowd?

    He was sick of retreat, and if the prize were truly his, then 

he would fight for it. He threw his cloak back and revealed the 

armor and bracers on his wrists. Before he could give formal 

challenge, a guard raised a crossbow from behind the spear wall 

and discharged it.

    His hand threw out a line of fire, and he turned during the 

split second of the missile's flight. The flame ate through the 

bolt, withering the shaft and melting away the head. What was 

left of the cowardly attack shattered on his armored side. He 

looked at the detachment, his rage radiating in all directions. 

The refugees continued to retreat as far as they were able, the 

Order tensing for his response. He took gobs of wax from a pouch 

at his side and stuffed them in his ears. The cries of the crowd 

and whatever commands issued from the corporal were cut off.

    Knowing that false accusations might be made against him, 

Kamahl was prepared to batter his opponents into submission. Tiny 

black globes flew from his hands and began to detonate. The 

explosions occurred well in front of the spearmen, but the 

concussions spilled them back with each throw. The barbarian 

quickly glanced up the road. No reinforcements coming yet.

    Another bolt came at him, but his magic was fully energized, 

and it seemed to dissipate in midair. Kamahl threw more globes, 

and these exploded inside the enemy ranks. Soldiers tumbled to 

the sides, deafened by the noise. The crossbowman lay on the 

ground, his entire body bruised from the close detonation.

    Kamahl watched his back, but the tight press of refugees 

prevented guards from getting through. Signs of panic were 

everywhere as civilians tried to flee, and the mass of onlookers 

crippled the Order's response as surely as it manacled Kamahl's 

own actions. The barbarian started up the road.

    He jogged, his footfalls thudding in his ears as he passed 

people cowering on the road's surface. A man bellowed, and Kamahl 

thought he heard, "The forest, the forest," but he swept by 

before he could be sure. If the town believed there was an attack 

from the west, the mountain mage was in no hurry to correct them.

    Even through the wax he could hear cries, but none seemed to 

mention him. He slowed and twitched his trailing cloak back over 

his gear. The hilt of his sword peeking over his shoulder 

proclaimed to all that he was no helpless refugee, but perhaps 

the guards at the gate were as confused as those in the town. He 

spared a look behind him. A wave of people was coming up from the 

city. The jostling masses had no idea what was going on, and he 

realized they sought the safety of the castle.

    Even at his reduced pace he reached the gates well before the 

refugees from below. The passageway through the defenses was 

unbarred, and he carefully walked through. He dug the wax from 

one ear, the cries of the crowd behind him echoing off the stone 

walls. He moved farther into the Citadel, ready to wrap himself 

in flame, but there was no one. He turned a blind corner into the 

courtyard.

    There he found the Order. They fought among themselves. Bands 

of knights and men-at-arms squared off. A few bird warriors stood 

before the combatants, wrapped in magical armor. Glowing like the 

sun, they called for peace, but appeals for discipline were 

useless. The bands of soldiers met in hand-to-hand combat. Flesh 

and fists reinforced by mystic will assailed foes wearing a 

shared livery. Bones shattered, and the fallen were dragged free 

without regard for allegiance by the Order's healers.

    The combatants bludgeoned each other but abstained from 

plying their blades. Only their open hands were enhanced. The 

Citadel made war upon itself, but a brotherhood of centuries 

could not be overturned in a single day.

    Individual soldiers began to come at Kamahl. He drew his 

sword and slapped the fighters away. He advanced along the 

courtyard's edge, careful to use the flat of his blade. The roar 

of explosives would unite the fighters and would surely bring 

them against him. He circled, aiming for the central keep. He 

knew in his bones that Kirtar would be at the center of this 

struggle.

    Magic assaulted his senses. The spell should have been lost 

among the contesting mages, but Kamahl felt it, like a cold stone 

lodged in his gut. The power was muted, but it grew. What he felt 

was surely only the first stirrings. He knew not what magic 

pealed forth, but he knew that the orb must be involved. The 

purity and purpose of the spell lifted it far above the crude 

castings in the yard. He needed to reach Kirtar and the prize.

    Disdaining the low profile he had kept so far, he ran for the 

keep door, black pellets flying before him. The explosions wiped 

the guards away, leaving only the gate to oppose him. The great 

door had a smaller entry in one panel.

    His sword arced high and then cleaved its way into the iron-

reinforced wood, cutting through latches. Through his one clear 

ear he heard the cries of the crowds coming through the gates 

only to be confronted by a civil war within the walls. Another 

blow sliced the final latch, and he jumped through.

    The orb's spell grew louder and more strident in his mind. He 

looked for Kirtar, but the main hall was empty. His peripheral 

vision caught a shadow of movement, and he raised his arm. Claws 

shrieked on the iron bracer, and he half-spun at the impact. 

Another strike fell on his back, ripping through his cloak and 

scoring the studded leather over his shoulder. He swept his sword 

in a circle, slicing through the air. The scrabble of feet led 

his eyes to his foe.

    Turg crouched just out of reach. Kamahl lunged forward, his 

sword a ribbon of flame, but the frog jumped to the side, seeming 

to vanish as the blade curved to skewer him. The amphibian was 

gone, hidden, and Kamahl dug the other gob of wax from his ear. 

He listened but could hear nothing besides the noise of the crowd 

outside.

    A movement close by registered on his senses, and he darted 

toward the foe. But the signs faded away, and his boots suddenly 

lost traction. Feet flying from under him, he fetched up against 

a wall. Turg flickered into view right over him, the amphibian's 

hands reaching for his calf. Kamahl's dagger punched into the 

frog's thigh even as the claws started to shred his muscles. He 

tried to extend the thrust, aiming for arteries, but the 

amphibian vanished, a trail of blood leading to tables of food. A 

loaf vanished from sight, and the spatters stopped. The 

barbarian's own leg bled freely. He sent fingers of flame 

crawling over the gashes, sealing the injury as he screamed in 

pain.

    The hall was huge, and the frog might be anywhere inside it. 

Kamahl threw showers of flame into the upper reaches, burning 

brighter until the barbarian's eyes stung.

    A cluster of odd shadows appeared, and Kamahl knew where Turg 

was. The barbarian charged an axe and let it fly, trailing magic 

as it sank into the stone floor. It vanished in a globe of 

destruction. Turg leaped, an arc of lightning streaming toward 

the barbarian. The power grounded against the wall and charred an 

arc to the floor as Kamahl threw himself away. He rolled several 

times and came up with his sword ready. A crater showed where his 

axe had detonated. There was no sign of the frog.

    The mountain warrior looked for shadows, but the flares above 

the floor were dying out, his magic leaking power. A bank of 

clouds seemed to extinguish them, and Kamahl saw the illusion of 

rain sweeping across the hall. He tried to detect the frog's 

energy but the orb's spell still shrilled behind him. Fighting 

the mer champion was not his goal, and he moved into a corridor 

toward the source of the magic and Kirtar.

    A barrage of metal plates rang against the sides of the 

corridor. They skipped off the floor and glanced off his wounded 

leg. He sent fireballs arcing up the corridor in response.

    "Dinnerware," he snorted, the amusement breaking his 

concentration, as pain had not. More projectiles flew, and he 

knelt, holding his sword before him. Kamahl created an intense 

shield of flame to devour the iron plates that might be launched 

against him. Instead he smelled charred fish, and a stream of 

bodies vaporized in his protection. He looked to the side. A sea 

creature with long limbs flopped on the floor. The flying fish 

expired as the shield's heat dried it out.

    "Find Kirtar," Kamahl growled to himself. The shield broke 

into shards, and he sent them flowing up the corridor slowly, 

blocking the amphibian's advance. The barbarian hurried, 

remembering the orb and listening to the spell's strength. He 

reached a cross-corridor and at last spotted the lieutenant.

    Kirtar looked nearly dead, his pale skin somehow appearing 

transparent. The bird warrior was being carried by other aven, 

and his eyes swept over the barbarian without recognition. His 

hands cupped the prize. Kirtar, once so arrogant and proud, was 

dying before the barbarian's eyes.

    "It's still spreading!" called a soldier looking back the way 

they had come. "We need to get out the postern gate before it 

cuts us off!"

    The soldiers started forward again, carrying the warrior's 

destiny away.

    "Kirtar!" Kamahl bellowed. A door opened onto a stairway, and 

a gaggle of servants surged into the corridor. The leaders 

screamed as the barbarian thundered forward, forcing him to slow 

lest he crush the innocents in his rage. A circle of lightning 

flared, stopping him in his tracks.

    The servants stood frozen. In the corridor beyond, Turg 

flickered back into sight, the frog laughing at Kamahl through 

the screen of dead civilians. He vanished from sight as illusion 

surged over him, and the servants collapsed to the floor.

    "The frog must have raced past under the cover of the fish," 

Kamahl swore. He drew power, grounding it to his sword. The steel 

danced with flame, and he prepared to send it streaking up the 

corridor to flush the amphibian out.

    "Murderer!" came the cry from behind him. Members of the 

Order stood, fury evident as they looked at the barbarian and the 

circle of dead innocents. All were armored, and Kamahl could hear 

more soldiers crowding behind them. The front rank raised maces, 

their heads wrapped in deadly golden light.

    The barbarian threw an exploding pellet of flame, the 

concussion echoing off the walls and sending him tumbling back. 

The narrow corridor acted to concentrate the blast toward him. 

His ears ringing, he got to his feet. The explosion had spun him 

around, and he could see Turg bent over in amusement, his wide 

mouth a gigantic smile. A shaft of flame sped toward the 

amphibian only to shatter in mid-air. A wave of magic seeping 

through the wall had already cut off the corridor. It resonated 

with the orb's magical signature, and Kamahl knew he had found 

the source of the magical call swamping his senses.

    The frog blew him a kiss and vanished from sight. Shards of 

fire impacted uselessly against the magic as the mountain mage 

realized himself cut off from the amphibian and Lieutenant 

Kirtar. Trapped, he turned to the coming soldiers. They were not 

dazed by his concussions. Completely armored in light, they only 

shouted with derision at his explosions. He could not hear them, 

but he could see their faces and knew they were beyond reason.

    Pillars of fire rose up to char the plaster, cutting off his 

sight of the Order knights. He turned to the crystal wall, 

wondering if he might somehow tunnel through. A shoe had come off 

one of the dead servants, and he kicked it toward the barrier. It 

struck the border and stuck there, becoming frozen even as he 

watched.

    He could feel his spells dying, and he saw the enhanced 

swords and maces smashing through the curtain of fire. Contempt 

was in every figure stepping into the hall, and he acknowledged 

his defeat. He must kill and escape the Citadel before being 

slain by the massed opposition of the Order.

    Kamahl lifted his sword and once again the brilliant fire 

that could devour iron shimmered off the blade. But instead of 

attacking the knights, he sent the pulse of flame into the walls. 

Rock ran like water, and wood vanished in explosions of gas as 

fire gutted the Citadel's structure. Supporting walls were cut, 

and timbers burnt away leaving nothing to support the walls and 

ceiling over the men coming to kill Kamahl.

    Rubble cascaded over the soldiers, burying them in a sea of 

dust and stone. The barbarian held his cloak over his face, 

unable to retreat because of the crystal wall at his back. The 

dust started to clear, and Kamahl could see a sloping ramp of 

rock leading to the upper floors. He started forward only to be 

caught short as his cloak held him in place. The tattered train 

of his garment was already frozen in the crystal wall. He cut 

himself free with a knife, leaving the cloak to be preserved in 

the crystal. He scrambled up the ramp, the stones settling as he 

neared the upper floors. Suddenly reality quivered, and Kamahl 

froze. The orb, its echo familiar to the barbarian, was active, 

but its ambiance had changed. The new tone set his teeth on edge. 

The orb was different, and Kamahl started up the ramp again, 

determined to find out what had happened.

 

                       CHAPTER 17

 

    Laquatus fell screaming through the portal, the icy water 

ending his cry as his body shiv-ered through its transformation. 

Turg swam forward-due to the merman's subconscious demand or of 

his own free will, the ambas-sador had no idea. The shock of the 

water cleared his mind. He thought of the orb in Kirtar's hands. 

The lieutenant had been weak, barely able to stand. The Order 

fought among themselves, and the town was bursting with refugees. 

This was the moment of maximum chaos. Should he attack in force?

    A look at his soldiers revealed this to be an impossibility.

    The transport mage was present and a few tresias, but Captain 

Satas and his squads of fighters were nowhere. They must still be 

travelling the last few miles. There was no time! He must act 

before the prize was destroyed or transferred to a more powerful 

person.

    "Open the way to the surface," Laquatus ordered the transport 

mage. "Just inside the castle walls would be best." He began to 

concentrate, building on his link with Turg.

    "I cannot, your Excellency," came the reply behind him. The 

merman spun, his composure broken as he bore down on the mage.

    "Why not!" Laquatus grabbed the amphibian's whiskers, knowing 

them to transmit pain, and pulled them viciously. The mage hissed 

in agony until the ambassador loosened his grip.

    "The spell that you fled touched the portal and drained my 

power," the mage said, pulling its whiskers through the merman's 

fingers. "It will be some time before I may cast another spell."

    Laquatus wondered if the universe itself was against him.

    "There must be another way to the surface," the merman raged, 

twisting in the water wildly, trying to think of a way through 

the rock above him. He felt trapped, dependent as he was on 

another to cast the spell.

    "We created a permanent opening outside of the city," the 

mage said as its shivers of pain stopped. The blind cave dweller 

backed away as if to deny the ambassador further opportunity for 

violence. "Captain Satas ordered a permanent pool to be opened in 

the rough country to ease the placement of spies and travel of 

messengers."

    "Why didn't you say so earlier?" the merman said. He gathered 

his champion and what guards were available and left for the 

permanent pool. Perhaps there was still time. In short order they 

exited to the upper world, the ambassador racked with momentary 

disorientation as he transformed into a walker once more.

    Laquatus appeared at the foot of the citadel near the lower 

wall. Gullies and heavy brush backed the hill on which the castle 

sat. The thick growth made movement difficult but infiltration 

fairly easy. The ambassador was surprised that the Order had not 

placed traps or at least planted poisonous shrubs. However, he 

was willing to take advantage of the situation.

    There were no roads or paths around the hill to the castle 

gates. Knowing that time was of the essence, he sank into a 

trance, preparing to act once more through the jack. The 

camouflaged amphibian worked his way to the winding road, careful 

to be unobserved as he dropped from above. A surge of people 

ascended the path below him, and soldiers came down from above. 

The ambassador sent pulses of illusion and misdirection, 

reinforcing the jack's camouflage as he climbed to the main part 

of the Citadel.

    Explosions shook the air, and Laquatus sent the frog up at a 

run, tearing through the gates. He saw Kamahl force his way past 

the guard. Covering the intervening courtyard without becoming 

involved with the fighting was nearly impossible, but he did it. 

The jack threw himself rolling past the barbarian as the metal-

hued warrior turned back to look outside. The frog made quite a 

bit of noise, and he ran ahead lest he be caught in close 

quarters. But the barbarian gave no sign that he noticed the sea 

warrior through the web of deceit, and Laquatus resolved to 

attack.

    His attempt to ambush the mountain mage failed, and Kamahl 

forged ahead of the mer champion, blocking Turg's path to the 

lieutenant and the prize. Petulance at his opponent's poor timing 

sent the ambassador and his frog into a rage. He grabbed every 

thing he could from the tables to throw down the hall. Goblets, 

platters, and bones whistled through the air, only to be rendered 

harmless by the barbarian's defenses.

    Laquatus reigned his temper in. Kirtar had the real prize, 

and time wasted on Kamahl took true power farther away every 

minute. Besides, who knew how far the crystal wave might travel? 

The castle might be uninhabitable at any moment, and he was 

having a food fight.

    Realizing how trivial the barbarian really was, he unleashed 

a school of flying fish as a distraction, passing the barbarian 

in a cloud of deceit. The frog shied away from the white flame 

surrounding Kamahl, the heat drying his skin, making him 

dangerously lethargic.

    Once past, Turg wondered which way to go, confused for a 

moment as to where Kirtar might be. Seeing a stairway he moved 

into it. A barrel of water for washing the floor delayed Turg as 

he drank the filthy water down, his primitive instincts 

overriding Laquatus's sophistication.

    The ambassador reestablished control with a burst of will. He 

must find the prize. While he wondered where to go, clattering 

footsteps descended the stairs. He faded into the shadows. He 

glimpsed Kirtar, the object of his quest, carried past by three 

guards. He moved to follow, only to be blocked by a group of 

servants retreating from upstairs.

    "I will not be denied," thundered Laquatus in Turg's skull, 

and lighting arced from his fingers, slaying those in his way. He 

ran after the lieutenant, seeing the wave of crystal already 

coming through the wall.

    The jack moved silently, running after the warriors 

retreating from their master's disastrous spell. The aven stopped 

as the lieutenant called out.

    "I must try again," he insisted in a hollow voice, the words 

barely audible even to Turg's excellent ears. The bird warriors 

kept moving until he weakly swatted at their hands, the palest 

glow surrounding his fists. "I command the Order, now stop!" The 

three did so reluctantly.

    "Sir, you have tried so many times to turn the spell," one 

said, his eyes signaling that he wanted to run. "Why should you 

succeed this time."

    Kirtar folded himself around the orb.

    "Because I must," he said. The lieutenant's frame shivered 

violently, but he regained control. "The crystal devours me. Find 

out what is happening." The mage lost himself in a trance.

    The retainers separated, one going to check on the advancing 

spell, the other going ahead. Laquatus watched through the 

amphibian's eyes as the bird warrior looked back, hesitation 

plain in his face. Then he turned abruptly and walked away.

    Once the lieutenant has a single retainer, Turg ran down the 

corridor, a lance of lightning surging from his hands. The 

ambassador put everything into the link, the electrical arc 

growing until it was arm-thick. The stroke continued through the 

soldier's body, burning away the plaster on a wall ten feet away. 

The frog collapsed, his spells exhausted as the last barrier to 

the orb fell.

    Kirtar's eyes were clear, jolted out of his trance as the 

amphibian crawled closer. The leader of the Order lay slack, 

shock visible on his face. He began to tremble once more and 

pushed out his palm as if to command the world to halt. Turg 

glanced behind him. The wall of crystal was advancing faster. 

Laquatus knew it was time to claim the prize.

    The lieutenant cried out as Turg plucked the sphere from the 

aven's hand. The bird warrior faded even further as he lost touch 

with the sphere. The ambassador ignored everything as his 

champion gripped the prize. The bright mirror finish of the orb 

darkened, the reflected light from the spreading crystal lost as 

the prize changed. The ambassador forced the pit frog to retreat, 

lest it be entombed with the others. Rousing the will to move was 

as difficult a battle as any Laquatus had ever fought.

    Turg blindly stumbled away, still looking at the wonder 

cupped in his hands. The sphere was the color of the seas, 

constantly shifting and changing. The blue of the tropics gave 

way to the gray of the northern reaches. The ambassador looked 

through the frog's eyes as the prize continued to change. The 

sphere became a globe of water-endless tides sweeping across it 

unhindered by the land. A world that hinted at wonders hidden 

under its surface.

    Turg tripped and tumbled with none of his deadly grace. Only 

the terrified shout of Laquatus's spirit prevented the prize from 

spinning out of the pit frog's grasp. The globe still called to 

the ambassador's mind, but he resisted the urge. There would be 

plenty of time to plumb its depths after the amphibian was safely 

back in camp.

    A call came from below, the calm voice of Captain Satas 

speaking through the ether. "I have arrived with new mages. Do 

you wish to return to the underworld?"

    "Yes!" shouted the ambassador's spirit. Turg fell into a pool 

of swirling energy as the tresias, and his mages reacted to the 

apparent source of the call. The shock of passage pulled the 

ambassador's spirit back to his rightful body. He shook himself 

awake and looked around. He was out of the gully, his clothes 

torn and bleeding from abrasions. The travel mage held onto his 

arms and bruising covered the minion's face.

    "Why am I out here?" Laquatus demanded, slapping away the 

blind hands as he felt his minor pains.

    "You left the entrance at a run, lost in your trance. You 

would not stop or respond," the mage said wretchedly. "The others 

were afraid to restrain you physically, and my weight was too 

slight to stop you. 1 tried to ensnare you in an illusion, but 

you went right through them. You moved without direction, 

dragging me through brush and bouncing off trees. 1 don't know 

where we are." The amphibian wailed, lost in the world beyond his 

caves.

    Laquatus had driven Turg often enough to realize that his 

link with the jack was bleeding back to him. As the aristocrat's 

spirit concerned itself solely with directing the frog, his own 

body responded to echoes of those commands. He would have to 

exercise more care in the future. But even with blood dripping 

from his face, the ambassador was in a good mood. Who cared where 

he was. He had captured the prize.

    "Do not worry," the merman said. "I have succeeded in 

everything."

    The ambassador must have come hundreds of yards in his blind 

rush. Now a squad of griffins fell from the sky, their shrieks of 

anger reminding Laqautus that the Order considered itself 

attacked from without and within.

    "Satas," he called through his stone, "hide all signs of the 

portal and prepare to take me away." He waited precious seconds 

as the Order landed in a clearing only yards away.

    "I cannot," the tresias said sorrowfully. "Like his companion 

before, my transport mage is spent in pulling your champion away. 

We cannot rescue you at this time."

    The merman thought quickly, trapped with only his own 

resources.

    "Send Turg to me through the permanent portal now," he cried 

through the mental plane. "Keep the orb safe until I return."

    He commanded his champion to come. The frog resisted, still 

entranced by the sphere, but the ambassador owned his soul. With 

a despairing cry, the jack came through the portal, running 

toward the ambassador.

    "What incredible luck," Laqautus cried, stepping rapidly to 

greet the griffin riders as they came through the brush. "Now the 

traitors are doomed," he said confidently. Confusion replaced the 

hostility on the riders' faces.

    "What are you talking about?" a soldier snarled, rage burning 

through his bemusement. "The traitors are trapped in the Citadel. 

We came to question you," he added, driving his steed closer.

    "Monstrous!" the ambassador howled, as the sound of Turg 

breaking through the brush made the riders turn. "My champion has 

been chasing the brigands, trying to cut off the barbarian's 

allies." Turg was torn and bloody, his wounded thigh once again 

seeping.

    "We saw Kamahl meet with warriors dressed in hooded robes 

less than an hour ago. We then informed Lieutenant Kirtar of the 

notorious murderer and his confederates. He assured me that he 

would act to protect the Order," said the ambassador. At the 

news, a few soldiers sympathetic to Kirtar took it upon 

themselves to heal Turg.

    The detachment head appeared lost, uncertain of everything,

    The news of the mutiny must have been unbearable to most of 

the Order, the ambassador knew. The captain was very popular, and 

Kirtar was a fool not to kill her secretly. However, he knew any 

organization would accept outright lies to preserve the respect 

for its leaders.

    "Take me to Kirtar this instant," Laquatus demanded, betting 

on the bird warrior's death.

    He and his champion were mounted once more on griffins, and 

they flew toward the Citadel. The ambassador fought his fear of 

flying by dreaming up contingency lies. People streamed down the 

road from the castle, a few soldiers rushing from entrances. A 

hole was blown out the upper stories.

    "Damned barbarian," the sea mage heard his rider mutter.

    They landed, and Laquatus and Turg were rushed to the current 

leader of the Order, Pianna's sword in his hand.

    Laquatus stepped forward to spin his tale, confident his 

story would be confirmed.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Laquatus rode through the city gates, accepting the accolades 

with a dignified nod. The knights and soldiers of the Order were 

drawn up and saluted him and his champion as they started their 

brave ride for the sea.

    The new captain was very understanding of the ambassador's 

need to leave, not trusting anyone as he struggled for unity with 

soldiers still reeling from rumors of murder and mutiny.

    Officially, the barbarian Kamahl and unnamed conspirators 

infiltrated the fortress, and Kirtar had discovered it too late. 

The lieutenant took control, rushing to protect Captain Pianna 

who had already fallen to internal betrayers. Kamahl fought his 

way through the protective guards to join the murderers. Kirtar 

fell in personal battle with the barbarian. The mountain warrior 

cut his way out of the castle to the plains. There was no sign of 

Kamahl, and Laquatus doubted the new captain would waste time 

looking for the barbarian when he had traitors to root out. The 

ambassador wondered if the lie would hold. But what matter the 

fables of the plains? He had captured the orb, and the Order 

could believe what it wanted.

    After an hour they stopped, the merman anxious to leave his 

new retinue behind. Laquatus conducted a series of personal 

interviews, and the convoy continued on without him and his 

champion. The ride back to the portal was tortuous, the road 

seeming far longer. Turg moved in camouflage, while the merman 

rode in a borrowed cloak. Selective illusions took them past 

soldiers and regular travelers.

    At last they left the path and headed for the portal open 

outside the city. It was dark as they made their way through the 

brush and into the gully. The pool gave off a feeble glow, the 

light caught by the overhang above. He reentered the underground, 

sliding through the transformation with ease. Only a small squad 

awaited him, and he wondered where Captain Satas might be.

    "Where is the rest of my escort?" Laquatus called as Turg 

swam for a cache of supplies and fell to eating. A tresias 

approached and the ambassador noticed the heavy bruising that he 

himself had inflicted hours before.

    "Captain Satas has gone ahead to the emperor, carrying your 

captured prize," the blind amphibian said, keeping away from the 

merman. "He decided such an important artifact must be conducted 

to his Imperial Highness as rapidly as possible." The small 

creature swam backward and crowded against the wall, fearing an 

angry explosion.

    Laquatus did nothing. The captain led him by hours and with 

his smaller stature and better routes could not be intercepted 

before he reached the sea. The tresias formed the backbone of the 

officer core and messenger system that he used to communicate 

with his forces. There was no way to reach his personal 

retainers. Perhaps he could fly overland and beat Satas to the 

sea? But he did not know the Captain's route and access to the 

underground was under the bastard's control. He might be unable 

to even reenter the subterranean rivers.

    The prize had slipped beyond his fingers once more, and worst 

of all, it had fallen into the hands of the emperor, his master.

 

                       CHAPTER 18

 

    Aboshan, Emperor of the Seas, reclined in his palace 

listening to a courtier. The cephalid shifted his tentacles, 

sliding back into the throne. No mere chair, the pile of coral 

was covered with short growths endlessly moving over his skin. 

The organisms cleaned and feed small amounts of power to him 

drawn from the building's essence. He turned and let the 

multicolored polyps move over another area of his body. The 

brilliant azure of his skin competed against the array of color 

on the throne and walls. His eyes idly moved as he luxuriated in 

the comfortable embrace. Tentacles left vortices through the 

water as he turned and sent a magic call to the fish colonizing 

the palace walls. An animal darted around, and he caught it, 

appreciating its jewel-like colors before devouring it.

    The huge room was formed out of coral. The unique species 

excreted a dense mesh, becoming as tough and resilient as 

anything in the sea. Two large doors opened out to the ocean, and 

several gaps in the dome's roof allowed fresh currents of water 

to flow. The ceiling and walls glowed as tiny plants funneled 

light through the structure and spilled it out. When the sun 

disappeared from the upper air, other organisms would feed light 

through the palace. Aboshan wondered how those on dry land could 

bear to live in dead structures.

    The emperor dragged his attention back to the speaker. The 

brown fur of the courtier rippled as his body slowly rotated, the 

selkie using unusual restraint as he reported about the land. The 

seal could take on a human's appearance much as Aboshan could 

form legs. The emperor, of course, avoided such transformations 

as much as possible. He considered the land contemptible. The 

fact that the courtier by nature could move among the land bound 

with ease made him suspect in the cephalid's eyes. He breathed 

water down, reveling in another advantage. The selkie needed air, 

and only a special spell allowed the creature to remain at court 

without withdrawing every few minutes. "The Order is in 

disarray," the selkie continued, darting his head briefly toward 

a fish swimming close by. "The new leader is a warrior named 

Bretath. He conveys his respects and his gratitude for Ambassador 

Laquatus's aid in the recent troubles."

    "As if we took any notice of land-bound troubles," the 

emperor drawled, his boredom plain to all. "Surely you have some 

news of interest beside the business of savages and their 

meaningless tribes."

    The selkie somersaulted with agitation before settling down. 

The emperor yawned, used to the courtier's flighty nature. He 

firmly believed that air breathers should deal with air 

breathers, being already contaminated. Some sages believed seals, 

whales, and others needing air to be refugees from the land. 

Their ancestors were right to flee back to the sea, but Aboshan 

shuddered at the thought of such a lineage.

    "Of course, your Imperial Highness," the seal answered, his 

tone hesitant as he searched for a new topic, one likely to 

interest the monarch. "There are problems regarding the treasures 

gathered inside the continent."

    The emperor's attention focused on the selkie. The land might 

be filled with contemptible peoples, but it held the lion's share 

of past wars' spoils. The battlefields had only occasionally 

moved over the sea. Many of the prizes were lost in the ocean's 

abysmal depths where even the emperor's warrant had little 

weight. His beak snapped as he considered the dry kingdoms' 

salvage activities in retrieving ships lost at sea. It was only 

proper that his nation empty the land's treasure troves.

    "Our explorers and diggers locate and transport the reclaimed 

prizes easily enough," the selkie said. "Bringing them to the 

coast is not the problem. But now that we move more of the 

discoveries to the court, we are having difficulties."

    The seal spoke slower, for a thunderous expression grew on 

Aboshan's face. The emperor had instituted the policy of 

relocating the machines and objects of power from above the waves 

to below them. For decades, isolated stretches of coastline and 

caves on rocky islands had held the empire's loot recovered from 

ancient battlefields. The monarch had decided that such potential 

power must be brought under his direct physical control.

    "Many of the mechanisms are delicate, and we find them 

difficult to repair," the selkie continued. "Fetishes are 

composed of materials that break down in the water. Worst of all, 

we have few trained to repair them. Perhaps it would be simpler 

to trade with the Cabal who is positioned to use them."

    Aboshan swam free of the throne, his trident held in two 

tentacles as if to attack. The selkie froze as the guards became 

more alert. The trident was the symbol of the emperor's might, 

but now he used it as a simple weapon, laying the tines against 

the seal's neck.

    "We find your suggestion unacceptable," the cephalid said, 

his voice freezing the courtier, as previous signs of displeasure 

had not. "What we have recovered is for our use," he said, the 

trident's barbed points puncturing the courtier's fur. Blood 

clouded the water, and small cleaning fish from the walls swam to 

dispose of the perceived garbage. Aboshan's weapon pulled free of 

the seal's neck muscles. An electric shock surged into the 

school, sending the selkie into a series of convulsions as the 

fish died and floated toward the dome's roof. Hidden guardians 

appeared momentarily as they struck at the ascending food. The 

cephalid gripped the seal and pulled him closer, his suckers 

marking the hide as the frozen selkie quivered in fear.

    "The land dwellers have held the keys to the past for long 

enough. We shall gather hold of power and harness it to our own 

purposes." He moved his tentacles, and the fur began to tear free 

of the muscle beneath. "If you are unable to oversee the care of 

our treasure, then arrange with the Cabal Patriarch for workers 

to come here. Now go, and let it be done."

    The emperor swam back to his throne as the selkie floated, 

then talked excitably to an aide, which left.

    "Even air breathing swimmers are incompetent," Aboshan said 

to himself.

    He regretted asking for workers from the Cabal. However, the 

preservation of fetishes and totems were unknown in the undersea 

kingdom. Most objects of power were living organisms. The care of 

dead magic was a rare art.

    The doors against the wall opened suddenly, a wave of ink 

surging into the room. The current began to flow faster, pumping 

more of the darkness among the courtiers.

    "Guards, defend your emperor!" Aboshan ordered as he called 

up power. Huge cuttlefish moved through the doorway, their sides 

flashed colors so quickly that the eye was uncertain of their 

shade from one moment to the next. More ink gushed from them, 

moving into the crowd.

    The darkness coiled evilly through the water, its touch 

paralyzing those who could not evade it. The selkie swam for the 

upper openings only to contact a trailing cloud. It went into 

convulsions. Bubbles rose from its frame as it lost control of 

its body and the spell allowing it to breathe. The seal drowned 

in seconds, its lungs full of water and then poison.

    Sea warriors swarmed through the doors, their skin covered in 

a translucent gel protecting them from the ink. Their spears and 

tridents started to work at the crowd as the emperor readied 

himself for battle.

    The throne room's hidden guards responded, surging from the 

crevices and crannies that lined the walls. Octopi weighing 

hundreds of pounds jetted toward the cuttlefish.

    Their long arms wrapped over the animals' heads as the 

attackers tried to escape, their hides flaring with panic. Huge 

moray eels swam out, their jaws closing over the waists and limbs 

of the attacking mer. However, illusions swam into being, 

misleading the beasts' strikes as the invaders continued toward 

the emperor.

    A school of barracuda swept through the upper exits to the 

open ocean. Directed by exterior guards, they flew into the 

invaders before the cephalids could react. Limbs separated as the 

living knives carved apart the attackers and a few of the 

paralyzed victims. The fish flexed wildly, smashing into the 

walls in explosions of gore as the diluted ink destroyed their 

ability to control their direction.

    Aboshan gestured with his trident, and the current reversed. 

The water's speed intensified, and the ink flowed to the outside. 

The paralyzed courtiers and the bodies of the slain swirled out 

through the gates. The emperor stopped as he realized his spell 

prevented reinforcements from reaching the throne room. Two 

attackers had survived every counterattack and closed on the 

throne, their weapons raised for regicide.

    Aboshan swam toward one, his trident focusing his will. Water 

surged again but in a much narrower area. A thin liquid thread 

cut through the rebel's upraised weapon and the merman's torso. 

The jet dispersed blood and flesh in a huge cloud rolling toward 

the walls. The ruler turned, his weapon meeting his last 

attacker. They locked tines, the tridents contesting for 

supremacy.

    Aboshan forced the rebel down, rolling the cephalid and 

disorienting him. He grabbed the helpless throat, his magic 

crowding through the enemy's body, rendering him helpless. 

Reinforcements came through the gates and the upper works, unable 

to find any living enemies. A few guards began gathering up the 

paralyzed, hauling them away to the healers for care and 

antidotes.

    The emperor turned the rebel's head from side to side, 

studying it in hope of recognition, but he could not remember 

him. He shook the slack body violently, the eyes suddenly opening 

in shock and surprise. Aboshan laughed as the rush of surviving 

sent him into a manic mood.

    "Who sent you?" he cried into the still face. "Who is behind 

this treachery?"

    The monarch eased his magical grip on the merman's nerves, 

and his victim gasped and grimaced as he regained some control.

    "No one had to send us," he rasped, his voice husky from the 

abuse Aboshan inflicted on his throat. "You are everyone's enemy 

under the sea."

    The emperor dragged his trident down the rebel's flank, 

letting blood into the water.

    "You lie," said the monarch, sending the tines deeper into 

the trailing tentacles. "You came at the instigation of our wife, 

Llawan. Why did she send you to kill me?"

    "The ocean is marred by your armies and forts," whispered the 

rebel, lines of despair evident in his face. "None may trust the 

other for fear of informers in your pay." He breathed in polluted 

water and paused. "The denizens of the upper ocean must bow to 

your will or flee. The cetaceans suffer from your contempt and 

whale songs grow bitter. How can any not rise up and strike you 

down?" The fighter began to talk with more strength, the 

emperor's magical hold weakening as the offender further roused 

the imperial temper.

    "We are only the first lapping of a wave sweeping you aside," 

the captive said more boldly. "You dare not leave your palace 

unless escorted by schools of guards. You cannot hope to chain 

the seas with your decrees."

    Aboshan was bright red with rage, the muscles holding the 

trident quivering with anticipation.

    "You shall fall and Llawan, Empress of the Sea shall reign 

in-"

    The monarch cut the speech short, plunging the bronze barbs 

deep into the cephalid only to withdraw and stab him again. The 

emperor's skin pulsed a howl of rage as he executed the prisoner.

    "Bring me the captain of the guard," the monarch commanded, 

letting loose the rebel to drift with the current. The captain 

was a pale blue as he approached his sovereign.

    "I am trying to find out how the attackers infiltrated the 

palace, sire," he said in a trembling voice. The emperor jetted 

back and forth, his skin still pulsating in rage.

    "I know how the scum came into our presence," Aboshan said 

and came closer. "The question is merely one of your incompetence 

or active treachery."

    "I assure you that I live to serve only you, Majesty," the 

captain said excitedly. The monarch regarded him narrowly, the 

pulses of color slowing.

    "We think not. We think you serve the self-styled Queen of 

the Seas, Llawan." He swam closer to the officer. "We think you 

would see another on the throne, so take your seat!"

    Aboshan forced the captain onto the organisms that groomed 

the ruler, the soldier jarring against the under lying rock. His 

taste was not the emperor's, and the polyps turned upon the 

perceived usurper. Venom seared into the officer's scales, 

killing him as broad swathes of flesh swelled and burst. A look 

of unspeakable agony showed, and the face was washed away by the 

throne's caress.

    "Let him be cast into the abyss," Aboshan proclaimed. "There 

to be devoured by worms along with his brethren in treachery. Let 

others of the slain be displayed as proof of our justice and 

continued power."

    The captain's former command gathered up the dead and 

retreated to do the monarch's will.

    It was some time before the next guard commander dared report 

to the emperor. Finally, a sergeant stationed in the palace came 

to speak to the monarch in his private quarters. Aboshan had 

retired to regain his composure, though a clerk to conduct 

official business accompanied him. The imperial rooms were lit by 

light pumped from the upper world. Long kelp plants swayed in the 

currents, and small edible fish and crustaceans scurried over the 

floors. The emperor saw distrust in the sergeant's face as the 

soldier regarded the restful scene. Aboshan hoped fear of poisons 

and hidden guardians would give others pause when they plotted 

against him. The attendants who usually filled the rooms waited 

elsewhere until his temper subsided.

    "The attackers appeared in the palace through use of a 

transport pool," the commander began without preamble, anxious to 

discharge his duty and leave. "The cuttlefish filled the outer 

rooms with poisonous ink, and the rebels prevented the flow of 

reinforcements from inside the defenses. Most of the troops were 

unaware of any problems until the attack was over. All the 

invaders perished resisting capture or during the assault on your 

person. At this time we have no leads as to who might be 

responsible." The soldier dipped his head, the emperor and his 

servant half-hidden from sight by the room's growth. He left at 

Aboshan's nod.

    The monarch turned to his clerk. The privilege of serving as 

private secretary to the emperor rotated fairly often. The civil 

service assured him that it was awarded on the basis of 

performance. Aboshan wondered if the ministers overseeing the 

palace staff really thought him so dull witted. The secretary was 

a tall spindly crab holding a stylus and a sheet of wax, ready to 

take down his orders.

    "We charge the army to investigate all signs relating to the 

recent conspiracy to unseat us," the monarch dictated, plucking a 

tiny urchin from the floor and splitting it open, the pain from 

the quills spicing the coming meal. "All communications with the 

southern court of Queen Llawan are to be closely scrutinized and 

correspondents questioned rigorously as to their connections with 

our estranged spouse."

    The cephalid sucked the urchin's innards down and tore at the 

flesh with his beak as he considered further actions. His 

maleficent wife and her pawns had breached his palace. Yet to act 

against her would provoke a civil war that even in victory would 

leave the kingdom crip-pled. He needed uncontestable proof of her 

guilt. The emperor thought of her rumored alliances with the 

cetaceans and the monsters of the abyss. Perhaps he should 

increase efforts to infiltrate her court as she had so obviously 

violated his own.

    Aboshan thought of Laquatus, banished to play ambassador to 

the land because of his unfortunate ties to the queen. Perhaps 

his close experience with the land might promote sympathy for 

imperial plans. He thought of the arrogant and cruel merman 

doomed to scrape before air breathers and land walkers.

    "I recall our ambassador from the Cabal to serve our pleasure 

once more, his successor to be appointed after close consultation 

with our loyal friend, Laquatus," the emperor said. He waved the 

crab away to convey his orders to the palace ministers.

    Undoubtedly, Laquatus would serve Aboshan to regain favor. 

Most of the world waited for a ruler's firm hand. The monarch 

would establish a new dominion over sea and land. The emperor's 

mirth showed in a shower of colors flowing over his skin, and he 

rang for his maidens to attend him.

 

                       CHAPTER 19

 

    Laquatus looked at the capital as he swam through the water, 

enjoying the comparative warmth of the ocean after days in the 

caverns under the continent. Turg swam alongside, his clumsy 

strokes amusing the merman as the ambassador continued down. The 

light grew dimmer as the bottom gained definition. From the 

surface, the city could not be seen, but it filled a huge stretch 

of the continental shelf. The buildings below lived, straining 

nutrients from the water to repair themselves and repelling 

pests. Steady streams of mer people swam through and above the 

city. A pod of whales called to the ambassador as they herded a 

school of fish with sonic calls toward the capital. Once a sign 

of tribute to the emperor, the cries sounded of onerous duty to 

the merman's ears. But what did he care for the opinion of air 

breathers? He felt the flutter of his gills to prove his superior 

nature.

    The whales grew silent as mer warriors swam up to meet them, 

their lack of song more telling than any call. The soldiers' 

magic now herded the fish, their command lulling the school to an 

army encampment.

    Laquatus noticed many soldiers and a distinct lack of traffic 

other than warriors. Wondering if some great danger threatened 

the kingdom, he headed for the palace. Perhaps a great feeding 

spiral of sharks swept through the ocean. Laquatus remembered 

that the seas could be suddenly violent as well as tranquil.

    He neared the imperial residence and noticed a great dome 

inscribed with glowing characters. The huge gazebo-like structure 

was the exhibition site for traitors. The merman wondered who 

suffered there now?

    He swam below the roof, nodding to the guards who observed 

him as he neared the dead. Several corpses floated in anchored 

nets, their bodies in pieces as cleaner fish and crabs slowly 

snipped off small bits of rotting meat. Unidentifiable parts of 

several different species were in some nets.

    "Imperial justice, as swift and careful as always," he 

muttered as he swam to the wax placard inscribed with symbols. A 

guard, stationed to tell the illiterate what the sign said, 

relaxed as the ambassador looked over the words.

    "CONDEMNED BE ALL TRAITORS WHO WOULD KILL THE EMPEROR ON HIS 

THRONE. THOSE WHO WOULD SERVE OTHER MASTERS ARE ETERNALLY 

DEVOURED HERE AND IN THE ABYSMAL DEPTHS."

    "Guard," the aristocrat inquired in a bored tone. "What 

happened to bring these traitors here?"

    Laquatus had left the seacoast having heard just that a 

message had arrived for him. Fearing that the coastal mission 

might have orders to arrest him, he continued to the capital, 

hoping he still might intercept Captain Satas.

    He and his champion had swum through the caverns in pursuit, 

leaving all behind but a single guide for fear of the soldiers' 

loyalty to their captain. The ambassador wanted nothing to 

prevent the appropriate action, should they catch the tresias. 

They had swum without rest through the arteries of the continent. 

But Satas could travel the more direct paths, while Laquatus and 

especially the massive Turg made costly detours. They missed the 

good captain by days when they reached the coast.

    The frog kidnapped a servant whom the merman interrogated 

before releasing with false memories of what occurred. The 

ambassador knew that he was recalled, not the reason for it. He 

and his jack left immediately for the capital. Only the knowledge 

that doom might await him tempered Laqua-tus's joy to be free of 

dry land. Now he hoped to hear what news might influence his 

return.

    "These and other traitors appeared in the palace through a 

transport pool and reached the throne room," the guard related in 

a voice grown bored with repetition. "The emperor himself beat 

the attack off. The army still looks for traitors who may have 

escaped."

    Laquatus nodded in thanks and continued on his way. An 

assault on the emperor might provide opportunities to explain his 

actions. He could explain fear of enemies intercepting his 

reports led to his silence regarding the orb. The palace grew 

closer, and he noted the observers peering from houses along the 

way.

    The homes of nobles were closed up, few signs of the 

inhabitants visible. Years before the emperor and his wife had 

split, the cast-off empress had styled herself as queen in her 

own right. Many nobles, outraged by the emperor's arrogant and 

arbitrary manner, retired to the southern court. Aboshan became 

convinced that conspiracies must be in motion against him.

    Laquatus had connections in both courts, and while no 

evidence existed against him, his exile to dry land soon followed 

the rift. Though the ambassador had no affection for the emperor, 

he had even less for his estranged wife. Llawan had become a 

champion of the displaced in Aboshan's rise to power. Laquatus 

had little use for those without the will or wiles to preserve 

their position.

    His own exile he viewed as a purely temporary state. In 

addition, the queen opened dialogues with the air breathing races 

of the sea and the denizens of the deep ocean. Such species had 

their place, but it was subservient to the mer races and the 

upper ocean.

    The ambassador swam directly to the palace, confident that 

his reception would be good. He concealed his fear. Revelation of 

any doubt might doom him if reported to the emperor. The guard 

recognized him and ushered him through the gates immediately. 

Laquatus was escorted through the entry halls, amazed at the high 

number of guards. He reasoned it merely a reaction to the earlier 

attacks. The interior of the palace hummed as counterspells 

resonated with the building's very fabric.

    Laquatus was no longer as hopeful of his reception. He 

reminded himself that no mere amphibian could bring him down, 

Captain Satas be damned. The doorman failed to announce him, and 

briefly the ambassador wondered if an execution squad waited 

inside.

    The emperor reclined in the nearly empty room with only a few 

courtiers present. Turg picked up the ambassador's nervousness 

and began to glower. His master sent him reeling back under a 

mental barrage. Though the mer ruler appeared unprotected, the 

hidden guardians were well known to those familiar with the 

court.

    "Laquatus," Aboshan cried, rising and swimming closer. "How 

good to see you." The monarch had his trident in hand, and the 

ambassador decided boldness was in order.

    "I am pleased and grateful to be here," Laquatus said and 

tried to appear concerned. "I was relieved to hear that you 

survived the attack."

    "What do you know?" the emperor growled, raising the trident.

    The ambassador reminded himself of the hidden guardians and 

the ruler's known powers.

    "Only what I have heard on my way to the capital," Laquatus 

exclaimed, lowering his head in supplication. "I saw the bodies 

of the traitors and came immediately to see that you were well. I 

ask only how I may serve."

    "They invaded our court through those very gates," Aboshan 

said angrily, pointing his trident. The walls seemed to move 

slightly as guardians almost revealed themselves at the violent 

gesture. "We were alone, our guards laid low by poison."

    The ambassador nodded without fear, finding it unlikely that 

the monarch would kill his audience.

    "We directed the waters to sweep our enemies away," the ruler 

said, his eyes lost in a refined memory. "Our guards finally came 

in, but a half-dozen of the scum still swam for us. We killed 

them in close combat despite receiving grievous wounds. We 

questioned the only survivor, but he took his own life before we 

could force the queen's involvement from him."

    Laquatus nodded, sure that the enemies would become an even 

dozen before an official account of the event was set down. 

Perhaps they would be immortalized in a living mural on the 

palace walls.

    "That brings us to you," Aboshan said with a pointed smile. 

"You have relationships with the queen's court. You might provide 

us invaluable service in proving her complicity." He swam back 

toward the throne, the ambassador following.

    "I fear that my former acquaintances will not be forthcoming, 

sire," Laquatus said, careful to stay well away from the 

emperor's seat. "My banishment to the continent may have 

convinced them that 1 am no longer in your confidence or a 

position of power." A little of the bitterness at his exile 

leaked through despite the merman's best efforts to hide it.

    "Easily remedied," Aboshan assured him. "We will give very 

public signs of our favor, concurring upon you suitable awards 

and titles."

    "Then I fear those in the queen's court will question my 

motives," Laquatus replied, drifting in front of his sovereign 

with his head bent in humility.

    "Tell them that your long sojourn on land has made you more 

amenable to the southern court," Aboshan said as he reclined in 

the stinging tentacles. "We are confident in your abilities at 

deception."

    Laquatus could only humbly nod.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    The great windbag, the ambassador thought, looking back on 

the interview. The emperor recited hours of conspiracy theory, 

searching for enemies everywhere. He called in secret informers 

who gave the most banal reports, which Aboshan tried to turn into 

damning indictments. Only the emperor's precarious hold on 

reality prevented him from unleashing pogroms.

    The monarch acted at once to rebuild Laquatus's political 

stature, awarding him with a gold medallion and the appellation, 

Friend of the Emperor. The bauble was too heavy, and the 

friendship would last until Aboshan thought him conspiring with 

others or of no more use. Finally, the ambassador was able to 

reclaim his jack and pursue his true mission - locating Satas and 

the prize.

    It was with some surprise that he learned the good captain 

was gone. He left for the coast before the ambassador even 

arrived at the capital. Laquatus, using his new status, found the 

entry logs for the day in question. The guard who admitted Satas 

to the palace vaguely remembered the little amphibian. He 

recalled directing the tresias to the treasure room. The 

ambassador called Turg to him from where the frog lurked and swam 

to the lower portions of the palace to find the sphere.

    Laquatus stopped at the lowest entry way in shock. Instead of 

a valve or gate there was a soldier planted in front of a 

shimmering sphere. The guard had a humanoid torso, but instead of 

legs or a tail, the rest of his body was a long stalk. The lower 

portion of the column flared out and merged with an outcropping 

of the palace. The soldier swayed idly, his hands gripping a 

short spear. He saw the aristocrat and his jack and straightened, 

his lower body altering color as if drawing force from the 

structure surrounding him. Inside the sphere, or more properly 

hemisphere for it met the ground, was dry rock and a trapdoor.

    "Greetings, Your Excellency," the guard said, tilting his 

body down. "How may I be of service?"

    The ambassador still looked at the sight of dry land under 

the sea.

    "Yes, it is something of a surprise," the warrior said, "but 

it was necessary for the workers from the continent." His body 

bobbed as he looked at the merman.

    "What workers?" Laquatus asked, crowding closer.

    "Why the workers the Cabal sent in response to the emperor's 

order several days ago," the guard said in puzzlement. "The care 

of the treasure room needed specialized services that the 

caretaker could not provide. They became absolutely necessary 

when the previous holder died during the traitors' attack."

    "Drylanders, here?" Laquatus questioned, his tone alerting 

the guard to his displeasure.

    "Do not worry," the guard said. "I keep close watch, and none 

of them can breathe water. The captain of the guard inspected 

them for signs of the queen's magic, and they all were clean. 

They are as trapped as surely as a meal in a shark's belly."

    "I would inspect the treasure rooms. What should I do?" the 

ambassador said as Turg tried to slip around to the guard's back. 

His master warned him off, knowing that those serving in the 

palace would be inspected for signs of tampering. The waxboard 

showed Satas's sigil. The amphibian had arrived and left within a 

half-hour, days before.

    Laquatus chuckled at the quick exit. There was every chance 

that the captain never reported to the emperor or anyone except 

the caretaker. The merman made his mark and prepared to 

transform. Turg was already in the bubble and standing up, 

preparing to pull open the trapdoor. The guard returned his 

attention to the outside passage. At least Laquatus was spared 

the indignity of being observed as he grew legs.

    The ambassador emptied his lungs of water as the frog opened 

the trapdoor. Stairs led down the bowed timber from ships' hulk 

The floor was covered in muck and sand, and the smell of rotting 

seaweed rose through the door. Then the merman saw some of the 

workers inside and included rotting flesh as a source of the 

stench. The servants were, after all, from the Cabal.

    "Ambassador Laquatus," a voice hailed him. A woman separated 

herself from the crowd of living and dead workers and hurried 

over. The underground room extended for yards in every direction. 

Groups of zombies and black-clad Cabal servitors piled garbage 

into baskets and dug down to rock. More timber waited, and 

Laquatus realized that they were putting up shelves instead of 

the matrix of pigeonholes and sealed pillars that sea people 

usually employed.

    "I remember you from your marvelous party. I see you also 

brought my playmate." With a sinking heart he recognized Fulla, 

her braids plastered with mud against her head. "I would 

apologize for the mess, but I did not make it. Besides, I 

remember the condition of your embassy when I left."

    Why did it have to be the dementia caster? Any ordinary 

servant or mage could be manipulated by false memories, but a 

despairing Laquatus remembered her resistance to his spells.

    "Have I offended you somehow?" he heard her ask and brought 

himself back to reality.

    "Not at all, my dear," he gushed, trying to match her 

enthusiasm. "I was just thinking what chance brought you here," 

he finished through gritted teeth.

    "Well, I will be here for quite some time," she laughed 

gaily. She waved to the muck and mire. "1 and my staff are 

retained by your gracious emperor to catalog and repair the 

treasures. Wonders that are rescued, only to be buried here under 

your palace."

    A sucking roar developed as zombies pulled at a chest, 

uncovering an opening to levels below. Water and mud cascaded 

down.

    "Your previous caretaker placed items randomly in a series of 

chambers, of which this is only one," she explained as she walked 

to the hole, looking down into the water. Laquatus could feel a 

spell engaging, and the water slowly began to subside. More 

mounds of muck were revealed with a few gleaming pieces of metal. 

The debris glittered slightly in the light pumped from the palace 

above.

    "One of your ministers was bright enough to realize that we 

needed air to work. He also discovered that some of the pieces 

were damaged by water," Fulla said.

    Zombies splashed into the lower chambers and began filling 

baskets the servants handed to them.

    "He failed to realize that withdrawing the water would settle 

everything to the deeper rooms and bury them. To be honest, I do 

not approve of the former caregiver. There is an unholy lode of 

mud to be cleared away."

    The ambassador nodded dumbly, accepting that a servant of the 

Cabal would be the best judge of unholy. He realized with a 

sinking liver that tracking down the orb might still be a 

formidable task.

    "Are there no records of where materials were stored?" he 

asked hopefully. She shook her head in amusement.

    "No. Just a record of what the caretaker received," she said. 

"For example, the last entry is of a sphere that gave an 

impression of tremendous power."

    The ambassador nodded with excitement. The prize was here.

    "The logs show what came in and what went out, but the actual 

locations are a complete mystery. And that was before nearly 

everything sunk into different rooms when the water was forced 

out.

    "Surely the other workers have some idea?" he questioned her, 

hoping there might be someone else to interrogate.

    "What other workers?" Fulla replied with exasperation. "From 

the logs, almost everything was handled by the previous 

caretaker. I am informed that the servants who did work here 

cannot function in the open air." Baskets of gunk were thrown out 

of the entry hole to splat into the mud. "If you can call this 

open air."

    She retreated to a stack of shelves with wax boards and paper 

books open.

    "I and my colleagues are cataloging what we find and entering 

a reference to the original logs and a current position."

    She appeared busy, but Laquatus could not equate her new 

position as chief curator with her career as a jack in the pits.

    "How did you end up here?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. 

She glanced back, and her face filled with the demons that drove 

her.

    "By the same process that cast you to the Cabal's far shore," 

she replied. Her features calmed, and she spoke without 

intonation. "What truly brings you here ambassador? I doubt it 

was a quest for close friends."

    Laquatus considered his answer for several seconds. Just for 

variety he essayed the truth.

    "The final object received here," the merman said. "I want 

it. What will it cost for me to have it my possession, no 

questions asked?"

    The novelty of a straight answer seemed to disarm the 

dementia caster, and she fumbled for a response.

    "A great many pieces were damaged," she finally said, turning 

to the shelves. "Some of them beyond repair. But even ruined, 

they might be of interest the Cabal for research purposes." Her 

face turned sly, destroying any attempt at disguising her greed.

    "Done," Laquatus said simply. "Hold the piece for me when you 

find it. In return I will aid you in smuggling your loot back to 

the continent." He looked her deep in the eyes. "Cross me, and I 

will prick this bubble of air. Your bones can be catalogued by 

the next curator."

    She started running her hands over the pieces already 

gleaned, like a shopper handling fruit in the market. Laquatus 

turned and walked to the stairs, soiled at the crassness of the 

deal and having legs once again.

    He mounted the stair and dived through the bubble, 

transforming even as he swam away, ignoring the guard who 

recorded his exit. He surged up into the palace. He might have 

been within yards of the orb, but he could not detect its power. 

It was hidden from his magical senses. Rumor spoke of perhaps a 

dozen chambers under the palace, and who knew where the fool of a 

curator might have put it. The ambassador also worried about his 

monarch. Fulla was a wild card, who knew what she might say if 

questioned.

    Aboshan emptied troves cared for by the empire's mercenaries 

and selkies, dumping them to decay in his palace. Only the 

ruler's love of control and hunger for power had brought the 

relics to the palace. Now the distraction of a simple 

assassination attempt washed them from his mind.

    "Well," vowed Laquatus, "if it is conspiracies that truly 

engage him, then conspiracies he will have." The ambassador 

laughed in the bowels of the palace. He would bring new 

treacheries before Aboshan to conceal his own. Turg followed his 

masters, grinning as new plans spawned in the merman's mind.

 

                       CHAPTER 20

 

    Kamahl rode Emerald east, watching for signs of the 

ambassador's caravan. The gecko's sinuous gait lulled the 

barbarian as he remembered his escape from the town.

    The mountain mage had climbed the rubble ramp to the keep's 

upper stories looking for signs of another exit as the cries from 

Order reinforcements sounded below. Through the dust laid down by 

his destruction, he could see tracks that led him to the postern 

gate. The mountain warrior skirted the crystal effect, seeing its 

rate of advance slowing as it continued to fill the castle. The 

taste of the orb's magic faded as the growth slowed.

    The postern gate led down a hidden path outside the city 

walls. The tumult inside the town died down as Kamahl rejoined 

the flow of refugees. A golden coin secured him a spare great 

cloak from an elen bird warrior. The garment was sized for 

someone nine feet tall and even after a few alterations with a 

dagger, it was still all-enveloping. It was a measure of the 

people's unrest that he did not attract more notice. He moved 

into the old city, listening for news. But rumor ruled the 

crowded streets, not the Order. He headed for the Citadel road 

once more, hoping to find out what had occurred.

    Kamahl remembered the swell of power as he felt the orb 

change only minutes after he saw Turg following after the 

lieutenant. The mer must hold the prize by now. The barbarian 

wondered if Kirtar survived. Somehow he doubted it.

    His leg began to pulse with fresh pain from the wounds 

inflicted by the frog. He moved down an alley, ready for any 

attacker, but it was a dead end. Despite the city's overcrowding, 

a momentary break in the traffic gave him privacy and allowed him 

to seek shelter. He drew an axe and knife and jumped, his leg 

screaming in protest as he rose. As he started to fall back, he 

sank his tools into the wood racing of the building's corner. Rot 

and lack of care allowed his blades to bite deeply, sending 

sawdust to the alley below. He crawled up the structure's side, 

his arms burning as he finally reached the roof.

    This building was shorter than the others backing the alley. 

He crawled behind a storage shed and concealed himself from 

observation. Momentarily safe, he ate what food he had. Thirst 

led him to raid a rainwater cistern, and he gulped the cool water 

down. Weary, for even his endurance had its limits, he lay down 

to rest.

    He awoke that night. The city was quieter, the sun set some 

hours before. He wrapped the cloak tighter around him and drank 

more of the water. He had no more food. Kamahl squatted to test 

his leg. Finding himself fit he decided to brave the city once 

more.

    He dropped into the alley, his lower limbs hurting at the 

strain but healed enough for full use. There was still traffic on 

the street despite the hour but not like Cabal City, whose 

denizens never seemed to sleep. There was a different feel to 

these pedestrians. They were more afraid and more furtive, even 

as they stayed close to the lights. Kamahl remembered his friend 

Chainer who seemed to know most of his city's secrets. The 

barbarian decided the best source of information might be one of 

the night birds flitting through the streets.

    The first lone walkers proved almost useless. His cloaked 

form emerged from the darkness provoking two responses. They 

collapsed in panic or attacked with suicidal bravado. One man 

continued to fight even after Kamahl slapped his weapons aside 

several times with his bare hands. Finally he knocked the man out 

in disgust. Perhaps a more predatory type would be more amenable 

to conversation.

    A group of youths moved in concert through a street. The 

avenue was barely lit by damp wood burning in a metal basket. A 

copper hood reflected light to the ground.

    The boys split up, settling into positions outside the flow 

of traffic. Their actions reminding Kamahl of feral cats choosing 

their prey. The gang looked into the street and not toward each 

other. The barbarian picked a member off silently, covering the 

young man's mouth. They disappeared into the night, Kamahl's 

cloak wrapped around his catch.

    The boy was ragged and smelled, a rusty blade thrust through 

his belt. The dirty pallor of his skin and the color of his 

clothes hid him from those without Kamahl's night-sight. The 

barbarian watched him struggle to exude confidence as he stood an 

arm's length away.

    "My friends will come looking for me," the city dweller said, 

staring hard at Kamahl. The gang member's hand was on his blade, 

but the weapon was left undrawn.

    "Better for them if they do not," the barbarian said and 

stepped a little closer, forcing his captive against a wall. "All 

I desire from you is a little information. Do you know what 

happened in the castle today?"

    The impromptu informant relaxed slightly.

    "They say that western barbarian and a group of conspirators 

broke into the Citadel. They were the ones behind the animal 

attacks. The swine forced refugees into the city, so they could 

strike from the cover of the crowd." Kamahl wondered how good his 

information could be with these falsehoods cast as truth. "The 

traitors managed to kill the captain and the lieutenant despite 

all efforts to stop them. The entire Order might have been 

crippled if not for the mer ambassador's warnings."

    "Tell me about Laquatus and his jack, Turg," Kamahl ordered, 

wondering if he should waylay an Order patrol. Perhaps they might 

have more accurate information.

    "The merman and the pit frog were heroes," the young thug 

said excitedly. "They would have been feted for days if not 

called back to the ocean on urgent business." The city dweller 

paused. "How could you know nothing of what happened? The town 

has been abuzz for hours." He started forward, and Kamahl shoved 

him back.

    "Why should I believe you know anything at all about the 

ambassador?" the mountain warrior asked, showing his teeth. "All 

you seem to know is rumor and innuendo."

    "Because I watched them leave the city for the east!" came 

the hot reply, the injustice of being called a liar seeming to 

raise the boy's courage. Kamahl's snort of disbelief further 

inflamed the informant.

    "I saw them leave this afternoon," he insisted, drawing his 

knife. "I watched the ambassador ride out the eastern gate." He 

waited for an attack, but there was only silence as the barbarian 

melted away.

    Kamahl drifted through the streets, heading for the city 

walls. The thug's affronted pride convinced the barbarian that 

the boy had seen the ambassador withdrawing to the east. 

Moreover, if the orb fell to Laquatus, he would have set out for 

the sea. Kamahl knew that it might be a false trail, but whom 

could he question? The merman was as likely to lie to the 

powerful as mislead the masses. He would trust the word of a 

direct witness for now.

    The walls were low with ramps and ladders leading to the 

upper walkway. Like most defenses, the guards were more 

interested in keeping invaders out than townspeople in. He 

appropriated a coil of rope from a storeroom and wrapped it 

around a stone. In less than a minute he rapelled down. With a 

practiced twist he pulled the strand down, leaving no sign that 

any had left the city. He doubted his informant would share his 

description. The boy seemed one who avoided the guards whenever 

possible. Kamahl set off to see if Emerald still waited out in 

the plains.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Kamahl crept through the long grass, threading between the 

sentries. Avoiding contact felt strange. However, the barbarian 

imagined it as a challenge to see how close he could approach the 

Order camp without being detected. It took nearly a day to find 

Emerald, and knowing the Order believed him a bloody murderer, he 

kept his distance from the road and other travelers. Only the 

gecko's incredible endurance and speed allowed Kamahl to finally 

catch up to the ambassador's party despite the rough country and 

avoiding enemy patrols.

    The Order guards and mer hirelings flew the empire's 

standard. Kamahl's sharp eyes had caught sight of it as he 

paralleled them on the highway. He infiltrated the camp to see if 

Laquatus and Turg truly rode with the group. He had no time to 

waste on meaningless fights. If the orb was in camp, then he 

would declare himself and win the prize in honorable combat.

    Circumstances demanded he fight tonight if he would fight at 

all. Some distance ahead of the party an empire caravan camped at 

a crossroads against a set of bluffs. As night fell, he took 

Emerald on a run, covering the miles in minutes. A large 

procession of wagons had left deep ruts along the merging road. 

Dozens of captive animals sent up cries of distress as they moved 

in their cages and strained at their hobbles. These guards were 

more aware. Dogs as well as warriors patrolled the camp 

perimeter, preventing the barbarian from sneaking in. There were 

signs of nervousness, the mercenaries reacting to every rustle as 

an imminent attack.

    Kamahl heard the men talking. When would the next attack 

come? How bad would it be with such a long pause between them? 

The barbarian realized with surprise there were no fresh signs of 

rampaging forest animals or destruction along the road. True, 

they were much farther from the great trees and the animals that 

sheltered there. However, he understood the problem to be 

continent wide. Why had an uneasy peace fallen across the two 

traveling parties and, for all Kamahl knew, the rest of the 

plains?

    Such questions would have to wait until he first completed 

his quest. The ambassador, if he were traveling with the party, 

would find reinforcements on the morrow. The barbarian decided to 

confront the pair tonight.

    The tent below the standard was dark with no guards standing 

before it. Kamahl moved in. Wrapped in his cloak, he avoided the 

light of the campfires. He made sure that he could reach the 

weapons on his belt. His sword was secured to Emerald, its length 

difficult to conceal on the approach. He could detect no life 

within the tent, but he must be sure. He had watched the caravan 

settling for the night without any sign of the ambassador or his 

jack. If they were anywhere in the camp, they must be here. He 

opened the flap, the rustling canvas seeming very loud.

    No one was inside. He saw only a mound of baggage piled on 

the floor. There was no sign it had even been opened. Each piece 

was secured with wax, imprinted with the ambassador's sigil, 

binding the bags' draw-cords. However the merman traveled, Kamahl 

saw it was not with this detachment. However, the seals on the 

bags suggested he would eventually meet his luggage. The 

barbarian reached to his belt and pulled out the rope he used in 

his escape from the city. He was no thief, however stealthy he 

might be. The barbarian placed it on the baggage, returning it to 

the Order. The camp guards never saw him withdraw through their 

pickets on his way back to Emerald.

    "They were not there," he said in response to the gecko's 

quizzical look. "We will have to meet them at the coast." The 

lizard seemed sluggish as Kamahl secured his gear. The mountain 

warrior seethed at missing Laquatus and especially Turg. Though 

the night was chilly he removed the elen robe, letting the cold 

flow over his skin.

    "However they traveled 1 have lost them," the barbarian 

muttered as he hauled himself up into the saddle. Knowing that 

the cool air might slow his mount he sent a small surge of power 

to the gecko. The lizard blinked in surprise at the warm air but 

did seem sprightlier as he absorbed the magic. Kamahl directed 

Emerald down the road to the bluffs, planning to use the lizard's 

ability to handle any terrain. The steed would take them past the 

pickets over the bare rock faces, riding above the caravan 

guards' eyes.

    The lizard slowed as they neared the large camp, Kamahl 

vainly trying to direct the gecko's path. The lizard looked 

through the night at the stacks of cages and hobbled animals. Its 

body seemed to vibrate in sympathy with the miserable calls 

sounding from there. The barbarian realized he could not force 

Emerald to go anywhere.

    The gecko stared at the captured creatures intensely. There 

were no large predators in the gathering but rather numerous 

cages of small animals. The barbarian undid his sword from the 

gecko's side, shifting it up to his back. He looked once more 

back to the Order camp in the distance with the empty 

ambassador's tent.

    "We cannot spend too much time on this rescue," Kamahl said, 

pulling small axes from his baggage and slipping them into 

holsters hung from the saddle. The lizard's long tongue flickered 

back as if in agreement, then the beast set off for the camp.

    The caravan was set by the road, sentry fires out and burning 

in an attempt to cover the perimeter. Guards stood their posts 

nervously, talking to each other to reassure themselves. Kamahl 

wondered how the nightblind chattering fools planned to see 

anyone. The only danger seemed a pair of dogs that a guard 

escorted around the perimeter. The barbarian wondered what he 

would do if discovered but found himself unable to feel concern. 

The camp looked as deadly as a carnival and easier to move in and 

out of.

    The gecko followed Kamahl, the mount nearly silent, with only 

its tail sometimes touching the ground. The outer pickets saw 

nothing as the pair worked through the line, using the terrain. 

The lizard lowered itself nearly to the ground to decrease its 

height. The dogs made no alarm, and the barbarian wondered if 

Emerald somehow stifled their senses. The cages grew closer, the 

smell assaulting the barbarian as the guards had not. Moving into 

the circle of cages was challenging, but without the threat of 

the dog it was only a matter of timing. He crouched by the cages 

after a slow roll from the darkness. Emerald followed, and the 

barbarian could scarcely believe his mount had crept into the 

camp as well. Hunters walked slowly among the captive animals in 

the cages and pens, lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly the joke 

fell flat to the mountain warrior. Loosing the animals silently 

would take far too long, and he was not inclined to waste the 

time. Kamahl was tired of stealth.

    He drew his sword from a sheath on Emerald's saddle. He 

mounted, and a guard turned to behold him, a mounted intruder in 

the heart of the camp. The flat of his blade sent the mercenary 

crashing down unconscious. The first real warning the caravan had 

was the long whip of flame arcing down to blaze through locks and 

bars. The animals were maddened by the fire's closeness. The 

beasts battered at their prisons as they had done so often, but 

now the bars fell to the ground.

    Mercenaries closed from all points with shouts of alarm, but 

Kamahl's sword streamed flame over the other enclosures, melting 

away iron. He ignored the guards as beneath contempt as he 

shouted and roused the imprisoned beasts to escape. One caravan 

hunter came at the lizard's side only to be met by the long 

tongue. The muscle wrapped around his head and yanked him into 

crushing jaws. Kamahl's steed spat out the corpse as his rider 

freed more of the captured. A chain holding a group of satyrs 

parted as he swayed to the side, his sword severing several 

links.

    The humanoids rose on their goatlike legs and fell upon the 

guards coming to recapture them. Heads down, they charged, their 

horns impacting the guards' armor. The forest fighters caused no 

serious injury but knocked their oppressors down. Heavy nailed 

hands dug into throats and joints as the prisoners fell as groups 

on single guards.

    Freeing the captured is useless, Kamahl thought as he turned 

Emerald to attack, if they are caught again by these mercenaries. 

Now he used the sword's edge but with no passion. There was 

little honor in such easy slaughter, and he looked for another 

means of diversion.

    Wagons were parked opposite the animals, their contents 

hidden under secured tarps. There were no signs of live prizes. 

The guards protecting them still waited as the barbarian tore 

through the cage area. Such valuable cargo must be more important 

to the caravan than small woodland creatures, Kamahl thought and 

sent Emerald through the camp's heart.

    A creature rose up in the night, its nebulous form becoming a 

winged dragon. The gecko showed no hesitation, striding straight 

for the horned beast as it prepared to take to the air. The 

barbarian threw a charged axe that spun through the enemy. 

Emerald followed the projectile into the illusion. There was a 

mage of some power coming against him. The barbarian looked 

around in interest as his missile discharged into the ground in 

an explosion of flame.

    The gecko paused in its flight, its tongue flickering 

uncertainly as its eyes followed nothing. The mountain mage felt 

the hum of hostile magic and sent showers of sparks and embers 

over the tents to flush out the enemy. Fabric ignited, and the 

restraining spell on the lizard faltered as the other mage was 

surrounded by fire.

    The barbarian swung his sword, the steel birthing a circlet 

of flame that cut through the air and the enemy spell-caster's 

neck, decapitating Kamahl's only worthy opposition in the camp. 

The gecko started toward the wagons parked away from the cages. 

The guards massed to stop the barbarian. The mountain mage simply 

bypassed them, hurling two axes high over the crowd to detonate 

among the freight wagons. A twisting pyre of energy and flame lit 

the sky, secondary explosions spreading destruction through the 

cargo. The guards were blown down-those not blown up.

    The caravan had been transporting excavated treasures to the 

sea. There were numerous rumors of the Mer Empire acquiring 

relics and fetishes from past battlefields. Items of true power 

must have been concealed among the wagons. Fires grew, and most 

of those still alive in the camp closed to extinguish the 

conflagration. Kamahl withdrew, ignoring the calls of his 

enemies.

    The satyrs were gone, along with most of the animals. A few 

hunters looked through the wreckage, but the barbarian wasted no 

time on them. One stooped to peer into a cage, and a stream of 

weasels flowed over the man, biting everywhere. The mercenary 

tried to run as the animals swarmed up his legs and onto his 

head. His flight ended as the disoriented man plowed into another 

cage, falling down to die under the small teeth.

    Calls sounded from the perimeter. Golden globes soared into 

the sky illuminating what the fires did not. Guards from the 

false camp down the road had come to investigate the disturbance. 

These were worthy opponents but too serious for tonight's light 

diversion. The barbarian left the camp to the newcomers, Emerald 

running out of the light and into the darkness. Kamahl's mount 

surged up the rocky bluff as the more intelligent investigators 

from the other camp fanned out to catch the raider. The barbarian 

leaned forward as the gecko went vertical, pulling away from any 

possible pursuit. The mountain mage signaled the lizard to halt 

at the cliff top. He crouched down and peered over the hunters' 

wrecked bivouac.

    The fires began to die down, the knights of the Order using 

their magic against the flames. Magic flowed as a golden sheet 

over the burning wagons and tents, smothering the flames. The 

light died down as blazes were extinguished. The barbarian saw no 

signs of animals and hoped all of them were gone.

    "I hope that satisfies you," he said to Emerald who seemed to 

nod in agreement. His mount's bloody jowls smiled though Kamahl 

was unsure if the fighting or the rescue pleased the gecko most. 

Below, the flames were dead except for the campfires, but more 

bad luck struck the hunters' camp.

    Irritated at being forced to come investigate because of the 

mercenaries' obvious incompetence, the knights looked through the 

camp. The angry would-be rescuers tore into the last sealed 

wagons and suddenly treated the hapless hunters as criminals. The 

soldiers cut through leather and canvas to display the mounds of 

forbidden mechanisms. Mercenaries moved to reclaim what remained 

of their treasure. They were pushed away to sprawl on the ground. 

A few started angrily forward but stopped as golden maces lifted 

in warning.

    The knights struck at wagons carrying recovered booty. Wheels 

exploded in showers of splinters as the Order guaranteed through 

blows that the fetishes would not leave the camp. A mercenary 

waved documents before a knight only to be ignored.

    The mountain mage turned the gecko toward the sea and nudged 

it into motion. Perhaps the Order was right in their distrust of 

the debris of past battles. Kamahl knew his journey to reclaim 

the orb might be barely begun. Why did he chase after it? Merely 

for the power it held? Perhaps, but more importantly it was his 

by right. He would not let it be stolen away. Honor demanded he 

reclaim his lost prize.

 

                       CHAPTER 21

 

    The manor was some distance from the capital, its buildings 

in deeper water. In the world above, the sun was just rising, the 

beams starting to filter to the undersea world. Turg held onto a 

harpoon fish's fin as the attack force surged ahead. The fish 

weighed thousands of pounds, its lumpy flesh rock hard under the 

frog's hands. The mouth gaped open and a fish fleeing before the 

detachment swam too close to the monster. A long tongue darted 

forth, spearing through its target. The pinned morsel was pulled 

into the mouth as the predator accelerated. Turg felt a brief 

burning sensation as they moved through a cloud of digestive 

enzymes. The harpoon fish forced the caustic liquid into its prey 

whenever it attacked.

    The attack force closed on the target, the estate of a rich 

noble with ties to the air breathers of the ocean. Whales began 

to rise from structures on the seabed. Vast hemispheres of coral 

and stone held pockets of air, allowing the lord's allies to stay 

beneath indefinitely.

    The whales began to call, the sonic pulse of their cries 

beating against the amphibian's skull. The whales were pale blue 

and almost invisible in the water. Only their motion drew the 

eye. The animals were several times the size of the harpoon fish, 

but Turg felt only contempt for them. The air breathers rose over 

their ally's home, preparing to meet the surprise attack. The 

mammals vibrated with magic to the frog's mystic senses. Power 

was gathering among the attackers as they raced to slay the 

whales, driven by the ambassador's overseeing spirit.

    Magically summoned schools of barracuda surged away from the 

attack force. Like living projectiles, the school swept toward 

their warm-blooded targets. Defensive whale songs sounded, the 

waves of noise playing havoc among the predatory fish. Barracuda 

went in all directions, hopelessly confused by the air breathers' 

magic. Some of the toothy fish were in their death throes, their 

organs destroy by the powerful whale song.

    Now the singers' voices swept the leading edge of the 

imperial attackers. Multiple whales, converge on individual 

harpoon fish, the rocky attackers' nerves burning out in novas of 

pain. A few imperial soldier, accompanying the attack tried to 

lead the whales astray with illusions, to no avail.

    Turg let go of his fish as it finally reached an opponent.

    The barbed tongue snapped into the whale's body, swelling as 

a prodigious load of digestive fluid surged into its victim. The 

air breather cried out, its call soaring beyond hearing. Several 

cephalids swimming past blurred, their skin rupturing and blood 

streaming into the water. The feeding fish drew its tongue back 

and slammed it again into the smooth hide. The whale expired as 

water filled its lungs. The harpoon fish looked for something 

else to kill.

    The whales coalesced into groups, their cries sounding in all 

directions, unconcerned with killing their allies as long as the 

attack failed. On the outskirts of the fight, sharks began to 

appear, ripping apart the dead and the dying as the blood spoor 

drew them from miles around. The harpoon fish closed for the 

final battle with the air breathers, but Turg was surging ahead, 

leading a column of infantry now that the whales were engaged.

    The frog swam forward as the fighting moved over the estate. 

Tritons and mermen followed him down as crab forces sprinted 

across the sandy bottom for the house. The defenders were like 

mollusks, trying to withdraw into the protection of their shell. 

The valves of the living structure closed, the tough armor 

resisting the frog's blows. He called down harpoon fish, the 

monsters leaving their bloody feast. Tongues lanced into the 

door, gallons of digestive fluids pumping into the fabric of the 

manor. The valve ripped free as the fish pulled. They loosed it 

to drift away.

    Spears flew from the gap, sinking into imperial warriors who 

charged in too soon. The jack cast a spell, and eels swam down 

the hole. Their bodies were living batteries that discharged as 

they reached the defenders. Now Turg swam into the house. He 

ignored the twitching bodies of the slain. The crabs piling 

through the entrance began to corral the stunned. The house was 

dark, the defender's trying to use the lack of light to their 

advantage.

    The frog loosed streams of light-emitting plankton that 

carried in the currents still moving through the house. A triton 

was a hulking humanoid, its finned limbs sending it around the 

frog as they advanced. A spindly crab joined them, as they 

penetrated the house.

    The porpoises emerged suddenly, diving from the upper floor 

in ramming attacks. The frog's hands glowed, and he stabbed into 

his opponent. The triton's barbed fins sank into its foe, and 

malign energy poisoned its system. Mermen defenders thrust 

tridents at the engaged invaders only to be met by the crab. 

Though not tall, its claws snipped through weapons and amputated 

a hand as the crab closed. More porpoises came toward the frog, 

and Laquatus struck through his amphibious minion.

    The counterspell attacked the magic allowing the cetaceans to 

stay underwater. Tissues suddenly starved for oxygen. Muscles 

flooded the blood stream with toxins. The defenders started to 

race for the surface, knowing themselves doomed but helpless 

against their instincts. Soldiers ignored the retreating 

cetaceans to fall upon the remaining defenders.

    The frog and his companions moved ahead of the fighting, the 

inner rooms of the manor clearing as the manor guards rushed to 

the perimeter. A sigil spelled out in the living flesh of the 

wall told Turg they had reached the noble's private rooms. The 

crab scuttled forward, its claws making short work of the 

interior partition.

    The quarters were almost stark in their simplicity. Only the 

huge number of pigeonholes and storage pillars showed the noble's 

wealth. The frog swam over, a spell whispering against the valves 

closing off the writing supplies. The container irised open, and 

the jack leaned over. Turg spat the seals and rings he had 

carried in his mouth throughout the battle. The planted objects 

were issued by the southern court, the queen showing on the crest 

instead of the emperor. The frog's spell ceased, and the 

container snapped shut, barring itself to one not attuned to its 

nature.

    The crab scuttled over, several cruciform sheets of wax in 

its claws. Another spell provided by the ambassador's spirit 

whispered over the old letters, altering some of the strokes as 

the organic material responded to his will. The crab slipped them 

into the bottom of a storage column. Turg bled power as he 

touched the furniture. Growth accelerated, and he could taste the 

flow of byproducts as the living structure aged, sealing the 

damning letters under a layer of coral.

    The green triton gave a grunt of warning, sending the trio 

across the room. Living cases lay stacked against the corner, the 

containers holding eggs and plankton of exceptional quality. The 

crab cut them open like lightning as the frog and triton grabbed 

up and devoured fistfuls of the delicacy. When the titular head 

of the attack force arrived seconds later, he found the group 

busy enjoying their loot. A snarl of disgust showed, but he dared 

not discipline the ambassador's jack.

    The command staff arrived and began opening the sealed 

pigeonholes and chests in the room. A pair of soldiers came and 

searched through the food crates the trio had opened, their 

contempt plain as the triton growled and the crab clacked its 

claws.

    "Sir," called an orderly, opening up a pigeonhole. A major 

swam over and inspected the contents. He tensed in excitement, 

diving in to examine the rings and seals Turg had planted. The 

sound of a struggle was heard from the hallway. A huge crab eased 

his way through the door, pulling a tether. A merman came 

through, his flukes beating to escape as he was reeled in. 

Another line leading out slackened as a nearly identical 

crustacean followed, the aristocrat suspended between the two 

soldiers.

    "What is the meaning of this?" the prisoner roared, his 

muscles straining in vain against the pair of armored monsters. 

"You have no right to invade my home! I am a loyal servant to the 

emperor!" The leader swam over and struck him with one of the 

seals clenched in his fist, the metal edge tearing the noble's 

skin.

    "Traitors have no rights!" the officer snarled. He gestured 

to the writing implements and letters being impounded. "You are 

in service to the southern queen and will die for your treachery. 

Your alliance with the air breathers always inflamed suspicions. 

But for the actions documented here you shall die!"

    The noble went goggle-eyed with incredulity. "Lies!" he 

cried, surging against his tether. "It is all lies!" He looked to 

his luxuries stored in the back and recognized Turg. "Everything 

is a lie spread by his master! He planted these forgeries."

    The major looked at the frog whose face was smeared with 

stolen booty. The officer's laughter filled the room as the frog 

swam closer, his face showing no signs of intelligence.

    "His master is a beast and a bigot," the prisoner snarled. 

"So superior to those who breathe though he spent years on the 

land. Even his chief lackey is an amphibian." The merman twisted 

on the line attempting to smash the frog with his flukes.

    The jack dodged the blow, and electricity surged through the 

champion's hands into the tail. The attack reduced the noble to a 

glassy eyed wreck, small globes of blood drifting from an open 

mouth and breaking up in the water. The major looked at the 

amphibian in anger but remembered whose patronage the frog 

enjoyed.

    "We do not need his confession anyway," the attack leader 

groused. "We have enough to convince any that he conspired 

against the crown. The dungeons will soon drag the truth out of 

him."

    He called for the incriminating evidence to be sealed for 

immediate transport and left his orderlies searching through the 

rest of the archives. Turg swam back to his cronies and enjoyed 

the fruits of the noble's larder.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Laquatus came out of the trance pleased with all he had seen. 

Riding the jack during the attack allowed him to frame the 

moderate aristocrat. He laughed at how close the merman's raving 

came to the truth. The drive to find conspiracies was producing 

spectacular results. Every day brought new arrests and 

revelations of treachery. The ambassador admired the unrelenting 

torturers in their efforts to gain confessions. Perhaps they even 

extracted the truth from someone, but the aristocrat doubted it.

    The emperor, feeling more besieged than ever, granted 

Laquatus more and more authority to pursue his inquiries. Today's 

raid was the culmination of his attempts to stir up trouble, and 

he could not be happier with its success. Even the imperial 

officers started to believe the propaganda he spread. Laquatus 

had expected them to be much more cynical and jaded. The 

sprawling chaos was a work of joy.

    Sometimes, he even forgot it was only a cover for his 

thievery. Fulla had excavated five rooms without locating 

Kirtar's prize. Several loads of "damaged" goods had gone to the 

Cabal, and Laquatus was obliged to search all of them. He found 

no sign of the orb and wondered if perhaps she had no plans to 

betray him. Finding that conclusion highly unlikely, he was 

careful to document her thievery through exact manifests. Minus, 

of course, items of power interesting enough for him to steal.

    The dementia caster had no contact with the Cabal and was 

unlikely to complain of thefts from her own looting operation. 

The emperor engaged himself in touring the army and moving 

against signs of discontent. The real bonus from his violent 

flailing against conspiracy was his actions were undoubtedly 

creating real plots against him. The cycle of violence was 

increasing, and the ambassador swam at the center, still 

untouched. He readied himself for court, putting on his finest 

jewelry.

    He swam through the palace corridors, the building pumping 

light from above to the halls. Aboshan had called a meeting of 

nobles to go over the reports Laquatus gave him the day before. 

In the name of preserving theoretical contacts with the queen's 

court, he was spared from attending except occasionally. The door 

to the throne room was closed, but the emperor's shouting bled 

through in a wordless howl.

    The ambassador ignored it, waiting for the end of the 

audience. Aboshan's rants had become distressingly predictable, 

often ending with a wild accusation that took a noble away to be 

investigated. Only the identity of the prisoner changed, and 

Laquatus thought it best to be absent when the sacrificial lamb 

was selected. Danger could add spice, but maintaining a 

fictitious wave of conspiracies provided enough entertainment.

    While the ambassador waited, he saw another merman furtively 

hovering down the corridor. Thinking he recognized the courtier, 

Laquatus swam toward him. The merman remembered the other with a 

start. It was Petod, a lower noble who had withdrawn to the 

southern court years before. He was dressed in palace livery, but 

Laquatus was sure of his identity.

    The noble realized himself recognized and swam into a side 

room, gesturing for company. Laquatus cast a spell, sending an 

image of himself down the corridor to his quarters. He vanished 

into the other room as well, making sure that no one saw him. The 

door closed behind him as soon as he went through.

    "Thank goodness I found you," said Petod in a panicked voice. 

The merman nervously twisted rings on his finger as he swam to 

check the door. "I did not know who to turn to." He reached as if 

to pat the ambassador's shoulder only to stop at a forbidding 

gaze.

    "The court felt too dangerous for me to declare myself," 

Petod said wretchedly, seeming to collapse internally. Laquatus 

remembered him as weak willed. "I came as an unofficial 

representative from the queen. Her majesty is understandably 

upset at the attempt to kill her husband and wished to reassure 

him that she was not involved. I hope to serve as a private 

courier between the two monarchs."

    "Llawan sent you?" Laquatus asked in disbelief. Petod was a 

poor choice from his memory, given to rash judgements and poor 

decisions. Laquatus thought her a better leader than that.

    "Of course not," the self-selected emissary said. "The nobles 

who fled south would view such a move on her part as 

unacceptable. I took it upon myself to offer my services," he 

finished smugly.

    The ambassador nodded. Petod was a fool, but he could be 

quite congenial in social situations. Perhaps he was familiar in 

the southern court. Llawan would never use a back channel because 

her integrity would force her to inform her allies.

    "Why the disguise?" he asked.

    "If I declared myself, I feared being called a spy or 

assassin," Petod confessed. Laquatus said nothing though sneaking 

into the palace under false pretense made such a fate inevitable. 

"I hoped to find an ally that might help me meet secretly with 

the emperor. I heard of your return from exile and knew you could 

help."

    Two thoughts surged through the ambassador's mind. First, 

such an action was suicidal with the emperor in his current mood. 

Second, Aboshan's ridiculous pretense of clemency to a returned 

exile had indeed enabled him to contact a member of Llawan's 

court. He soon shook off the surprise. He could not afford any 

knowledge of the southern plans reaching the emperor. Already he 

had taken over the emperor's spies who reported from the south. 

The ambassador recast Llawan's actions to make her appear more 

hostile to the emperor. Petod must not meet Aboshan.

    "I am astounded at your actions, my lord," Laquatus said, his 

voice filled with warm regard. "Your close knowledge of Llawan's 

policies and private feelings could alter the history of the 

seas." The ambassador clapped the young noble on the back, a 

jeweled ring cutting into the flesh on the shoulder.

    "A thousand apologies, Petod," the merman said stripping the 

ring from his finger. "It is a new piece and far too clumsy on my 

hand. Allow me to present it to you as a token of my esteem. No, 

I insist." Laquatus put the ring on Petod's hand, ignoring the 

young mer's stumbling refusal. The ambassador exercised great 

caution as he placed and released the ring.

    The self-appointed emissary rubbed at the puncture high on 

his shoulder, trying to accept the gift graciously even as his 

flesh went numb. Laquatus was in full court regalia and that 

included poison for his jewelry. The southern noble gasped, water 

moving fitfully through his gills. He choked and gasped as he 

realized himself attacked.

    The ambassador decided his poison was not quite virulent 

enough. Too much time away from court had made his venom weak. He 

used his magic and called a stream of tiny jellyfish into being. 

The fragile cloud was hardly more substantial than the water in 

which it swam. He guided Petod to it, and his gills sucked the 

tiny bags of poison down. Toxins poured directly into his 

bloodstream, and Laquatus held him steady as his body locked. The 

torn flesh plugged the organs, and they ceased to supply oxygen. 

The ambassador banished the summoning as soon as he knew the 

courier was dead.

    He swam back to the throne room, towing his dead victim 

behind him. He put on a burst of speed wanting to arrive with 

maximum effect. The valve doors were open, the assembled nobles 

withdrawing as fast as they dared. The ambassador swam past them 

as gasps of shock echoed behind him. He swam to where the emperor 

reclined with a cluster of officers waiting around him. Aboshan 

looked exhausted, his rage having consumed him during the 

audience. Guards surged from the walls and stopped, uncertain 

what threat a corpse might pose.

    "Laquatus," the monarch said, looking at the dead Petod. 

"What is the meaning of your companion?" He waved a moray eel 

closer, and it snared the body hauling it away from the monarch.

    "An assassin from the southern court, your imperial majesty," 

Laquatus said boldly. "I spotted him outside your very throne 

room, and when I went to investigate he attacked me."

    "Look," the merman said dramatically, pointing to the corpse 

being pushed back by the moray ell. "Slain by the very ring he 

plotted to use on others in the palace. Dare I say, including 

your royal majesty." Aboshan gestured with a tentacle.

    "Show me the ring," he commanded. The eel was perhaps too 

literal, and his jaws snipped Petod's hand off and brought it 

near. The monarch regarded the offending appendage and threw it 

to the side.

    "Is there no end to this infamy? The rumors you reported are 

true! Raids on some of our greatest nobles have revealed links to 

our shark of a wife. Now an assassin outside our very throne 

room? Why do they plot against me?" he cried, no longer using the 

royal plural. He collapsed back into the throne, and the 

ambassador could feel energy pulsing back into the monarch from 

the palace.

    "Perhaps war is the only answer," a hesitant officer said, 

looking for support from his fellows. "The queen's forces are not 

so superior. Surely a surprise attack would put an end to these 

conspiracies."

    The emperor looked up wanly. Laquatus spoke quickly to squash 

the idea. Open warfare would bring the emperor's interest back to 

the martial devices buried beneath his palace.

    "My Emperor," he stated, striving for statesmanship, "the 

queen and her alliances make open warfare too dangerous for you 

both. Her air-breathing allies and the creatures of the deep 

would surely come to her aid. As deadly as these conspiracies 

are, they represent the limits of her reach. Her assassin was 

incompetent. Better security inside the palace is the answer. 

Llawan dares not attack openly and must strike through traitors 

and other toils." Laquatus wanted Aboshan consumed by internal 

problems.

    "Moreover," the ambassador continued, "open warfare would 

drag guards to the battle lines, weakening your security in the 

palace. We must root out conspiracies and make our own overtures 

to Llawan's allies. If we isolate her, then we can attack with 

impunity."

    "We are so very tired," the emperor muttered, lying back as 

more magic whispered into his frame. "Our wife will fall, but our 

wrath must wait. We shall strip her of allies here and abroad." 

His eyes focused on Laquatus, decision swimming weakly into his 

gaze.

    "You will consult with our officers on crushing those who 

plot against us," he stated. He rose and began to swim for his 

private quarters. "You have our warrant to do all that is 

necessary to guard our throne."

    The officers and ambassador lowered their heads as the 

monarch passed.

    Carte blanche! Laquatus exulted. Current and former rivals 

for power in the court would sink very soon, the ambassador 

promised himself. Still, perhaps he should begin reducing the 

perceived threat lest the emperor strike out in panic against his 

wife. War would reduce his ability to control the situation and 

give too much power to the generals.

    Laquatus looked at the attentive faces surrounding him and 

knew hatred and envy must fill their hearts. He had displaced 

many on his rise to power, and now his enemies grew daily in 

number. If only Fulla would find the orb. With such an item of 

power, he might stop serving others' will and fully satisfy his 

own desires. He drew the officers to him, wondering how much 

longer he must reign himself in.

 

                       CHAPTER 22

 

    Kamahl peered down at the sea. The wooded hillside overlooked 

the coastal town of Borben on the continent's edge. The town sat 

at the end of a major trade road, the last habitation before the 

open ocean. A long peninsula jogged out for the mainland creating 

a protected bay. Like a single finger of hills, it beckoned to 

ships searching for port. Waterfowl and a few seals sunning 

themselves populated the last spit of land.

    The barbarian walked to the hilltop along an overgrown trail, 

soaring above the main road. The joint caravans of the Cabal and 

the Mer Empire broke apart many miles behind him. The animals 

went south, and a few of the wagons continued on to Borben. 

Kamahl had parted ways with Emerald some days before, leaving the 

barbarian alone to walk into the town.

    A few small ships lay anchored in the bay, with only one pier 

stretching out into the water for the transfer of freight from 

small vessels. Out on the water, a single lighter accepted a net 

of cargo from a larger ship. Oars started to row the boat back to 

the docks and warehouses.

    Well back from town, nearly in the surrounding hills, sat a 

small arena. Nearly oval in shape, it was constructed out of 

wood, the large logs and rough-cut timbers whitewashed in the 

sun. It pressed against an outcropping of rock, the interior 

looking muddy from a distance. Sand was piled outside the 

fighting ring. The color told the barbarian it was hauled up from 

the shore.

    The arena stood deserted now, but the mountain mage knew it 

would be crowded during market days and festivals. The best 

source of information regarding the ambassador and his stolen 

prize would undoubtedly be the bars around the docks and the 

arena. He was no seaman, and he resolved to try the inns close to 

the fighting ring, knowing he could mix with the jacks.

    The town looked still now, but when the fishermen returned to 

port the docks would teem. He wondered when the bouts would start 

in the arena, so he could interact with familiar types of people. 

He considered his own appearance as he thought about poking 

around for information regarding the troubles in the east. The 

Order would distribute descriptions, and the ambassador might 

have left word of him as well.

    He wore a gray cloak now, the elen garment gradually 

shrinking to fit him as he plied needle and dagger. The metal-

hued races were uncommon but by no means unknown on the 

continent. Only two things were uniquely his own: his name and 

his sword. He drew the weapon, holding it in his open palms as he 

considered it. Long as he was tall, the massive blade showed 

little sign of wear. Rings rattled softly on the blade as he 

rotated it. Ever since procuring it during his quests as a young 

man, he had carried it. The steel and fire evoked from the mystic 

metal had cut many an enemy low. But in the mountains, the sword 

had gained its own reputation, as fulsome as Kamahl's, and was 

more unique in appearance. Regretfully, he decided that the 

weapon must rest here, above the town, to await his return.

    He walked to a tree, its roots wrapping around a boulder, as 

if holding it to the ground. He looked at his sword and called 

power. It flowed into the steel, the energy streaming fluidly 

throughout the weapon. He set the nearly flat point against the 

rock, the shallow edge still cutting the stone. His muscles ached 

as he pushed. Gradually the metal burrowed its way through the 

rock. Kamahl strained until the hilt began to disappear. He 

exhausted more of his strength as he picked up a stone and set it 

against the hilt. The weapon's advance continued as his hands 

held rock rather than the familiar leather wrapped hilt. Stone 

touched stone, and he closed the final inches. The smell of hot 

metal ceased as his granite pad disappeared into the rocky anvil.

    Kamahl walked to his gear. Looking at the pack and several 

bags, he realized he had grown too dependent on steeds. He 

separated out the essential from the merely convenient and laid 

out tarps to encase the saddle and gear too heavy to carry into 

town. He opened a bag he intended to cache by the boulder holding 

his sword. Arms picked up during his travels rattled as he 

searched. Near the bottom he withdrew a weapon found just days 

before.

    Roving bands of Order knights swept the roads looking for 

signs of Kamahl and the animals whose attacks had been so 

disruptive. The soldiers also inspected wagons for forbidden 

objects. News of the disastrous spell in the Citadel drove the 

knights to new heights in destroying past evils. The mercenaries 

driving caravans of excavated treasures lacked the will to fight 

the Order. During his trek here, the barbarian had come across a 

few of their abandoned wagons.

    He drew forth a massive hammer. The head was black iron. 

Magic reinforced the metal and the haft. The long handle was 

white ivory, perhaps from some fallen mammoth or other such 

beast. The dense grip and over-sized head made it a weapon for a 

giant rather than someone the size of a man. His muscles bunched 

as he hefted it. He remembered Emerald's look of momentary 

outrage when he loaded the hammer. He had found it lying in the 

open near another cache of weapons. Knowing it abandoned, he had 

still dropped most of his money in the resting place. Whoever 

came looking for it would be disappointed but surprised at the 

consideration of the person who rescued it from destruction by 

the Order. Perhaps the Cabal or a corrupt bird warrior had his 

money even now, but it would have felt wrong to take it without 

any attempt at compensation.

    He stuffed his sword scabbard in his bags and hid them and 

the saddle. He held the hammer in his hands and felt the weight. 

Only his constant practice with his own massive sword allowed him 

to swing it with assurance. He took one last look and started 

through the trees to the road.

    It took sometime to reach the highway, even with the 

barbarian's rapid pace and sure feet. It drew toward evening as 

Kamahl came into the town. The streets led down to the docks, but 

he took a switchback trail to the arena. On the bay, the last of 

the fishing vessels were coming in, the catch being transferred 

to the packinghouses. Lights came up around the arena as street 

musicians began to play. Reeds and strings dueled in melody, as 

fighters soon would inside. A local inn competed with men selling 

food on the street, and clusters of fisherman up from the docks 

drifted toward the bars. Kamahl shouldered patrons aside as he 

came into the inn.

    "What might I do for you?" a barman called, drawing drinks 

for the house. The light was dim and the room close and crowded. 

The smell of food cooking in the kitchen and the proprietor's 

face both seemed pleasant enough.

    "I need a room and meals for the next several days," Kamahl 

said, resting his hammer on the bar. The fighting weapon drew 

only a few glances. Perhaps they were used to jacks from the 

arena. The coins he threw down attracted substantially more 

attention. The barbarian recalled how much he spent at the inns 

at the tourney in Cabal City. From the respectful glances, the 

cost of room and board in Borben was substantially less.

    "We can accommodate you, sir," the bartender cried, grabbing 

up a set of keys. He came around the bar, ignoring the empty 

tankards waved in his direction. The proprietor's bald head 

sweated from exertion and the heat in the crowded room. He picked 

up the barbarian's saddlebags and tried to pick up the hammer as 

well. The unexpected weight left him standing still for a moment 

before Kamahl lifted the heavy weapon to his shoulder.

    "I want a room with a view of the harbor," the mountain mage 

said as he followed the owner up the stairs. The steps were 

narrow, and the light peeked over the solid barrister. A single 

lamp lit the hall. The keys rattled briefly as the innkeeper 

unlocked the door. The room was small and the window sealed off. 

Kamahl's guide dropped the bags and threw the shutters open, 

letting a salty breeze carry over the sash to the barbarian.

    "Best view in the house," the owner said. The makings for a 

fire were laid in a fireplace, and the linens looked clean. 

"There are chops and roast for dinner tonight and rabbits 

tomorrow. We always prepare food for the arena crowd. After that, 

the kitchen shuts down for the week unless a guest makes private 

arrangements. I'll send a girl with a coal to start a blaze and 

bring you whatever you want from the kitchen."

    Kamahl waved, and a glowing ember seemed to float through the 

air to land on the prepared wood. The logs burst into flames, 

instantly pouring out heat with no showers of sparks.

    "I will take my own meals tonight," the barbarian said, 

laying the hammer on the bed, which sagged. "I prefer my privacy 

and will have no trouble tending my own fire. If you would give 

me the key to this room and any spares."

    The owner hesitated as the mountain mage approached. He laid 

the brass in the jack's hand and bowed his way out, eyes 

flickering from the fire to the weapon on the bed.

    Kamahl closed the door and went to the window. The town folk 

flowed up from the sea's edge toward the entertainment offered 

behind him at the arena. A few heavy wagons were left on the 

pier, a luckless sentry standing guard as his friends climbed the 

hill. The wagons had the

    look of long-haul freight, and the barbarian resolved to make 

inquires about them tomorrow.

    The crowds in the street and bars drained away as he left the 

inn. The arena was small, and Kamahl was immediately conducted to 

a box seat with a small tray of refreshments as he entered. 

Someone from the inn had obviously informed the arena operators 

of his presence. This was not the reception the barbarian-now a 

known outlaw-expected.

    A porter waited to the side, ready to speak as the 

entertainment commenced. First was the light and easy comedy of 

blood sports. Two groups of men, fishermen from their gait, came 

into the arena. Kamahl looked for an emblem for the fight, and 

the porter swept forward.

    "Just two crews who had a disagreement over boundaries, sir," 

the servitor explained. "The winner of the bout fixes the new 

fishing boundaries over the disputed area."

    Kamahl turned to see if anyone else received such specialized 

service, but the layout of the boxes prevented him from observing 

others.

    A piercing whistle sounded, and the crews rushed each other. 

Men were clad in padded jerkins, and their clubs were wrapped in 

cloth. They fell to like madmen, flailing at heads and joints. 

The fishers only disengaged when armed guards dragged away the 

wounded. Within minutes only one staggering figure remained 

through most of the others appeared to be recovering off on the 

sidelines. The winner left with arms held high though attendants 

came out to guide him to the exit. The next acts were simple 

acrobats and tumblers, their antics entertaining the crowd as the 

next bill readied themselves.

    "Here we are too short of fighters and beasts to have more 

than a few matches during any night," the servant said nervously 

as he watched the barbarian eat.

    Kamahl cast only occasional glances toward the exhibition. 

Finally the signal was given, and the acrobats somersaulted free, 

leaving the floor clear.

    The servant left as two fighters emerged, each wearing colors 

of arena staff. One was tall and scarred, wearing a steel mask 

and leather armor. A short flail with two spiked heads swung 

slowly at his side.

    The other opponent leaned on a staff of black wood, a brazier 

producing smoke in different colors that swept over him. He was 

short and spindly, dressed only in tattered clothes that ruffled 

slightly as a gust of wind swept the arena. The servant glanced 

in from his rounds of the other boxes.

    "Does your staff fight or is it just the fishermen?" Kamahl 

asked, as hoots began to rise up from the audience.

    "We are very small compared to the inland arenas, my lord," 

the servitor said, projecting obsequiousness in the face of 

perceived disappointment. "The large gladiatorial companies avoid 

us, the crowds being too small and the gambling syndicates unable 

to handle serious betting. We must rely on house fighters for the 

majority of the bouts."

    The signal to begin the bout rang, and the waiting dementia 

caster dug his staff into the soil. The shaft cast a long shadow, 

though no bright light existed to throw such a pall. From the 

depths of the shadow came laughter. Then several twisted monsters 

exited the darkness. Their flesh appeared parched, their hands 

showing bone as they shuffled about in a gruesome dance.

    The masked fighter swung his flail as the tall mage called 

more creatures from his mind and raised the bones of the dead 

from the ground. The race of the corpses was impossible to 

determine because the flesh was in such poor condition.

    The dementia caster sawed his staff back and forth, the 

shadow racing over the ground. The black wave coated the flesh of 

the risen, drawing the moisture out. Their flesh shriveled as 

tendons and muscles grew too tenuous to keep the bodies together.

    The field cleared as laughing corpses fell on each other and 

dragged food back to the darkness from which they sprang. Some of 

the horrific creatures called forth from the dementia caster's 

mind ignored everything and staggered around the arena. Cries 

sounded from the gate guards as the dead beat on the barriers 

keeping them inside. Others turned on the masked fighter who 

began to fall back. The flail smashed bones, but the twisted dead 

continued snapping at his heels, their bodies coiling and 

rebuilding into even more twisted fragments of the short mage's 

imagination.

    A few of the creatures even turned on their creator, 

advancing on the staff. The shadow it cast began to sweep back 

and forth, the pall forming a cone in front of the mage. The 

rebelling monsters fell as their limbs spilled to the ground, 

their frames melting like frost on a skillet. The masked jack 

fought harder as more of the laughing closed on him.

    Acknowledging defeat the fighter knelt in submission, his 

mask dipping to the ground. The dementia caster withdrew his 

staff from the ground and knocked the brazier over. The summoned 

vanished like nightmares at dawn as the short victor bowed to the 

applause of the crowd.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    The crowd roared in the stands above as workers tried to 

reassemble the dead. The arena operator and two assistants laid 

out the bodies of the slain. Some had been dead a very long time, 

and the smell smashed against the barbarian. Kamahl had left his 

private box before the next bout to talk to the owners about 

fighting in their establishment. He found the master hard at work 

preparing for the next night.

    "Make sure you find as many body parts as you can," the 

promoter told the groundskeeper. The arena owner's pale skin 

contrasted with the dirt and leather smock he wore. Splotches of 

blood and caustic burns covered his apron and sections of 

revealed skin. "There are rumors sweeping the docks, and the 

sailors are asking for burial at sea again instead of in port." 

He shooed the servant away and regarded the jack.

    "So you wish to join our little family?" The pit boss asked, 

searching through a pile of limbs for an arm to complete a dead 

dwarf, preservative fluid dripping from the torn flesh. Kamahl 

shook his head.

    "I wish to compete in the arena against your fighters," he 

corrected. He looked at the dead being reconstructed for later 

battles. "Your family appears quite big enough," he said with 

distaste. The promoter ignored the tone.

    "You would be surprised how difficult it is to keep a large 

enough supply for Enoch and Apel, our necromancers," he said, 

surrendering in his quest and throwing a random arm in the 

dwarf's case. "We'll have to bury these tonight in the arena. 

Apel's zombies always cart off the dead despite how short we are. 

We used to get sailors, but my brother forgot to alter one's 

looks. Now it is almost impossible to get them after they die." 

He moved to the next casket whose contents the barbarian avoided 

looking at. "The crowds are growing very tired of the same old 

faces week after week.

    "I am offering something new," Kamahl said, stepping around 

to peer in the mild eyes. "Someone whom your clients have not 

seen before."

    The proprietor waved to his assistants and walked to the back 

with the barbarian following.

    "You understand that we rarely fight to the death here," the 

official said, hanging his splattered apron on a hook before 

stepping into an office. "Also, the deal is contingent on my 

brother's agreement when he comes back from meeting with the bet-

mongers."

    "I'll not put on a show," Kamahl said, his eyes growing hard. 

"When I fight, it will be for real. However, I need not kill if 

your fighters understand that they can surrender when they are 

overwhelmed."

    The owner waved the demand away.

    "A jack in a small arena has no use for a champion's airs," 

he said, drawing forth a piece of paper. "Now, I will need your 

name for the criers circulating tonight if you plan to fight 

tomorrow."

    The barbarian paused before answering. It would be easiest to 

give a false name, but an outright lie stuck in his throat.

    "Call me the Hammer," he said, sparking the proprietor's 

interest. "Only by defeating me will someone learn my true name."

    The fat man nodded, seeing the possibilities. "You will need 

to clean your armor, and we must design a suitable emblem ..." 

the owner continued as he led the barbarian away. A host of 

functionaries followed, all trying to mold Kamahl to their own 

idea of what a fighter should be. He was brusque in refusing 

their offers of advice on how to fight and the proper attire to 

wear. He did allow the armorer to work on his protective gear, 

which had suffered during his travels.

    It seemed only minutes, and he was standing in the center of 

the arena, the noise of the crowd merging into an unintelligible 

muttering. The gray cloak was thrown back, his iron shirt dark 

against his brass skin.

    Kamahl swung his hammer, stretching out the kinks in his 

muscles. His first opponent was Apel, a short dementia caster. 

Knowing the reputation of such mages, Kamahl wondered if the 

house fighter would follow the rules. The barbarian believed the 

short summoner would soon be surrendering, but he must be 

prepared for a battle to the death. The crowd began to chant as 

Apel strode into the arena and lowered his equipment to the 

ground.

    The dementia caster stood on the sand, a burning brazier at 

his side. Apel threw power onto the glowing coals and a heavy 

cloud of smoke rose, making his features waver and change. The 

dark mage dug his staff into the ground, and a thin shadow 

stretched out from the shaft, advancing toward the light behind 

Kamahl's head rather than away. The familiar shuffling figures of 

the mirthful dead began to appear, cackling perhaps at the joke 

of life itself. Kamahl wondered how predictable his opponent 

would be.

    The barbarian called forth his own magic, a field of 

possibility forming over the sand. He would experiment, use the 

arena to teach himself new methods of attack and defense. Several 

cougars surged out of nothingness onto the arena floor, their 

roars stilling the cries of the crowd. The zombies came on, their 

laughter continuing even as many were pulled down and savaged by 

the great cats. If any of the dead were reconstructed corpses, 

the mountain mage did not envy the morticians' tasks in repairing 

the bodies.

    The dementia caster seemed oblivious to the failure of his 

forces. Ignoring the feasting cats, Apel sent more undead onto 

the arena floor. A tattered wave threatening to overwhelm 

Kamahl's spell by choking his beasts under a wave of cold flesh. 

The barbarian concentrated again, the cloud of his summoning 

stretching wider as he played a little to the crowd.

    A flock of mountain sheep stormed onto the sand. They milled 

for a moment, their waist-high bodies losing themselves in a blur 

as the fierce rams fought for position. Kamahl nudged them into 

action with a mental command, and the beasts lowered their 

tightly curled horns and stormed forward. The rams struck hard, 

shattering bone and bringing the dead down. Clawed hands and 

fangs struck at Kamahl's creatures but could not penetrate the 

dense wool that defeated the cold wind of the mountains and the 

hot breath of timber wolves.

    Apel lifted his staff into the air, his face now agitated as 

his forces fell to mere sheep. In frustration he speared the oak 

into the sand. Power poured into the soil. Like cobras rising to 

strike, dark spears rose from the ground. The shadowy weapons 

bobbed and weaved before falling on the animals that ground up 

the dead. The wool that resisted the strength of zombies sundered 

as the beasts were transfixed. The few remaining cougars expired 

in yowling pain. The rams fell as mutton, the undead rising up as 

Apel poured new strength to their shattered bones. The bodies 

tottered toward the barbarian more twisted and cackling than 

before, but the upright spears of night were straight as they 

drifted toward the mountain mage.

    Kamahl stepped forward, his brow wrinkling as his will 

contested once more with the universe. Now hulking figures came 

onto the arena sands, their roars of displeasure shaking the 

crowd until the mighty monsters choked off their cries with dead 

flesh. Their white fur grew stained with blood and gore as they 

tore apart those coming too close to their master. The yetis 

discarded limbs as they worked their way back to the dementia 

caster. The enemy mage's black spears dived to spill life to the 

ground. But despite the humanoids' bulk, they dodged the dark 

weapons with ease, their agility honed by the mountain cliffs 

their kind regularly traveled. They wrung their way up the line 

of zombies, and Kamahl raised his hammer, waiting for the next 

attack.

    The crowd cried out as the yetis approached the enemy, their 

bloody hands reaching for the weedy mage. The dementia caster 

dropped, and his body heaved. Kamahl paused, holding his minions 

in case his opponent was surrendering, uncertain with all the 

particulars of this arena.

    A wave of corrupting flesh seemed to spew from the 

underworld. The zombies Apel called forth vanished, disappearing 

or devoured by his newest creation. The mass lunged for the 

approaching yetis, lifting itself into the air and spreading out 

in a great sheet of corruption. The mountain apes disappeared 

under the dark spell as the mound fell with a thunderous retort. 
The impact ruptured coffins buried in the dirt. Bodies lolled on 

the ground and were swallowed by the spreading wave.

    The crowd called for Kamahl's defeat, cheering for their 

favorite. The barbarian was done with calling monster and readied 

his hammer. The iron head fell as the first tendrils reached him. 

The maul struck the ground, a shattering concussion setting the 

sand rolling, flinging back the formless flesh. The jack took a 

step forward as his hammer thundered again. The magic concussion 

splattered the corruption back, the waves of power shaking the 

stands. The strength of his attack diminished as Kamahl 

controlled his power.

    He cleaved a path with reverberating blows, working his way 

across the arena until he stood before Apel. The power assaulted 

the mage's bones, and he leaned on his staff, too unsteady to 

remain upright without the support. The barbarian raised his 

hammer and paused to allow the dementia caster to forfeit. The 

necromancer bowed his head in defeat.

    Cheers sounded as Kamahl nodded magnanimously and offered his 

hand in a show of sportsmanship. The barbarian turned and bowed 

to the proprietors in their box and the crowd in the stands. The 

fighter started for the exit and the alehouse, anxious to wash 

the stench of the dead from his frame.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    The serving girl scooped meat onto the barbarian's trencher, 

and the gravy started to sink into the bread. Kamahl took a bite, 

and the juices tasted delicious as he washed the meal down with 

ale.

    The other customers regarded him warmly, despite his defeat 

of the local fighter. The novelty of a new opponent gave him a 

popularity he had not received in Cabal City. The hill tavern was 

full, as new patron came to view the stranger. His deliberate air 

of mystery was another draw. So far, Kamahl had given no name 

except that of his new weapon. The ivory and iron creation lay 

across the table as enthusiasts walked slowly by, caressing it 

with their eyes.

    The dementia caster's defeat and the adulation of the crowd 

pleased the barbarian. His battle had been the climax of the 

night. It had been a short bill with only the duel between an 

unknown and the local champion bringing any crowd. The enthusiasm 

and respect was heady, but Kamahl remembered this was only single 

step in his quest for the orb. A group crowded closer to his 

table, and he looked up. Three young men dressed in armor and 

carrying brand-new weapons coughed for his attention. None of 

their gear showed wear, and most appeared of indifferent quality.

    Two of them were dark, their skins rough from exposure to the 

weather. They were fit but were uncomfortable with their weapons. 

The middle boy was tall and thin, with muscle showing but lacking 

the calluses of his companions. He wore his clothes and elegant 

boots well enough. However, he seemed no more at ease with the 

sword at his hip than his companions.

    The barbarian wondered if they were working up the nerve to 

challenge him or pick a fight to show their own bravery. Many 

jacks reveled in such fights but not Kamahl. "You have a 

question?" he growled, his irritation deepening his voice. They 

jumped back, then two pushed the center of their trio forward.

    "If you please, sir," the blond said hesitantly, his hands 

falling to his belt, "we wondered if you might be available for 

students seeking instruction."

    Kamahl laughed shortly, the boys' faces reddening. His mirth 

was more at his own expense than the youngsters', but the 

adolescents were wound too tightly for any hint of humor. They 

started to withdraw, but the barbarian called them back.

    "Your pardon, sirs," Kamahl apologized. "I expected a 

different question. Please join me." The three drew up stools and 

sat down. The serving wench brought more tankards at the 

barbarian's wave.

    "I am Girter, son of a chandler," the blond boy said, giving 

a seated bow. "These are my friends Wasel and Birten. Their 

father owns two fishing boats. We hope to learn magic from you," 

he added bluntly

    "Why me?" the mountain mage asked. "Surely there are others 

willing to teach, fighters from the arena perhaps." He took a sip 

as he thought. To be a fighting master was a serious relationship 

in the mountains. He had spent years working with his mentor and 

could not see himself in such a role for now. But he remembered 

his own stumbling steps in search of magic. Perhaps he could help 

the boys.

    "We want you to teach us because there are few willing to 

teach. Apel and Enoch will both take students, but we feel uneasy 

with calling on the dead. Besides, you are the first in quite 

some time to beat either of them," Girter said, his friends 

nodding in agreement.

    "I do not know my own plans," Kamahl said, playing for time. 

"I will offer my opinions on the available teachers. I have 

skill, but you need a master rather than a fighter. I leave soon, 

in any case. It depends on what I learn about the trade 

caravans."

    "My father is completely familiar with them," Girter 

exclaimed, flushing with pleasure now, rather than rage.

    "Our father sometimes hauls out cargo from the caravans to 

the freight ships waiting in the bay," one of the brothers chimed 

in. "Though there isn't much call for his services anymore."

    "Yes," said Girter with a frown, reclaiming the conversation. 

"The number of wagons hauling cargo to the coast plummeted when 

the Order became more active. They stop caravans across the 

continent, searching for a stolen artifact."

    "They say that an agent for the Cabal stole a magic sword 

belonging to the head of the Order. She had her throat cut in her 

sleep." One of the dark-haired boys - the barbarian thought it 

Wasel - spoke with a certain amount of relish.

    "I heard an ambassador from the emperor's court and his 

fighting frog stole it during an animal attack on the captain," 

his brother Birten said, determined to speak at least once.

    "They even say a metal-skinned barbarian killed the captain 

and her lieutenant and stole away a great treasure," Girter 

confessed, glancing toward Kamahl. His friends looked nervously 

at the mountain fighter, who smiled back.

    "I never had the pleasure of meeting the captain.,"

    The three youths laughed uproariously as if Kamahl told a 

great jest.

    "I am, however, interested in occurrences inland. Perhaps I 

will return that way. I also might travel by ship, so I would 

appreciate any news of the empire. Please join me, and we will 

talk more."

    Kamahl watched them wave for the waitress and wondered how 

many rumors and false trails battled with the truth. Perhaps he 

would stay in Borben a while, finding news sources from the 

empire. One thing was certain-further travel was pointless 

without more information.

 

                       CHAPTER 23

 

    "Shall we come to order?" Laquatus called as the generals 

gathered around the table. The delicate murals on the throne room 

walls twinkled like submerged stars, the emperor's image looming 

over his councilors and servants. In the continent's dead 

buildings, the ambassador could take the image down or cover it. 

However, in the sea, the palace itself would bleed the image 

through any barrier. Besides, Laquatus could not decide the fate 

of the emperor's face, not just yet.

    Already he had turned the throne room into the command 

center. From here he directed the action against the supposed 

rebels and agents of the queen. Aboshan had retired to his rooms 

in disarray. There he spent his time in debauchery with 

occasional bouts when he planned paranoid purges. Increasingly, 

the court relied on Laquatus to deal with the day to day running 

of the palace. Many decisions, formerly the exclusive domain of 

the emperor, were decided by him. Best of all, he was able to 

blame the bolder and bloody moves on the now-isolated ruler.

    A general droned on, but the ambassador ignored him for now. 

Most members of the new ruling body were military, for Laquatus 

had taken over the government's civilian functions. Ministers who 

were former rivals or could impede his decisions were already 

cleared away. The obstacles were removed by denunciation. Some 

died, and others fled to the southern courts, proving their 

treachery or at least their taste for living.

    The valuable and respected ministers presented more of a 

problem. Too many traitors in the government's highest ranks 

might lead Aboshan to suspect Laquatus. Remembering the effect of 

his own exile in isolating him, the ambassador found compelling 

reasons for the highest officials to be sent abroad or to the 

empire's hinterlands. Embassies opened in dozens of cities, and 

the reluctant diplomats tried to remove the queen from her 

undersea allies.

    Many of those courtiers remaining in the palace found 

themselves elevated due to Laquatus's influence and transferred 

their loyalty to him. Having the whip hand over the civilian 

administration, the ambassador was considering his next target-

the army. It agitated constantly for additional funds, soldiers, 

and action. Even now, officers looked to him to implement their 

latest recommendations. He wondered what they were.

    "I will hear the next report and inform you of the emperor's 

decisions regarding your requests, General." He would glance at 

the wax-covered slate later. He might even secure a decision if 

he thought the outcome personally favorable.

    Another officer began to report, and Laquatus wondered how to 

gain ascendancy over the army. The problem was proving more 

resistant to his attempts to weed out leaders. The military had a 

higher sense of duty and loyalty to its own institutions. 

Moreover, he could not steer his own candidates to empty 

positions. Any openings were still filled at the pleasure of the 

commanding generals.

    What he needed was an eviscerating purge of the army's 

officer corps. Laquatus needed his own armed force to implement 

it in the emperor's name. A personal guard, he thought, and his 

eyes drifted to the rear of the throne room. Turg and his lackeys 

were gathered together, gambling quietly. The killers and 

scoundrels his jack recruited and led in the raids lacked the 

strict discipline demanded by the army. However, there were many 

castes and species in ocean society that could be played against 

each other. The lower orders had their place, and if a 

bloodthirsty few managed to improve their lot to the ambassador's 

benefit, he saw no harm. His jack could find more compatriots 

while he looked for an excuse for Aboshan to create another army.

    He thought of the emperor entombed in his rooms with Laquatus 

controlling access to the monarch. Expanding the current system 

of spies and thugs in a serious military force would not be too 

difficult. He could use subtle innuendo about the military's 

loyalty to the emperor. However, that course was risky. Aboshan 

might take personal command of the army leaving no forces loyal 

only to the ambassador. Perhaps it was time to find avenues to 

power beside manipulations in the throne room.

    "Thank you all for your time," Laquatus said suddenly, 

cutting another general off in mid-speech. "I believe these 

problems deserve an immediate response. I will go to our beloved 

ruler and urge him to act on these concerns as soon as possible."

    Many officers could not hide their irritation at the abrupt 

dismissal, but it was hard to complain of an advisor moving 

promptly to convey their problems to the sovereign.

    Turg, he commanded mentally, ready to leave for the vaults.

    The frog resisted, wanting to stay with his companions. The 

ambassador swam over, wondering what could be so engrossing. A 

huge glass cover from the imperial kitchens lay on a tabletop. 

The amphibian and a triton released fighting fish under the 

glass, sealing them in. The fish, at first, swelled until one 

appeared bigger than its opponent did. Laquatus thought of 

Aboshan's swollen ego as one tried to drive the other off. But 

the lesser was trapped and could not escape. Both fish attacked, 

forced to combat because one could not leave. The noble dragged 

his jack away, sick of resistance to his will. The other scum 

scattered at his show of wrath.

    Laquatus led the sullen champion to a waiting room. He could 

leave for the treasure rooms in a little while. He could afford a 

little time to adjust his servant's attitude. The frog's sounds 

of distress carried into the throne room as his master took pains 

to educate him.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    "My enemies decay in the depths," Aboshan, Emperor of the 

Seas, chuckled as he reviewed the execution lists. The wax showed 

his enemies' names, and he rubbed them out in glee, imagining 

himself rubbing them out of existence. He had erased them. No one 

mentioned their names for fear of contamination, and the state 

already held their property, appropriated in his name.

    The past weeks had been difficult. He constantly feared 

conspirators might break in despite the increased guards and 

secret police. He stopped allowing his atten-dants into his 

quarters because assassins might infiltrate them. He had been 

reduced to looking at the names of his dead enemies. Suddenly he 

was afraid, perhaps removing them from the death lists would 

bring them back to plague him.

    He rolled in the water several times, trying to shake off the 

black thoughts oppressing him. His forces were stripping the 

empire of criminals every day. Arrest and execution warrants 

traveled with the army and the police. He was growing safer, he 

reminded himself.

    The emperor needed to get out, to make sure something existed 

outside these rooms. But where could he go where his enemies 

might not find him. Aboshan suddenly remembered the vaults and 

the land walkers that he employed to service his treasures. 

Surely in the depths of the palace he would be safe. Yes, he 

would go and see what wonders had been reclaimed.

    "Guards!" he screamed, wanting to leave but afraid to unless 

surrounded. The waters frothed with predatory fish seeking 

attackers as mermen sped from their posts at the doors.

    "What is it, Your Majesty?" a guard asked, his fellows 

splitting to sweep the room for intruders.

    "We wish to inspect the treasure rooms under the palace," he 

commanded, his voice stronger than it had been in some time. 

"Have them cleared of undesirables for our tour."

    The guard stared slackly then retreated at Aboshan's angry 

expression.

    Servants streamed in as the announcement spread of the 

emperor leaving his rooms. They brought his jewelry and worked to 

make him presentable. The uneasiness made him wonder if he should 

stay. But it had been so long.

    He must not allow his subjects to think him cowering in a 

corner. He was in control, not the rebels or his wife. Not even 

his loyal servant Laquatus directed the path of the empire. The 

realm was his to use as he saw fit. Aboshan resolutely swept out 

into the halls. Guards raced down side passages to clear a path 

for the monarch, unable to cut in front of the emperor.

    The halls appeared deserted, the ruler knowing many feared to 

be in his presence while his moods were so unpredictable. They 

must learn to live with it, he decided. He would not be a pariah 

in his own house. The passage wound down to the sea floor. Light 

blazed from normally dark walls as the palace reacted to his 

presence.

    Aboshan reached the bedrock. A shimmering bubble stretched 

across the room to a partition. He could see a squad of tresias 

chivying someone behind the screen. At least he would not have to 

soil himself by looking on the land-bound. The sentry bowed to 

the ground, his stalk pivoting to bring his torso flat to the 

rock. The emperor ignored him as he swam closer to the bubble of 

air. The monarch remembered his ministers creating the spell. The 

problems with item preservation dictated that Aboshan, who 

despised all above the sea, have a pocket of air and dry land in 

his own house. Worse, he could not swim among his treasures but 

must walk on legs.

    "Avert your eyes as we inspect our treasures," the emperor 

told the guards. He swam closer, then passed into the bubble. He 

writhed with unexpected pain. He had buried his ability to form 

legs at least as deep as the treasures below. He lay on the 

floor, gasping for air as his tentacles combined and formed legs. 

He laboriously expelled water cleared from his new lungs. He 

tried to stand, but i his muscles protested. The best he could 

manage was a I crawl as he neared the trapdoor. He sat at the top 

of the stairs leading down, the air feeling as chill as the ocean 

depths. At last he slid down the wooden steps. He gripped the 

banister and laboriously pulled himself to his newly created 

feet.

    The room was lit by unpleasantly flaring lamps. Crystal 

globes captured traces of fire and threw their harsh rays from 

the chamber's corners. The shelves erected on the floor were 

taller than his head, his treasures laid upon them and cataloged. 

He tottered toward the first set, gripping the sides as his feet 

shuffled over the uneven floor. Some of the wooden planks groaned 

under their loads. The steel and glass heads of forgotten 

fighting machines stared at him as he worked his way down the 

aisle. Mechanical limbs threw threatening shadows. He passed a 

section of knives, their wavy edges promising death to who ever 

touched the blade, the wielder as well as the victim. A pile of 

jewels, separated by type, covered the wood at the end of the 

aisle.

    "Is this all?" he asked himself. Where were the magics to 

sweep away his enemies? He had no interest in baubles or small 

devices. He could draw on an empire to build his armies. These 

items were inconsequential compared to his might under the sea. 

Perhaps the greater wonders were deeper under the palace?

    Aboshan moved toward the hole leading down to the next room. 

His stride improved as he went down the ladder. He was no 

weakling to be overwhelmed by walking. The shelves seemed more of 

the same. A projector lay groaning on a set of tables. He could 

see the spears contained through gaps in the mechanism. The 

weapon might make a single warrior or machine nigh unstoppable 

but was of no use against the hordes a war must bring.

    He strained to topple the trestles. He snarled at his 

impotence as he tried to move weights unsupported by water for 

the first time. Dry land oppressed him. All but a tiny fraction 

of his forces could not leave the water at all. The continent's 

interior seemed remote as distant islands to the savages 

inhabiting the world of air.

    The real weapons must be hidden. He stretched out his senses, 

drifting between the shelves. He could smell the water and mud 

down in the lower levels. His eyes saw little sign of hidden 

cases or rooms as he worked his way back. It was only his 

meticulous attention to the walls that tipped him off.

    One section of rock changed slowly as the light brightened. 

The shift reminded him of the palace walls, but it appeared bare 

rock. He approached and let his senses wash over it. The surface 

was a fagade, and he felt the thrill of discovering a secret 

trove. His will grated against the surface, and the covering 

slowly sloughed away. Water poured out, murky and stinking of 

metal and rot. The cache must predate the Cabal's arrival, 

Aboshan realized. The former curator must have hidden the object 

before dying in the rebel attack.

    A leather sack lay on the floor. The emperor knelt down, 

nearly falling as he performed the maneuver. He opened the bag, 

the material tearing like paper. He held the world in his hands.

    The orb was brilliant blue, the globe's surface covered in 

places by chop, as waves and weather collided. The depths of the 

sphere called to him, speaking its name.

    "Mirari," the emperor whispered.

    He stared in wonder, his senses diving beneath the surface to 

explore the world he ruled. The abysmal depths called to him, and 

he raced to answer.

    The orb spun out of his hands as he toppled, the ball rolling 

away to fetch up against a shelf. The emperor's legs split into 

tentacles. He thrashed in panic as his lungs tried to turn back 

to gills. His mind convinced he swam in the ocean, his body had 

attempted to adapt to the new reality. Aboshan shuddered as his 

magic slowly halted the transformation and forced himself to 

revert to his land-bound form.

    He rolled upright, furious that his being could betray him 

so. He walked quickly to the orb, the sphere's glory feeling 

slightly less. He stooped to pick it up and rapped his head 

against the wood.

    "Everything conspires against us!" Aboshan swore, closing his 

eyes against the pain. "Forced to walk on legs like a common 

animal. How I despise them all!" The ruler put his tentacles to 

his head as if to press the anger back in. The land assaulted his 

mind. Even for the care of treasures like the orb he depended on 

the Cabal. He wondered what trick they had prepared for him?

    He held the Mirari before his eyes. The sphere's endless seas 

were swept by waves without land's interruption.

    "That is what I want. For my kingdom to stretch on forever." 

Perhaps his wife might come back to him if he were more powerful. 

But the continents seemed forever beyond his reach.

    "We will sweep you all away!" he said madly and thrust his 

magic into the sphere.

 

                       CHAPTER 24

 

    Laquatus swam down the corridor, his jack struggling to keep 

up with him. He had waited too long, and now everything might be 

at risk. He did not hear of the emperor's excursion until after 

he finished chastising Turg. Only after he started for the vaults 

did another courtier ask him if he was joining Aboshan's tour of 

the treasure rooms? "What do you mean?" Laquatus bellowed, as he 

crowded the noble back. His champion took hold of the 

aristocrat's limbs. Outrage filled the minister's face as the 

amphibian laid hands on him.

    "I demand you let me go," he hissed. The frog broke his 

prisoner's collarbones at his master's surge of irritation.

    "You might heal if you hurry to a doctor," the ambassador 

said intently, giving the broken bones a nudge with his hand. "Or 

you could suffer injuries leaving you with flippers instead of 

hands." Turg gave the noble a simple fracture in a lower arm. 

Guards and servants ignored the impromptu torture session. It was 

unhealthy of late to be interested in Laquatus's business.

    "He is clearing the treasure rooms of workers and will 

inspect the rooms in person. He left while you talked with this 

animal." Turg broke his other arm in passing as Laqua-tus rushed 

to the vaults in the depths of the palace.

    The way was clear, the servants keeping as much space as 

possible between themselves and their sovereign. The aristocrat 

passed guards and checkpoints, but they were never challenged. 

The ambassador was now the second most powerful person in the 

northern court, but he could be cast down at the emperor's whim.

    Laquatus passed the interior banquet rooms, ignoring the 

delicacies that eternally awaited a courtier's dining. The hall 

changed shape and direction as he passed chambers that had been 

sealed at the emperor's pleasure. Rumors abounded of disloyal 

subjects interred in the finest rooms, lacking nothing but an 

exit. The swim was taking too long, and the ambassador 

accelerated, cursing the grand airs of the marine rulers. He and 

Turg neared the lower passages, leading to the vaults. There were 

few doors here, most of the space devoted to the organs which 

allowed the palace to live. Laquatus passed members of the 

imperial guard, posted to protect the emperor as he toured the 

bowels of the palace. A giant squid jetted back and forth through 

the narrow corridor. The ambassador wanted to force it aside.

    However, he knew how aggressive the cephalopods were, so he 

slowed and gave it as wide a berth as possible. A huge eye looked 

him over as the ambassador continued on. It took seconds to pass 

the monster. The long whips stretched beyond the other tentacles. 

Laquatus dodged the long clubs with their oversized hooked 

suction cups.

    The squid was one of Aboshan's proudest achievements, 

recruited from the queen's allies in the abyss. The emperor 

proved at least in his own mind that he could compete with his 

wife. The pair neared the entrance to the vaults.

    The sessile warrior still floated on his stalk. He held a 

trident in his hands as he directed the guards in moving a 

partition. Laquatus was surprised to see Fulla and her companions 

penned in the bubble set over the trapdoor. The air was stretched 

until it resembled a loaf of bread. The spell seemed to be 

straining. The dementia caster poked her hand out through the 

water barrier, watching the boundary ripple with interest.

    "Guard," the ambassador said, drawing the stationary fighter 

to attention. The arms on the rooted figure crossed as he drew 

himself upright. "I would speak with the emperor."

    Laquatus wondered how he would deal with an outraged 

sovereign. He had no idea how obvious the Cabal's looting 

operation of the vaults was. Aboshan might have no idea anything 

untoward was happening.

    The flare of powerful magic seemed to fill the room. A 

massive spell's presence set the magical field to vibrating. The 

air bubble shook violently as the palace spells interacted with 

the new force. With a sinking heart Laquatus realized Aboshan 

must have found the orb.

    "I must see the emperor now," the aristocrat demanded, 

determined to find out what was happening. The guard twisted his 

stalk, the trident no longer at attention but lowered for use.

    "Absolutely not," the sessile warrior said flatly, coiling on 

his long stalk as if to lunge forward. "His imperial majesty did 

not wish to be disturbed, so none shall pass. The emperor allowed 

for no exceptions." The soldier waved for reinforcements from the 

corridor.

    These guards might move from where they were rooted only a 

few times in their lives. As a result, Laquatus believed, they 

were the most stubborn and unyielding guards in all existence. 

Rigid obedience to all orders was their trademark.

    Another pulse shook the ether, but this time the concussion 

was also physical. The ambassador felt the water surging in 

sympathy to some spell perpetuated by Aboshan. Laquatus 

remembered the disaster that had struck the Order. Aboshan had no 

interest in what happened to the Citadel, and Laquatus neglected 

to share the information for fear of drawing the emperor's 

attention to the orb. Even now a spell might be encasing the 

vaults in impenetrable crystal. The palace wall shivered as a new 

wave of energy blasted through the living tissue.

    "There is no time," Laquatus growled as his commands leaped 

from his mind to the palace walls. His authority unquestioned by 

any in the court, the building obeyed. The walls closed. Laquatus 

imagined the panic that must be filling the upper floors of the 

building for he did not limit his command. He wondered how many 

would die as the passage pinched shut, sealing the troops away 

from the emperor. The giant squid the ambassador had passed 

jetted down the corridor, it speed blinding as it tore into the 

vaults' antechamber, getting through the door before lattices of 

chitin and coral could crimp the passage shut.

    "Take it," the ambassador ordered Turg and moved against the 

rooted guard. The stubborn whelk directed a sudden current at the 

ambassador, threatening to batter the merman against the walls. 

Laquatus swam into the flow, showing off his body's power as he 

rarely did. He stilled the torrent and circled the guard, 

wondering how long it would take the poison on his rings to kill 

his opponent.

    In the background he could see the Cabal workers panicking-

under the ocean with only a thin bubble preventing them from 

drowning.

    The ambassador focused on his one fight. Who would think an 

immobile opponent would offer a challenge? He called for a shark 

to feast on the stationary target. But the fighter was tied 

directly into the palace, and his counter-spell disrupted the 

magical call. Laquatus tried to conjure other monsters. In spite 

of his vigorous attempts, the guard's magic was a stone bastion 

upon which he wasted all his strength.

    In the bubble, the Cabal workers struck at their amphibian 

watchers with magical attacks. The blind tre-sias's limbs 

withered, the muscle melting away under the workers' hands. The 

fighters shrank to miniscule proportions, their bones cracking 

and spearing through their skins. If only the aristocrat enjoyed 

some of that dark magic, but his spells were of the sea and his 

opponent opposed every summoning. At least the amphibians would 

not interfere with the ambassador's fight.

    Another wave of power welled up from below, and the 

ambassador lost focus as some effort from the emperor assaulted 

his sense. But Laquatus's sessile opponent suffered more. The 

surges of energy pulsed through the walls, and the guard was 

anchored to them. The warrior appeared confused and discharged 

magical blasts in all directions as the ambassador tried to close 

with him.

    "Turg," the noble called, hoping that together they might 

uproot the enemy, but the frog could not come.

    The giant squid jetted through the water faster than a bird. 

Only the amphibian's creative use of the air bubble on the floor 

allowed him to escape time after time. The jack threw himself 

through the crowded space, bowling whimpering Cabal technicians 

over as he vanished from view. The squid fished for his enemy, 

its two long tentacles slamming into the workers and snatching 

them into the other eight where it tore them apart.

    Fulla became involved as her safety was threatened. The Cabal 

workers reanimated their drowned brethren and set them swimming 

for squid. The deep-sea monster threaded by them with ease, their 

clumsy motions no match for its speed and agility.

    The rooted warrior directed more currents to sweep the 

chamber. The palace walls began to relax as the warrior countered 

the ambassador's command. If any of the elite survived beyond the 

door they would soon be attacking Laquatus.

    The static guard's power pushed to reopen the palace 

passages, and Laquatus tried to steal victory from the jaws of 

the defeat. He redoubled the guard's call as he dived through the 

top of the air bubble. The command forced open the passage over 

the vault entry as well as doors throughout the palace. He 

transformed into a humanoid even as he rolled down the steps with 

bone-jarring force. Turg followed, one of the squid's tentacles 

snatching away a layer of skin as the ambassador shut the living 

curtain. This time he directed a bolt of lightning and killed the 

door to prevent the rooted guard from opening it for 

reinforcements.

    There was no sign of the emperor. The ruler's spell still 

pulsed out, but the force was so great it obscured the exact 

position it flowed from. The vaults took up twelve large chambers 

in the living rock. The palace walls spread over every surface, 

but it was thin in comparison to the upper rooms of the 

structure. Laquatus looked to Turg for aid, but the frog was 

curled up, his skin pouring out a restorative slime over his 

wounds.

    Laquatus composed himself, sinking into a chair before a 

cluster of tables. The furniture must have been imported at great 

expense, but it was an ugly reminder of dry land to the 

ambassador. Intricate mechanisms rested on the table in the 

stages of restoration. A card on one matrix of crystal, copper, 

and gold identified it as an aid in clairvoyance-the art of 

distant sight.

    Laquatus threw out his senses, desperate to find the emperor 

before some catastrophe overwhelmed them all. Instead his view 

expanded exponentially, and information flooded in. He soared up 

from the ocean floor. Below him lay the palace. Then the capital. 

Finally he saw the continental shelf and the mainland.

    The ambassador's awareness swept the coastline, and he 

understood the purpose of the spell. Huge waves swept toward the 

helpless shore. He admired Aboshan's vision as he saw walls of 

water smashing into small villages. The impact tumbled boats far 

from the shore. The emperor poured more power to fuel the 

continuing destruction. But Laquatus could also see the power 

tearing at the capital's fabric. The surges of mystic energy 

disrupted the delicate web of spells the living constructions 

relied on to function.

    To his horror, he saw the palace lying in the eye of the 

storm of magic. Many dwellings were beginning to discor-porate, 

as spells they relied on flared and died.

    His spirit collapsed back to the palace, the chaotic waves of 

power playing havoc with the enhancement spell this close to the 

origin of the destruction. He grasped the organization of the 

vaults in a burst of vision-twelve caverns interconnected by a 

single passage and most of them packed tight with mud. People 

said the vaults were in the bowels of the palace, and bowels were 

not full of treasure. But there was one piece of perfection, the 

orb. He saw that the emperor was only one level below him.

    "Aboshan, you fool," the ambassador cried, headed for the pit 

leading down. Turg uncurled and followed slowly, still favoring 

his side. Water began to cascade down the stairs as the temporary 

hatch locking out the imperial guards began to fail under 

repeated blows from the other side.

    Laquatus flew down the steps, racing for the chamber's 

corner. There the emperor knelt entranced, his hands holding the 

sphere. Waves crawled over the miniature globe's surface as the 

monarch sent another burst of power through the orb, only to have 

it magnified a thousand-fold. The ruler was lost in his personal 

visions of a landless world.

    "I should have killed you months ago, you deluded idiot," the 

ambassador said as a tremor shook the room, sending artifacts 

crashing to the floor. Turg moved forward, savoring his first 

taste of regicide. Aboshan started awake, self-preservation 

overriding his blindness at the display of treachery and 

insolence.

    "Guards!" cried the emperor. Perhaps the palace was dying, 

but it struggled to obey its master's voice. The hatch above 

broke and water roared into the upper chamber, forming a cataract 

down the stairs.

    The long whips of the giant squid curled around the shelves 

below as it pulled itself down the stairs. It rushed to protect 

its emperor. Wooden planks bucked off their frames as the body 

slammed into the piled treasures. The hole leading down to the 

next room plugged up, and the water level began to rise. A few 

mermen slid down the stairs on their bellies, thrashing around in 

the water. However, unlike Laquatus and Aboshan, they were unable 

to form legs. They ducked their heads into the water, trying to 

breathe. The soldiers sent arc after arc of lightning flying 

toward the ambassador.

    The noble retreated, an image of charred flesh left behind in 

his place. However, the palace guard knew his reputation, and 

spears of power smashed through the illusion, searching for him. 

Seeing their bloodthirstiness and indiscriminate attacks, 

Laquatus sent his image racing among the guards. It ran as if 

insanely desperate to flee. Spears and gouts of power from the 

guards devoured their own ranks as the elite tried to kill the 

traitor.

    Where is my champion? the ambassador wondered as he sent a 

snake of lightening writhing among the prone guards.

    Turg fled before the giant squid. The long whips pulled down 

shelves as the cephalopod pulled itself after the frog. His 

camouflage failed him. The slab of skin pulled off by the guard's 

tentacle showed clearly, despite the amphibian's attempts to 

hide. The jack tried to cast a spell of blindness, but Laquatus 

was too involved to send much power through the link. Timber and 

a variety of maces fell on the amphibian as the squid pulled a 

rack of treasures down on him.

    In desperation, Laquatus tried to feed on the palace's 

remaining magic. The spell gained him little power. Turg, in 

turn, siphoned most of it through the pair's link. He needed 

every scrap as he fought to survive in his battle against the 

deadly guard. The ambassador felt spells failing as he sent a 

weak blast against the guards. The water was waist deep, and he 

thought of returning to his swimming form. A converging series of 

blasts sent him scrambling up a set of shelves, his hands 

bleeding as he gripped the tangled metal of a recovered artifact. 

A ground shock shook many of the items to the water below, some 

of the frames splashing as they collapsed as well.

    "You are destroying your kingdom!" Laquatus shouted to 

Aboshan. The ruler rocked in glee as he continued to call for the 

land's destruction. The mer warriors attacked the apparent source 

of the ambassador's voice. The two guards electrocuted each 

other, as the noble tricked them yet again.

    "Nothing is beyond our grasp," the emperor called, and 

another surge of magical force assailed the mainland. The ruler 

appeared oblivious to the ongoing destruction around him, lost in 

his vision of what his attacks accomplished.

    "Your are destroying your palace!" Laquatus bellowed, then 

staggered. A psychic wound cut through his mind and mastery of 

magic.

    Turg was caught in the squid's tentacles. His frame shud' 

dered as the monster's beak bit into his flesh. The cephalo-pod's 

short arms writhed, working at the prey in its grasp. The 

amphibian's flesh tore, and the ambassador fell, his teeth 

clenched. He felt through the link the champion's muscles and 

tendons tearing. The frog writhed in agony, energy flaring as the 

beak tore at its waist. Laquatus reeled as the legs separated, 

and the blood vacuumed from the frog's brain.

    A final surge leaped through the link. With only one hand 

showing beyond the tentacles, a long lash of power whipped from 

the jack and burrowed into the huge eye. Fluid spurted as the 

organ collapsed, the body shivering briefly as the charge raced 

up the optic nerve. It destroyed the brain and took Turg's killer 

with him into death. Laquatus collapsed, and only the remaining 

guard's fear of yet another trap prevented them from killing him.

    Aboshan wailed, and the ambassador wondered dumbly if his 

pain somehow carried to his sovereign. The guards closed around 

the ruler, trying to intercept the attack that made him cry out.

    "My palace! My city!" the monarch bellowed, his eyes wide as 

the side effects of his spell finally became known to him. 

Another ground shock hit, this one finally tearing free the 

blockage to the levels below. With a stuttering roar a whirlpool 

formed, dragging debris into the lower rooms. Turg and his killer 

slowly slid from sight as Laquatus gripped the shelving he 

fetched up against. The guards' flukes beat as they held the 

emperor against the current.

    "This is your fault," Aboshan cried out, searching for 

someone to blame. "None of this would have happened without your 

treachery."

    Laquatus ignored the lie, staying still as he tried to 

marshal his strength. Perhaps he could still escape. His body 

ached to transform to its tailed state, but any magic or movement 

might bring the guards down on him. The warriors stayed clustered 

around the sovereign. Another pulse of power fed into the 

emperor's spell despite Aboshan's efforts to stop it. Laquatus 

remembered Kirtar and doubted the ruler would survive his 

ambassador by more than a few minutes. A fresh wave of guards 

flowed down the staircase, the cephalids holding tridents. The 

aristocrat readied himself to meet his death but was unexpectedly 

reprieved.

    The guards retreated from the upper room in defeat. A giant 

newt moved to the head of the stairs. It was the size of a 

crocodile, but it showed no teeth. Its dark red flesh was covered 

with weeping sores. Its skin extruded a thick gel, especially on 

its hindquarters. The animal turned and whipped its tail, 

launching gobs of the muck at the retreating soldiers. They tried 

to dive beneath the water, but its level had fallen. A merman was 

hit on the back, and his skin blackened. It began to slough off. 

The creature leaped into the air and landed on another warrior. 

The others rushed away and threw darts that thudded into the 

animal's flesh with little effect. The corruption dissolved into 

the water, and despite the superiority of gills, the ambassador 

vowed to breathe air for as long as possible.

    The supply of water running down the stairs diminished, 

though now air began to bubble at the hole leading down to the 

next floor. The ground shocks must have opened other leaks. Soon 

more palace soldiers would be able to enter the treasure rooms.

    A figure leaped down the stairs, sending a wave of water up 

as she skidded into the pool. It was Fulla, and she grinned like 

a madwoman. Her sword swept aside a merman's trident strike, and 

her return cut laid a tentacle open. Laquatus could see the slash 

turning dark as infection deepened the wound in seconds. The 

soldier thrashed in the water and stopped as the toxins reached 

his heart. A soldier managed to summon a school of poisonous 

jellyfish, forcing the dementia caster to jump out of the water 

to high shelves. She crawled along the flame work as magic 

strikes darkened the wood around her. The guards closed as she 

neared the emperor.

    Aboshan was gasping, his body slowly transforming back and 

forth between free-swimmer and land-walker. His eyes pleaded for 

help, but he lay draped over a pile of rubble, unable to move.

    Laquatus slowly moved to greater cover, the guards too busy 

dealing with the Cabal fighter to waste time on him.

    Fulla splashed behind some fallen shelving, her sword ready, 

but it was her mind that attacked, calling up magic to slay her 

enemies. Gigantic black cranes stepped into existence. The birds' 

heads ducked to avoid the ceiling as they stalked from the 

dementia caster's mind. Their scummy plumage drifted to the water 

as they surrounded their mistress and waded out to the soldiers. 

Their long bills speared down to lift cephalids from the water 

avoiding the tridents with ease. The tentacles tried to pull the 

fighters free of the bills. Blood poured from their transfixed 

torsos as they struggled to escape. One bird was somewhat small 

and could not lift its target free of the water. Instead, the 

fowl stabbed multiple times, churning the water into a bloody 

froth.

    Blood gushed from the wounds, and those able to escape the 

birds' vicious stabbing after only a single blow did not last 

long. Their eyes and noses began to leak blood as the cranes' 

magic destroyed their ability to heal or prevent the rupture of 

delicate membranes. Blinded warriors spread panic as the birds 

played with their victims, pricking limbs and watching the 

warriors quickly bleed out from minor wounds.

    A merman panicked and attempted to flee. His tail beating 

wildly, he rushed the stairs and leaped like a salmon toward the 

next room. He smacked into loops of rotting vine. The plant 

filled the hole, choking off the last of the water flowing down 

to the steps. The warrior tried to pull free but could not move 

as more vegetation covered him. A crane Flapped its wings and 

jumped to the top of the stairs. There it plunged its beak into 

the warrior's heart.

    "Fulla, I am over here!" Laquatus cried, cursing his bad 

luck. A crane was headed his way, and he was within seconds of 

being punctured. The Cabal commander dismissed her birds back 

from whence they came.

    "Why, ambassador, did you have anything to do with this 

party?" Fulla asked sweetly, turning him over with the point of 

her sword. "I and my people were left out in the cold while you 

had all the fun for yourself," she gently chided him.

    "I do not see Turg, my favorite playmate," she said looking 

at the destruction of all her work. Artifacts once more were 

immersed, and some of the tags identifying pieces were already 

dissolving the water. "I had to kill my way through the guards to 

find the person who called for this outing." She walked to the 

emperor, stepping around the dead and other remnants of the 

fight.

    Aboshan could only blink, being too exhausted to move as the 

orb drained the last of his magic and his life.

    "As it appears that you no longer need my services I will 

take my leave of you," she said in an arch tone. "While the 

going-away party was amusing, it was unexpectedly early. I think 

it only fair that I receive severance pay." She reached down and 

carefully swept the orb from the emperor's hand.

 

                       CHAPTER 25

 

    Kamahl wondered if he should move down the coast. He had 

become a successful fighter though still not accepted by the 

arena staff. He was popular with the crowd, but his string of 

victories had become predictable. The lim-ited pool of opponents 

was drained of any challenge after the second week. Seeing the 

same faces day in and out was one of the reasons he left the 

mountains.

    But he would stay a little longer. One possible lead might 

yet yield fruit. Girter, one of the young men he was friendly 

with, knew of secret shipments between the empire and the 

fighting pits. A servant of the Cabal had come to Borben to 

discuss the gladiatorial companies that toured the continent.

    The chandler's son told Kamahl that the official had ties to 

the empire. He definitely dealt with the shipment of precious 

cargo to and from the mer. The barbarian left word at the 

traveler's inn that he wished to talk with the go-between. A 

substantial portion of his winnings over the past weeks was 

included to convince the man to come.

    He stepped outside the hillside tavern to look down to the 

town. Instead of staying near the arena, the official had taken 

dockside accommodations. The need to conduct business down by the 

water belied the official explanation for the man's journey. 

Perhaps he might learn something to direct his quest.

    The fishing fleet straggled back in, the docks beginning to 

bustle. Wagons hauled the catch away as a few freight wagons 

waited on the pier. The lighter ferrying cargo and special items 

to the ships was out in the bay. There were ships waiting at the 

anchorage that had been there for quite some time. Perhaps the 

goods were particularly important to the empire. He needed to get 

on board. Perhaps one of the fishermen's brothers could take him 

out.

    Kamahl felt reality pause, and a great noise filled the 

world. He dropped as a pulsing headache ripped through his head. 

Rage and bile seemed to wash him away, and he drew a knife to 

defend himself from attack. A spell of enormous power and damage 

was being worked, the disturbance seeming to fill the sky. Birds 

and farm animals yowled as the barbarian lost himself in the 

discordant chorus.

    How long he leaned against the building he did not know. A 

pitcher of beer in his face broke his fascination with the 

magical noise. He thanked the barmaid clearing the obstruction 

from the inn door. Kamahl shook himself and walked farther away 

from the building. He had never felt a spell of such strength. 

His prize must be close by, but there was no sign of anything 

strange. The town looked perfectly calm as the fisherman and 

wagon drivers went about their business. Then something dragged 

the barbarian's eyes back to the sea.

    The boats along the pier lowered as water flowed out of the 

inlet. The bay continued to drop, and soon boats were hung up. 

The catch of fish fell to the exposed mud below.

    Interested, people went toward the bay to see the unusual 

event. Here and there a few figures started running as hard as 

they could for the hills. More and more people fled, and he 

wondered why. A flicker of movement brought his eyes to the 

horizon. Something was coming toward all points of the coast. The 

line grew to a wave striking the beaches far in the distance. He 

realized the size of the disaster as he saw tall trees stripped 

away. He looked directly to the sea, the hilly peninsula 

shielding him from the closest view. A roar smothered screams as 

a wall of water carried over the hills and fell down the slope 

toward the town. Now everyone in sight ran for higher ground.

    The hatred and spite of the spell were nauseating as Kamahl 

started higher into the hills, not knowing how high the water 

might carry. The sound of smashing houses and shops tore the day 

apart. The barbarian wondered if anyone would survive the 

disaster. He stumbled as a new note of magic, just as strong as 

the first, stung his senses. The orb's magic was what drove the 

wave he guessed, but the bitter emotions drained away as the wave 

sped toward him. The magic was changed, and Kamahl knew the orb 

no longer belonged to the sea. Then a blast of air pushed him 

over, and the water came down.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Laquatus saw the orb lose its beauty, the blue ocean fading 

away until only gleaming metal remained. The imperial bastard, 

Aboshan, had cost him everything. The orb still radiated 

tremendous power as he looked at it, but it no longer resonated 

with his soul. His spirits sank lower as he realized he might be 

trapped here with Fulla. Who knew what insane spell she would 

cast now that she held the orb in her hands?

    The dementia caster held the orb absently as she kicked 

through the destruction, sending water high into the air. Another 

aftershock threw her off her feet, and Laquatus slowly sat up, 

hoping she would lose her grip on the orb. Instead she surfaced 

from the water spitting a stream of the filthy liquid into the 

air.

    I need a spell to distract her while she played likes a 

lunatic, he thought. If he could just capture the orb maybe he 

could recall its glory. But he could not grip any magic with his 

mind. The wound inflicted by Turg's death was crippling. The 

gaping hole of his bond allowed his magic to flow uncontrolled. 

If he were more prepared, he might have avoided it, but for now 

his spells pushed power to one no longer alive. An infinite void 

swallowed his effort, and he could not force the mental focus to 

end the drain.

    Fulla seated herself on the stairs, bored with her horseplay. 

She looked at the guard enveloped by her predatory plant. She 

began to throw debris at him. Laquatus stood up and started 

toward her. The body of his former sovereign floated past, and he 

shoved it aside, ignoring it like a forgotten toy. The room 

plunged into darkness as the palace light system failed. The 

merman tried to coax forth light, but the Cabal member called up 

a luminescent mold that coated the walls.

    Fulla glance absently at the orb but turned to the rising 

water. The air was becoming stuffy. She tucked the powerful item 

under her legs and looked at the ambassador. He hid his disbelief 

at her dismissive attitude toward the orb.

    Laquatus decided that her resistance to its attractions was 

related to her resilience to his own magical attacks on her mind. 

Dementia casters simply lived in a different world. Their 

perceptions of reality were so strange that perhaps the orb 

appeared mundane. Maybe it replicated some other effect they 

experienced often. Regardless, she showed little interest, and 

perhaps he could procure the sphere from her at a later date.

    "We must escape," he told her, sitting down close to her but 

out of sword's reach. "This air bubble will disperse sooner or 

later. Unless you wish to die, you must flee to the surface."

    "Why not swim away, little fish?" she asked, kicking the orb 

back and forth between her feet. "It is a big pond, and you are 

old enough to be on your own."

    Laquatus curbed his first answer.

    There was every chance some of the guards survived to report 

his treachery. At this very moment, his name might be added to 

the execution warrants that he signed this morning. The blanks 

concealed in his office with the emperor's seal already imprinted 

seemed a very bad idea now. The orb might be the only thing 

rescued from this debacle. If only he had brought his poison 

rings.

    "You saved me, and I owe you a debt I can never repay," he 

said, curbing his nausea at the sentiment. "Perhaps working 

together we can reach the surface." If she would just help him 

clear the way, she could drown. A corpse had no possessions.

    Another shock collapsed the stairs, and they fell into the 

water. The ambassador saw that she swam with difficulty though 

she still managed to find the orb. She struggled to one of the 

few shelves still standing.

    Next time she is in the water I'll pull her under, Laqua-tus 

promised himself.

 

                        * * * * *

 

    Fulla looked down at the merman who stood smiling like a 

shark. The bodies, the threat of death, and the danger of 

betrayal was comforting-just like home. If she returned to the 

Cabal it would be a disaster. Her mission to the sea had failed. 

Despite her manic outer denial, she could feel depression 

threatening to crush her. Returning as a failure was not an 

option.

    But perhaps she could return to the arena instead of being 

bundled off to distant postings. She weighed the orb in her hand. 

She found it mildly interesting, but others seemed to covet it 

beyond all reason. Even now the ambassador waited for his chance 

to steal it. Only the chance that he might become interesting 

kept him alive.

    It was dark and cold in the vault. Her ears started to hurt 

as the last remnants of the air supply spell failed. It was time 

to go home. Home, where a person could find a decent graveyard 

and strangers could disappear without awkward questions.

    Laquatus meant nothing to her. She needed no aid to escape 

from something as simple as a collapsing underwater building. The 

plant still held a pocket of air though the earthquake might rip 

it free any moment. She concentrated, calling into being a mount 

she had studied for a long time.

    The travel fish faded into being. Its flesh was transparent, 

and the dementia caster could see the bones and organs pulsing 

inside its monstrous body. It flopped and wallowed in the shallow 

water, the wave it created reinforcing its gigantic size. She 

watched the ambassador jump for safety as the fish smashed 

whatever was in its way.

    "Be still," she commanded, and it was. Laquatus was talking, 

but she ignored the words lost in her new creation. She stood 

before a blind eye, the monster unable to see except through her. 

The pressure was increasing, and she knew that the chamber must 

be moments away from catastrophic failure.

    The fish turned, and its mouth gaped open, the toothless jaws 

stretching wide, inviting her in. She laughed, waved to the 

merman, and leaped into the monster's throat. She slid down the 

tube to the stomach still able to see the outside. It reminded 

her of her childhood, and she wished she could go again but time 

was running out. She knelt in the monster's belly, the chamber 

draining of the water that accompanied her on her entrance. The 

travel fish transported its passengers inside, and the room 

expanded as she stood up, her gigantic steed responding to her 

will.

    She could see Laquatus hurling himself into the fish. She 

wondered if the monster should gulp him down in pieces, for the 

jaws were strong enough to shatter bone. No time for such rough 

horseplay she decided and turned her attention to the outside.

    Fulla dispelled her plant, the rotting vines vanishing.

    The cork holding the air pocket down ruptured. The corpses 

caught in its grip floated free as the travel fish wriggled 

through the hole to the first room and the trap door. The chamber 

was full of debris, but the fish blindly searched the murky water 

and surged out of the bedrock.

    The palace gaped open above them, a direct path to the ocean 

torn through the structure. The travel fish surged up, its motion 

jostling the dementia caster against the ambassador. She half-

drew her sword, hating his touch.

    "Wait, good caster," Laquatus cried, throwing himself back 

against the stomach wall. "Remember our agreement on shipping 

treasures back to the Cabal. I can still be of use."

    The travel fish shot out of the palace. Huge rents in the sea 

floor sent gas bubbling to the surface. There were few signs of 

other survivors. The Cabal operative imagined them swimming far 

away. The empire was decimated, and the noble who had overseen 

its fate sat beside her. She laughed and loosed the ball the 

fascinated Laquatus so.

    Fulla looked at the sphere as the fish swam up through the 

depths. The orb called to her, entreating her to commune, telling 

her its name-Mirari-but she ignored it. Most of her attention 

went to directing her steed. The glassy fish swam away from the 

destruction and violence that even now reduced the mer capital. 

Fulla turned the beast to avoid the currents rising from the sea 

floor.

    The dementia caster regarded her stolen prize. The Mirari had 

turned from liquid metal as she rescued it from the dead 

emperor's grasp. A ball of dirt lay in her hands, the black soil 

reminding her of a grave. She believed the change inconsequential 

as her senses often misled her. Still, something lay beneath the 

surface, and part of her ached to raise it up. Perhaps the orb 

really did promise power. She noticed Laquatus's trepidation as 

he regarded her in the dull light glowing from the fish's belly.

    Fulla chuckled and tossed the sphere into the air, laughing 

harder as the ambassador barely restrained himself from diving 

for it. She opened a pouch and dropped it in, closing the leather 

bag without hesitation.

    "It offers you what you want, not what you need," she crowed 

to Laquatus, thumping her purse. The call of the globe was lost 

and muted in the fractured horror of her mind, its visions 

overwhelmed by the dementia of her calling. Grim merriment filled 

the undead steed as she directed it to shore, leaving the corpse 

of a kingdom behind her.