Elijah leaned against the crude statue in the village green. Time and weather had done its work on the stone, its features pitted and scarred. The unknown founder’s face was unrecognizable, but it still stood its ground, keeping watch.

The old soldier ran a whetstone down the edge of his greataxe. Both edges had been grief-sharp for an hour, but he pushed the stone again and again. He stopped, and looked up into the battered face of the statue.

He could relate.

Across the dark green, the sounds of music and merrymaking spilled from the general store. The people of Jackson’s Grove had been saved by the skill and steel of the Ghosts of Gilead, his comrades. They had shaken off the terror of the unholy attack, buried their dead neighbors and immediately insisted on a party in the adventurer’s honor. Elijah was always surprised at how quickly people could forget the shadows of death, and thrust their heads into the first cake or ale tankard they could find. But he had seen it many times — his brother had lead them to many victories large and small, and here in this tiny town of Jackson’s Grove in the middle of nowhere the same old song. Drunken celebration, life over death.

His brother. Simon. Not a birth-sibling, but a brother in arms. He was always first at the bottle, a fistful of cake and his other hand down a wench’s bodice. Laughing and singing, his weapons and cares propped against the bar and forgotten. His other comrades were just as bad.

No blood-family since the Fall. These slap-dash fighters are the only kin I have left. Swords of Faith preserve me!

So it fell to Elijah to keep watch. No one asked, and no one noticed — except for the times that he gave the warning shout. The dozen-dozen times. His back to the light, sharpening his axe in the darkness.

Tomorrow morning he’d be the first to rise, as they snored the drink away. Running his hands over the faded map, planning their route — preparing for the dangers to come. Someone had to, he wouldn’t fail this little legion, now that everything else had fallen to dust.

The stone hissed down his axe-blade. Elijah wiped a bead of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

His ears pricked at a whisper of sound, and he bent low pulling the greataxe into both hands. He scanned the darkened houses ,one by one. The sound had come from the roof of the general store, Elijah shielded his eyes from the light and saw a slim figure slipping down the side of the roof.

It was his brother, Simon.

Not like him to miss a party. Where is he going?

Something in Simon’s face kept Elijah from calling out. The way he pressed himself into the shadows and headed north — clearly not wanting to be followed.

It was probably to meet some farmer’s daughter — or to console a young widow. But Elijah was his brother’s keeper.

And barely six hours ago they had crossed swords with devils, imps, and horrors from the Blight. The old soldier grimaced, and followed his brother into the night.

---

Elijah followed at a distance. He was a large man, and no footpad — but the night was moonless, and his brother seemed totally focused on his destination.

A plain wood building. The Church of Linneus. Elijah felt his blood go cold. Linneus was the god of farmers, of shepherds, of the plow. But the church was empty — it’s priest had been the one that brought the devils down on his home. A filthy pact for pleasure of the flesh , Elijah had been sickened to hear. He had prayed to his own Nameless God for the grace to forgive the priest — but it had been futile. His god had been silent, and his own heart had been black and wrathful.

The priest of Linneus had forsaken his holy duty – no punishment was stern enough for that. The pain of Hell was the least that he deserved.

Why was his brother slipping into the church? Light came from within, his brother had lit a torch. Elijah hastened to the doorway and looked within. His eyes widened in shock.

Simon’s back was to the door, and the torch was jammed into the book holder at the end of the pew. Leaning casually against the altar was a devil made of paper. Thousands of pages, wrapped and folded into a feminine shape with corkscrew horns — the writing of every land covered the paper. A contract devil!

“Say what you want, Simon of Gilead — my ink is ready and time is short.” the devil purred. “Your friends nearly destroyed me today — I delight in the delicious irony of this moment.”

“This only involves you and me.” Simon said. “You leave my friends out of this, or this conversation is over.”

Simon, you idiot. Elijah looked for another entrance into the church, where he could surprise the devil. The windows were too small and high, and he stood at the only door.

“I need a way into Gilead.” Simon was saying.

“Homesick, are we?” the paper devil laughed.

His brother turned his back to the devil, covering his eyes with his hand. Something that he did when greatly angered. “Can you do it?” Simon said fiercely.

“Of course I can – anything you want, son of Gilead. It’s as easy as signing your name — some loops, some lines, and the path opens.” the paper devil cooed.

Simon’s hand slid slowly down his face, his eyes to the ceiling as he thought.

Only Elijah saw the truth of the devil’s words. The paper coiling itself in her hands, forming a whip – barbed and jagged. Her arm raising to strike, the paper-whip silent in the air.

The old soldier shouted a battle cry, and flung the church doors open. “Gilead!”

He shouldered his brother roughly out of the way, and caught the whip in his hand. It coiled around his thick forearm like a serpent, the barbs digging into his flesh. They were paper maggots biting tearing. Elijah felt poison course through his veins and his heart staggered. The devil hissed in frustration and tugged on the whip, pulling it back.

Elijah forced his hand to grip the whip despite the pain. He pulled grimly on the whip, his eyes locked on the devil. The paper-whip was a part of the creature, and she could not let go.

“By the Swords of Faith, by the Temple of Iron Nails.” He prayed, and his god answered.

His greataxe felt weightless in his hand, and began to burn with a pure white light. Elijah smiled, a rare thing.

The devil hissed and fought, but the old soldier’s time was upon him. He was his brother’s keeper, and his strength would not fail. He stood, as he always did.

And he pulled. His vision narrowed as the devil drew closer, screaming in rage. He saw Simon leap onto the devil’s back, his arms locked around her paper throat — but it was on the edge of his sight.

The evil thing came close, and Elijah’s axe fell.

The paper burned in holy fire, leaving nothing but ash. The devil’s scream hung in the church, burning contracts falling around Elijah.

He sank to his knees, his heart beat slower.

Simon grabbed him by the front of his armor, and was saying something his eyes wide with concern. But no sound came out, his mouth moved and Elijah heard nothing.

The old soldier pulled himself to his feet, his brother helping him and continuing to talk silence. He couldn’t find his axe, but he knew what was required. He brought his savaged arm and hand to his head.

“The Watch stands.” he said.

His brother let go with a stricken look, and forced himself to return the salute.

“The Watch is relieved.” Simon said. “Dismissed.”

Elijah couldn’t hear it, but his brother’s voice broke.

Darkness came, and Elijah went. He sharpened his axe and stood guard. There was light and music ahead, but he had work to do.

No one would catch his brothers unaware. Not while he was on duty.

Carbunkle uncomfortably shifts around in his magical prison. The bubble was barely big enough for the gnome to move around in. It seemed impervious to his every attempt at escape: he still smarted from the arcane energy ricochet he’d suffered before.

A new idea strikes him. Carbunkle glances around slyly as he prepares to shatter the bubble by summoning Lucina inside it: a plan too simple and amazing to fail, he assures himself. A glance at his fellow captive, Corben, dissuades the diminutive summoner. Corben had only just finished bandaging the gaping hole where the rogue’s ear once was, a wound courtesy of their host, Seafoam president Jaiden Moore. And HE was trying to be polite.

The airship Heartbreaker provides plenty to keep the unwilling guest busy and out of trouble, though, as it sails over the Kytheran cityscape. At close examination, the gnome discovers several significant differences between the Lodestar and its doppelganger. The Heartbreaker’s deck had been refinished almost completely in darkwood. And it looks mighty fine as a result. We should go back to Falcon’s Hollow, steal that darkwood, soon as we get a chance, the gnome muses. The Great Darkwood heist! heheh

The ship itself sounds… different to the gnome’s acute ears. The familiar hum of the Lodestar’s floatstone engine was lower pitched here, with an almost malevolent tenor. The wheelhouse was gone. How are they flying it without a wheelhouse? Carbunkle wonders. In its place stands a single metallic cage, twenty feet wide on a side, umbral energy seeping through the narrow cracks at the edges, the sides pulsing outward as if being pushed from the inside.

“I wonder what’s in there?” Carbunkle asks, to no one in particular.

“The Whirlwind,” answers a voice the gnome thought never to hear again. “That’s what Dayjen renamed Lady Lucina, once she was loose.”

Carbunkle had seen the profanation of his beloved Lady flying above the city before; to hear it named made his blood boil.

“What did he do to you?” Seething, he angles in his bubble to see the armored figure emerging from below decks. The helmet, removed, showed tightly chopped red hair of a familiar shade. Worry and sorrow had added lines around the eyes, but the face was unmistakably that of Bramble Tanner.

“It’s good to see you again, Carbunkle. It’s been… too long,” she says as she approaches, with something approaching a smile on her face.

“How long HAS it been?” Carbunkle nosily inquires. The armor she wore, ornate with the holy iconography of Sarenrae, showed years of wear.

“Ten years now, since the Riptide. Ten years trapped in the Red Wizard’s time cage.” The Heartbreaker begins to head towards the Tower of Words at the southern edge of the city.

“What happened?” Carbunkle suspects he knows the answer already; there were only so many ways his dear Lucina could have come untethered from him, and none of them pleasant.

“I can’t tell you,” she replies. “Dayjen would—- I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Trouble shared isn’t doubled, child; it’s halved,” Carbunkle says with a grandfatherly tone. “Now, Bramble—-”

“Don’t call me that,” the red-haired warrior snaps. The harshness in her voice fades to something more somber, matter-of-fact. “Dayjen decided to give me a new name, after he — after I — after you all died. He thought the new one was… funnier.”

A cackling disembodied laughter, coming from below decks, adds terrible weight to the comment. This version of Dayjen was clearly, irrevocably, insane. Carbunkle knew this sort of madness all-too-well; the wizard’s eyes had the glazed look of someone who had seen too much of the universe, and lost himself in the process.

“Now,” their old companion finished, “I’m Thorn.”

Talitha regales the attentive crew with the tale of her daring escape.

“I was all HWA HYAH! WEYAY! Just like you showed me to, Master Fin! I kicked my way through some boxes and stuff and I got out. And then I was sneaking along, all sneak-sneak-sneak-sneak, in the streets. You should have seen me, Corben! One time, this guard almost saw me. So I took the shadows as he walked past; he didn’t even know I was there! I coulda hit him on the head with a rock, Agnar, but I thought Haskeer might think it wasn’t fair. Besides, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself with my neat moves, so put my head down and kept moving. “

Agnar snickers, glancing at the paladin, “I’m sure the orc-blood would’ve forgiven you; that’s what he’s good for, cub.” He tousles the little girl’s hair, happy to see her again.

“Who’s she?” Talitha abruptly points at the Caleron princess who had joined the crew in her absence. Alice starts to answer when a sudden silence falls. The gentle tones of the wind and the singing buildings of Kythera go quiet — and a plainly audible voice can be heard resonating from the buildings, but seeming to appear directly in front of every listener, in a perfectly audible manner.

“Attention — this is Jaiden Moore, President of the Seafoam Trading Company.” Dayjen sours at the sound of his father’s voice. “All Seafoam personnel are hereby ordered to stand down and return to base – do not engage with any ‘guests’ you might encounter. This is an order of Zero-Zero priority, obey immediately.”

Fin raises a quizzical eyebrow to his comrades. The other were having the same thoughts. There’s the hook. Where’s the bait?

“Now, to our guests — wandering the streets of Kythera. I know you are seeking Talitha Brown — and clearly you are the best suited for finding her. I have captured your two… scouts… and am holding them captive.

You have until dawn to find the girl — if before the sun rises you find her and bring her to Harbinger’s Pier in the Inner City, no one will be harmed. We need Miss Brown to complete a simple task, then she and your entire crew can leave the city unmolested. I have grown weary of your involvement in my affairs, let us bring this to a peaceful end.

If you do not bring her by dawn — both of your friends will die. And there is nowhere on this globe that you can run and hide from me. Absolutely nowhere.

Good hunting, and I will see you shortly.”

The half-fiend Sideways smiles nonchalantly at the adventurers. “I’m heading back to Valeria. So what are you going to do?”

Back aboard the Lodestar, Martin grumbles, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood. “The smart thing to do would be leave ‘em.”

“We can’t leave Corben and Gloompa!” Talitha shrieks.

“I hate to say it, darlin’, but it’s true.” Looking back to the others for support, “We got the princess, we got the shield. Long as we do, we got the cards; we don’t have to play their game. We hightail it out of here, past that armada, put as much distance between us and Seafoam as we can. Go to ground, keep movin’, and keep our heads low. They’ll come lookin’, but as long as they’re lookin’, they don’t have time to open the Gate or Machine or whatever. World saved, we win. Yay.”

Martin sighs as he looks at the assembled adventurers. “That’d be the smart thing to do. But you bunch, you’re a lot of things. Smart ain’t one of them.”

“That’s right!” Talitha proclaims loudly, her arms crossed in a stance of resolution, a near-perfect imitation of Agnar.

“Want me to set course for the Inner City?” Martin asks sheepishly.

Under cover of night, the Lodestar lands at Harbinger’s Pier, a massive but simply constructed dock for small airships. The Lodestar fits perfectly into one of the bays, as it is were made for it.

Seafoam marines stand at alert on all sides, ready for trouble but their rifles slung. An older officer, balding and reeking of gunpowder, approaches and salutes Haskeer as he leads the way down the gangplank.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Wernau. Are you Captain Haskeer?”

“I am.” Haskeer returns the officer’s salute without correcting him. Fin follows closely behind the half-orc, with Jump and Silo in tow.

“I release these prisoners to your custody, Colonel,” Haskeer says

“Thank you, Captain, for their safe conduct. Now if you’ll follow me.”

The lights on the pier flicker briefly as they do.

Seafoam marines stand guard in full attention lining the hallways of the Arkanic keep, saluting Wernau as he escorts the Lodestar crew though a series of large gates leading deeper and deeper into the heart of the castle. Thick cables and conduits run from dozens of crudely carved openings in the walls and extend serpentlike into the keep: Seafoam’s gross additions to the elegant Kytheran architecture. Brief glimpses of side hallways and rooms tantalize the visitors with the Precursor artifacts Seafoam had uncovered here, their purposes obscure and unknowable.

Agnar grunts, unimpressed by the technical wonders before him.

The lights of the keep dim and darken randomly, then fight to come back on, as if drained.

“What’s with the lights?” Agnar asks as they proceed, after narrowly avoiding a collision with one large bundle of wires. Wernau doesn’t answer; he just leads on. Their guide approaches the inner bailey, where a beautiful door lies shattered, the final entryway leading to the Gate Chamber.

The sound of a beautiful song fills the chamber and greets the Lodestar crew.

I wish everyday the sun would shine
Take me to another place in my mind

Where everything is beautiful

And no wants or needs
Nor sign of greed
Could rule our soul

How I wish the sun would shine
How I wish the sun would shine

Colored orbs made of Arkanic stone float around the chamber in intricate, dizzying patterns, illuminating the walls and what lies within. The rim of the room bears a pictorial history of the long-lost Precursors. Their home covered with darkness — their flight — arriving on Aufero — building Kythera — then building the Machine. The Machine standing on their home world forcing the darkness to retreat.

If we could fly away on wings
To a place where all could be true

And the skies were blue
And love was true
And me and you

How I wish the sun would shine
How I wish the sun would shine

The song drives home the tragedy that followed. The Machine was made to take back the Precursors’ home, and the Gate to lead them back there. Instead the Machine destroyed them. And now, it waited, on the other side of the Gate, to be let loose again and finish the job it began millenia before. Unleashed, it would destroy the world.

In the center of the room stands an oval archway. The conduits and wires all lead to here. They have been crudely attached to the sides of the arch. Dozens of researchers and technicians buzz about frantically in fevered preparation, making hurried refinements and last minute corrections to the cast arrays scattered throught the room. Something was happening, and soon.

An Arkanic globe with a vast display sits near the entryway on a massive console spanning half the room— a larger scale version of what they’d salvaged from the Visitor’s Center, this device has been modified to display words in Common. Standing behind it, looming passively over the frenzied proceedings, is Jaiden Moore.

A nearby scientist, from a perch at the archway, shouts above the harmonic din. “We’re reading energy feed at 95%, Mister Moore. We’ve redirected nearly all the city’s Arkanic energy into the sonic probe. We’re ready, sir.”

“It’s time! It’s time!” the time-scarred Dayjen rants with delight, bouncing between the unspooled wires draped across the room. His mad eyes go wide at the sight of the newcomers.

“OH look sweetie! They came, they came— how lovely to see them again … in the flesh! Hheeeheeeeh!” The madman traces his hand along the inside of his robe as he laughs, almost erotically touching strange disks hidden there. When he does, Agnar, Corben, and Haskeer each in turn feel a wholly unnatural feeling, like a cold tendril wrap around their souls. Thorn shudders and looks away in shame, despite Agnar’s attempts to meet his dead mentor’s eyes.

Jaiden looks up from the console. “Ah, here you are. Now let us finish our transaction.” With a flick of his hand, Jaiden releases Corben and Carbunkle from their arcane cells. The pair stumble over to their companions’ side, Carbunkle enveloping Talitha in a warn hug the second he gets close enough.

“Well, you got us where you want us, fair and square, heh” the gnome says in a not-quite honest tone. “Now what?”

“Now, I get what I want. One way or another,” Jaiden replies confidently “The Gate has three seals. One on this side, two on the other. Each requires something different to open it.” With a cursory nod to Talitha, Jaiden continues,“The Blood of the Precursors opens the first. I see you have the Blue Shield; do you also have the Crimson Key?”

“No,” Agnar blurts out proudly, defiantly. All eyes turn to him. So much for that.

“Wait,” the Northlander clumsily recovers. “Yes?” Stumbling for the right lie, he finishes “Um, what key?”

“Then open the seals.”

“And if we don’t?” Fin asks with a tone of passive challenge.

“Then off with you, and have a good day. Meanwhile, we punch a whole straight through the three seals… and see what happens.”

Dayjen’s mirror cackles madly at the prospect, “Oh please, daddy. Let’s!”

The Seafoam president simply waits behind the massive console, his technicians standing at the ready. His proposition was clear: the adventurers could cooperate, or Jaiden would proceed to tear down the walls between the planes, and the consequences be damned.

The Lodestar had little choice.

At Jaiden’s command, the room clears.

Hand in hand Haskeer and Talitha approach the first seal. Talitha takes broad strides to keep up with her orcblooded champion, keeping her head high as she ventures into the unknown.

“Please ask the girl to place her hand on the seal.” Jaiden’s icy tone made it clear, this was no longer a request.

Haskeer gives Talitha’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Talitha bravely moves closer to the arch. She slowly reaches her fingers towards the stone, and at long last, touches the seal.

The arch begins to fill with a shimmering wall of white light. All the weapons and armor the heroes had gathered on this adventure, all the devices of Arkanic nature they have one them, begin to glow with the same.

“Shall we?” Haskeer asks the assembly.

“To adventure,” Corben gulps as the crew of the Lodestar cross through the first seal.

Walls of light and shadow dance around the crew as they make their way down the long cylindrical corridor.

“Spirits,” Alice whispers as they walk. “This is the spirit world.” Phantasmal faces, peaceful yet determined, surround them. The Precursors were watching.

As they approach the end of the hallway, two sets of massive wings unfurl, as if to embrace the visitors, or envelop them. In unison, sharp beaks rise: twin gryphons, one blue, one crimson. Their eyes glow appraisingly, staring through the new arrivals. Constructs like the stone eagles that protected Kythera, but more. These were the Guardians, the Gatekeepers. The last hope of the Precursors. All that stood between Aufero and the great and terrible Machine that waited on the other side.

Again as one, the gryphons move, this time extending their lion paws out, palms upwards revealing carved indentations, the blue shaped like a shield, the red like a key.

Haskeer approaches, and with no little reluctance, places his Blue Shield in the blue gryphon’s palm. It slides into place, and the paw closes around it, bowing its head once more, relieved of its ancient duty at last.

The red gryphon remains motionless, its paw extended expectantly.

The Key , the assembled heroes hear the worlds not with their ears, but in their heads. Where is it?

Haskeer clears his throat and replies, “Gone. Where none may ever find it.”

Then why have you come? the Gatekeeper asks again. Its voice was ancient, a deep bass that seemed to shake the room.

“To close the Gate forever,” the paladin answers, standing at the fore of the group. They didn’t know what sort of reaction to expect from the Gatekeeper. As ever, he would do what he could to shield them from the worst.

All of my master’s people gave their lives, their souls to build this prison. The Machine must never return. The Guardian’s voice grows louder in their minds. To close the Gate forever, you must destroy it.

“Destruction is our specialty,” Agnar brags. “How?”

The Gatekeeper begins to sing. The lyrics burn in the adventurers’ minds: painful but perfectly intelligible. The words, ancient and unknown to living men, had power.

Let all the world hear this song , the gryphon instructs.

“When we get back to the other side, little cub,” Agnar kneels down to Talitha’s eye level, “you sing.”

“We have to get there first,” the ever-quiet Fin pipes up from the back. The knuckles on his one good hand crack as he makes a fist and considers which of the new arrivals to attack.

The Loricatus. The Shadows, larger and stronger than ever, so near the entrance to their home.

The red gryphon’s voice booms. The Machine stirs — it hears the Song of its End.

“Make her stop make her stop make her stop MAKE HER STOP!” screams the shadow Dayjen, covering his ears in a blind panic.

It was too late, though.

The chamber on the other side of the gate resonates with Talitha’s sweet voice as she sings the Guardian’s song. The volume increases diametrically. But not just there. From building to building, the tune carries, and in an instant, Talitha’s voice can be heard from one side of the city to the other.

The floating colored orbs fall like the stones they are. Deep fissures form in the ceiling, in the floor, spreading out from where Talitha stands. Simultaneously, above and below and as far as the city limits, the seamless Arkanic architecture shatters with a noise like a million falling chimes.

Chaos spreads throughout the room in an instant. Sparks go flying, readings spiralling madly. “What have you done?!?” Jaiden hisses as realization dawns. The control console shatters, along with his dreams of ultimate power. He points an icy finger. Fell energy begins to swirl around the blighted appendage, gathering. “Damn y—!”

Before he can finish his curse, Jaiden Moore disappears from sight in a burst of steam, Alice unleashing a volcanic fury that swallows him whole.

“Well done!” Haskeer cheers. Alice returns his smile, but throws a look to Corben. The rogue is too busy to notice, though, as he assails Jaiden’s favorite son with attack after attack, careful not to hurt Thorn if he can avoid it.

“Any time now, gnome!” Agnar barks as a piece of stone bounces heavily off his thick head.

As his next spell begins to envelop the crew, Carbunkle sends Lucina into the growing conflagration. The blue-winged beast dodges sections of the ceiling as they fall, and in a dive snatches Thorn in her grasp.

“Don’t think we forgot you there, sweet cheeks!” the gnome laughs.

Thorn’s mad master screams, his bellows turning monstrous as massive wings erupt from his back, his jaw fills with teeth, and sharp scales spread over his expanding flesh.

“I can’t do that,” Dayjen says almost glumly as his dark duplicate transforms into a dragon, towering over the tightly-huddled heroes.

The chamber threatening to swallow them with their host, the Lodestar crew wisely teleports away. The roar of the dragon seems to follow them back to the ship.

Fiery debris falls like celestial tears, tearing holes in the wall of Seafoam’s armada. The Lodestar squeezes through, dodging airships as they explode and fall with Kythera. The last Arkanic city crumbles as the Lodestar zooms away.

Almost oblivious to the chaos raining down outside, Talitha runs through the cargo bay singing, hand in hand with her reluctant new companion, Sinoe. Talitha had exulted on discovering her near-twin onboard, and insisted on the spot that she and Sinoe were sisters. The construct argued by relented under the princess’ glare.

Talitha skips to the beat of the simple tune and spins around a rail and dances around the engine’s console.

I wish everyday the sun would shine
Take me to another place in my mind

Where everything is beautiful

And no wants or needs
Nor sign of greed
Could rule our soul

How I wish the sun would shine
How I wish the sun would shine

She passes right by a narrow alcove, in between two bays. She doesn’t notice anything hanging in the shadows — only crinkles her nose absently at the foul, acidic scent.

A lump of bone and dissolving flesh hangs there, that had once been … many things. A squire, a traveler, a hero, a monster, a murderer, an uncle, a terror, a friend. A knot at the center of him is all that remained — holding out against the decay, the rot. The knot hears the song, and finally begins to unwind.

But, he does not die. The shadow poison falls away, washed clean by a little girl’s song.
With the poison gone, his flesh remembers and returns. Green sparks sizzle and pop.

Izus rises from the tatters of fabric and twine.He pats his chest experimentally, and looks around for a moment. He snaps his fingers, and a brown cloak jumps to attention. It wriggles down the hallway, the steps and across the cargo bay, and into the little alcove where the villain had lay dying. It folds itself neatly over his arm, and Izus tosses it over his shoulders, fastening the clasp without a thought.

He could still hear the girl’s song.

If we could fly away on wings
To a place where all could be true

And the skies were blue
And love was true
And me and you

How I wish the sun would shine
How I wish the sun would shine

“Goodbye.” he says, and steps through the world and is gone.

Elsewhere…

…sits a green skeleton on a throne of bone, watching the airship ride into sunrise on an ornate bronze monitor. At an angle, it almost looks like the fleshless creature is smiling. The effect is sinister.

“We ride, my precious minions!” Inhuman shouts make up a deafening chorus in reply.

“But first, a toast,” he raises his crystal goblet. “To the Lodestar!”

Mr. Quick

My birth was considered special by my family. They were gypsy slaves in the Underdeep, and I was a crooked, horned jack with a quickness no one had ever seen; I was even born early, which is why they named me Mr. Quick.

Blitz and Quick, Quick and Blitz. From the beginning we were made for each other.

I grew up fast. I learned the way of the Qui’xote, the broken wanderer, the gypsy slave. I learned, Qui’jol, our secret speak, Quo’jil, our secret dances, and Qu, our secret death rite. The death rite was an honor to the family. We had no control of our birth or our life, but we had the choice to die the way we wanted and how you died was the most important choice you had.

Or how you fight, how you love, how you live, and how you kill…

When you have this philosophy, you tend to live as big as you planned to die. When you’re a slave, you have to grab your moments and hold on. We were slaves to the dark elves of Zhexar’ben. We cleaned their homes, cooked their food, and fought their battles. Again, I was special. I was an enigma; a demon-blood. My folk revered me and the deep elves found me intriguing. I could speak to their mages’ demons. I could give the young elf maids a night of passion. I could go toe-to-toe with any fool with two fists. I thought this path would give me the good death and my family great honor.

Unfortunately, I survived.

And I’m glad you did. From your first touch, I knew I had a purpose.

Our Mother foresaw my path splitting away from the Family. A young Zhexar’benian daughter came to buy me for her pleasure. When we became bored of each other, she sent me to the arena for her sport.

How fickle women are. You were better suited for one such as I, no?

My family gave me the death rite and I was taken to fight. For weeks I battled, searching for the blade or hammer that would bring me down. I found no opponent that could carry that weapon.

The best weapon for ourselves is often the one we ourselves carry.

I didn’t make it to the championship. The great dark city was attacked by another deep enemy; the Yhoca’ Tai, the floating eyes. In the chaos and confusion, I brought one of the eye tyrants down and looted his personal cargo. This is where I found my first friend – you.

How fickle the beholders are. I was better suited as a weapon in your hand than as a trinket for a ball that flies.

You told me your name was Blitz and you would stay by side and help me find the good death. You swore you would take the news of my passing to my family and give them the echo of my death roar, the final end of the death rite. So I taught you the Qui’jol d’ort Mai’dai, the dead horse dance, and you guide me to my end. You are a true friend.

Forever and always, my love.

And now we’ve found ourselves in the greatest group of death riders that ever there was. My own personal crusade towards my end. To save the world we must face all the dangers in an already dangerous world.

They are all part of the plan.

It’s like you’ve already made good on your promise. The only problem is, these guys work very hard at keeping me alive for some reason.

You are impatient, as always, Mr. Quick. But don’t you worry, your Qui’xote shall hear your scream of death and glory from wherever they are and they shall travel far to thank me for their honor.

“If we must die, may we do it well. And while we live, may we raise some hell.”

I killed him.

My quill almost snaps in my haste to write it down.

I turned into a mist, slipped under the door and stabbed him fourteen times with my claws. I cracked a nail on his sternum.

It was most troublesome.

He was a Nai-Elf — a mighty shaman of his tribe — come to meet with my employers. He plead his case most eloquently – the poison in the seas, the lowered birth rate of his tribe, the incalculable destruction of the natural world. The glowing tattoos in his blue skin, and the elaborate mirrored earrings and and bangles at his wrists and ankles made him savage and strange to the board — but it reminded me of home.

His breath stank of sardines and aged cheese. I hated to watch him wring his hands, so nervous and uncomfortable. My employers smiled, and laughed behind their hands at him — then nodded and said soft words. It made me angry to see this wise old elf disrespected. I rushed over as he stormed out, determined to salvage some measure of good will from the shaman – Mistress Karis’ derision and anger was a risk, but I couldn’t let him leave totally empty handed.

He was angry, but he heard me – the lines in his face softened. He thanked me for my concern, and placed both of his hands out in front of his face, in a Nai-Elf gesture of respect.

I saw his eyes casually look into the tiny mirrors at his wrist. Then widen, then dart to my face.

Shit.

I whispered the word, completely surprised. He realized that I didn’t have a reflection.

The shaman left , keeping his eyes on me as his hands reached for the door. He knew what I was — which meant his fate was sealed.

I felt regret looking down at his corpse — even as I fed on his strange blood. Just a taste, our of principle.

In short order, the body was discovered , and the captain — a good, decent man himself – put the ship on lockdown, seeking the murderer. My employers were annoyed by the inconvenience, completely untouched by the shaman’s death.

I had guarded my secret for too many years to let if fall now — my sire’s commands ring in my ears as loudly today as they did a hundred years ago.

I am the spawn of Zed – the Neclord himself, and I will not fail.

There is a commotion on deck — apparently a small ship has come alongside, a group of investigators perhaps?

I sit in front of the mirror, and imagine my face — a picture held in my mind. I make the picture smile kindly, I make the wrinkles fade.

A knock at the door – I leave to go make myself helpful.

The Journals of Enton Blake, 21st of Arrowspan – 1179

Trae tulian matre terette…

Trae tulian pra moor nai ma teh…

Mother of Wisdom, who draws the eye of the heedless…

Mother of Wisdom, whose candle burns fearless before the storm…

“Move out.” The barbarian’s gruff tone snaps me from my prayer. I open my eyes.
No need to be afraid, Alice. This what you wanted, isn’t it? A handsome boy to sweep you from your spacious quarters, take you out into the wild world in search of adventure.
Yes, indeed, this is what I wanted. But I thought the adventure would be a bit shinier, and I though the boy would be… I don’t know. Taller, I guess? It doesn’t matter. I will not crawl back to my grandfather’s throne just yet. I will not return to Caleron without a story to call my own.

I squeeze my heels against the chocobo’s midsection— gently, for fear that the wise-eyed bird will rare around and peck my face. It squawks in acknowledgement, and we are off. Splayed feet thunder through the visitor center’s halls and out into the Kytheran night.

Kythera is nothing like the cloven-stone grandeur of my uncle’s city. Anywhere you look in Caleron, you may see evidence of the toil and artistry that went into building that grumbly, old place— Pugnacious towers and hard angles, a city ripped from stone by the brilliant hands of artisans and the aching backs of laborers. Kythera, on the other hand, is as if Aufero itself had a passing fancy to create a city one morning before getting too involved with her breakfast. It is seamless, balanced, and effortless. A pure, easy expression of the Precursor’s harmonious will.

And, apparently, it isn’t even remotely safe. We find a building that the gnome marked “House of the Eagle” on our map. The array of spherical antennae on the top (and the name, of course) suggests it might have something to do with those big, stone eagles patrolling the city. We don’t get a chance to verify that, since the building is also filled to the rafters with a green gas that burns flesh like acid.

A pity. The eagles can sniff out magic use. Whether that applies to the power I draw from the Spirit, I do not know. And I won’t take the chance. The story I take back to Caleron won’t be one of a silly princess who put her companions in needless danger. Discretion and restraint are the watchwords of the powerful, my uncle used to say. Discretion and restraint.

The night stumbles on. We pad through the streets on our chocobos, flinching at shadows and the distant clatter of Seafoam patrols. Near the harbor’s edge, along the river’s eastern bank, the boys disappear into some underground tower for the span of a few minutes. Dayjen and I keep watch at the top of the stairs.

The young wizard grins blankly in the silence.

“So, Dayjen, I understand that—“

He loudly interjects. “Have you read any of the Brothers Beyond books? They’re about these two brothers who hunt demons.”

“Um, no, I haven’t,” I reply.

The boy nods, eager and serious. “You should. They’re—They’re pretty good. I think you’d like them. My sister—well, my friend’s sister, I don’t have a sister— she has this whole scrapbook where she collects artwork based on the books, and inscribes clever quotes from the main characters. She adds a few things to it, like, everyday.”

“Ah. Good.” I give him my best kind smile. Blessedly, the others reappear from the underground tower. They are more dour-faced and frustrated than usual. The dwarf chimes in his level tone, “Perhaps if we press all the buttons at once, then press them once again in alternating order, beginning with the second button…” The barbarian dismisses him with a grunt. These adventurers bicker like old church-wives.

Trae tulian, ner ma netre sempetre…

Mother of Wisdom, grant me patience unerring…

Corben swings a leg into his saddle with a degree of flourish that traverses the border into the theatrical. “Your highness,” he purrs at me, winking and doffing that ridiculous broad-brimmed hat he wears. I’ve told him not to call me that.

I watch as he settles stiffly into his saddle. Since I was old enough to flutter my eyes, I have spent much of my life at my uncle’s court. In that time, I have seen a seemingly endless parade of heroes, military officers, cavaliers… Men who wore stylish gallantry so easily, one could imagine they had popped from their mothers’ wombs bearing rakish smiles and perfect drink orders on their lips. Corben, well, he wears his like a fourteen-year-old boy wears his father’s best suit, hopping about on his tip-toes, hoping no one will notice the pants are three inches too long.

It is absolutely one of the most endearing things I’ve ever seen.

Purple thunder breaks across the sky, and the Heartbreaker is upon us. “Scatter!” someone shouts. Fin, Agnar, and Dayjen sprint northward into the safety of the night. I start toward the cover of a darkened alleyway to the east. Looking back, I see the heavily-armored paladin, struggling to his feet like a flipped turtle as lightning and fire rain down from the hands of a robed figure at the Heartbreaker’s rail. Corben darts bravely though the dreadful milieu, and, with some doing, gets his friend back to his mount. The half-orc forces a grin for me. Smoke drifts from his armor as we bolt into the night.

The Kytheran armory stands unassumingly in the darkness. As we approach, two great, bulbous machine-men whir to life, growling in Arkanic.

“What is… a weapon?” Dayjen says, stretching the limits of his newly learned Arkanic. “Yeah, I think they’re asking what a weapon is.”

“Try knowledge,” the barbarian offers. “Sounds like the kind of nonsense answer the Precursors would have liked.”

Dayjen draws the symbol for knowledge in the dirt. Fifteen seconds later, the adventurers and the machine-men are angrily knocking pieces off each other.

Corben slams away at one with a mace that makes a strange, keening sound on impact. As if responding to the mace’s song, the machine-man turns face the nimble rogue. Its chest slides open like a garden door, revealing a fiery, furnace glow within. A blinding flash lights up the night sky.

I blink repeatedly, forcing the phantoms from my vision. I see Corben crumpled on the other side of the courtyard, limp and smoldering.

I don’t recall running to him, but I am suddenly crouched at his side. He is broken and burned, his face is black and bloodied like meat brought too soon off a cooking fire. One leg bent at a manner in which knees are not intended to bend. His mouth hangs open, still and silent.

I place my hands on his fractured chest. The eagles can sod themselves.

Melectama, trae tulian!

Melectama te, trae tulian!

Te la lektema te…

It always feels like the first time. The white heat behind the eyes, the electric trill that makes the small hairs stand on end. The power that flows from and in and to.

Corben gasps sharply, and his chest rises under my hands.

I open my eyes in time to see the machine-men stagger and crumble under the dogged blows of the others adventurers. Corben’s eyes flutter open. He looks at me, and forces a wincing grin that might have been quite gallant, had it not been caked in blood.

He wheezes politely. “Your highness.”

I. TRUTH
“I knew everything. Everything.” Winter replied.

" I was the one who flew her to the ship that took her away — while you and the others fought and bled in the labyrinth."

“But, " the snow-haired mage looked at the druid with empty eyes, “that’s not the question you really want to ask.”

II. THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND
Agnar dries his rugged mane of blonde hair, freshly washed after a MUCH needed shower, while his new arcane companion unveils its encyclopedic knowledge.

“The land mass of Altus wasn’t discovered until well after the year 54 AV. The races of Aufero had mastered sea travel, and were eager to explore as much of the globe as possible. They found Altus to be almost impenetrable to sea access – massive rocky slopes, with shear sides, sharp as razors. The few expeditions that managed to penetrate the interior suffered tremendous losses, and brought back strange tales of volcanoes that spoke, rivers that sang, and roads that climbed into the clouds.” Wick’s shape shimmers as he tells this last to Agnar. “Few believed these tales, but the difficulty of travelling to the distant land mass, added to the lack of resources discovered, lead to the exploration of Altus being abandoned.”
-———————————————-
Valeria
“There wasn’t any gold! “ Bragg chuckles. “ If one half-mad sailor had tumbled back with a fistful of gems, or some silver bangles, you can bet the world would have found a way to shinny up those cliff sides.”
-———————————————
Caleron
The lantern archon drones on while Agnar gingerly rebraids his hair. “Airship travel was first developed circa 1006, and after the Flenelle Renaissance of 1019 hundreds of vessels of different designs and propulsion type filled the skies of Aufero. Despite the political turbulence of the past few centuries, a few brave explorers turned their sights to the Mysterious Continent. And never returned. It wasn’t until 1029 that a successful expedition returned. Led by Jaiden Moore. Born in the year 1010….”
-———————————————
Pice
“Seafoam was a mom and pop tugboat operation in those days. They had three scows that worked the harbor of Bard’s Gate, and a couple of ratty old hotels. Rent by the hour, if you know what I mean,” Tom of House Brighella winks across the table at Haskeer.

“Young Jaiden scraped up enough coin to get a an old airship up into the air, and across the sea. He was the talk of all Aufero when he came back unscathed. Toasted in every port and kingdom across the globe, he used the connections he made to slowly build trade agreements, and shipping covenants. Not to mention the rumors of the lost technology he discovered. I haven’t found any records of him showing off any discoveries, but it is a fact that Seafoam engineering soon outstripped almost any other airship firm, becoming the industry standard in a manner of years. Time passed, and soon Seafoam became the de facto governing body of the skies, and any ships that wander too close to Altus are turned aside by Seafoam cruisers and battleships. For their own ‘safety’, of course.”
-———————————————
Caleron
Wick continues. “Seafoam’s fascination with magical relics, and any sort of Precursor technology, has long led to many people theorizing that Altus is the lost Arkanic homeland.”
-———————————————
Pere Karavelle
“Kythera.” Cai said weakly, his frail form covered with a blue blanket. “The Precursor’s greatest city – their home. The man who finds Kythera is heir to all of their knowledge, all their secrets.” Corben helped the old man steady himself.

“I found a metal plate on the back of a strange mechanism in Carroway. It was covered with Arkanic script and a crude map of the globe. It took me a few months to decipher it — but imagine my surprise — it was an order form! For replacement parts, from the central depot in Kythera! The map showed a few symbols on the Altus landmap, but the largest was marked with the sigil for Kythera.”

III. DREAMS
A little girl lost in the wilderness, surrounded by evil men.

She has nowhere to run… but her friends have come to save her!

With a cackling laugh, the round-bellied grandfather comes flying over the skeletal trees riding on the back of his trusted winged blue… bear?!!

Out of nowhere, glowing plates smash into two of the evildoers, thrown by a unseen assailant!

A glowing, golden mountain of a man, a halo of light and fire burning around him, but snow still on his shoulders, comes charging through the limbs! His sword, long as any tree, starts hacking through the horde.

At his side fights the azure elf, water dripping from her pointed ears and lightning dancing on her fingertips!

Like a bouncing white ball, the baldheaded dwarf streaks back and forth between the remaining foes! Ping! Off of one! Pow! Into another!

One by one they fall until only one villain remains. He begins to retreat, and runs right into a monster with a wide toothy smile and sky blue eyes, clothed in shimmering silver armor. The stern scolding he receives sends him running away in shame.

The evildoers defeated, the little girl’s friends gather around her.

The red-haired warrior-priest, with a matronly smile, tenderly takes the child’s hand, and together they leave the dark woods.

IV. WAR
“Take Binky with you!” Scarlet sobbed into the summoner’s chest.

Carbunkle looked across the weeping philosopher’s head into the dead eyes of the monkey, Binky.

Binky put down the piece of toast he was slathering jam upon. With the jam-encrusted knife he drew three slashes of raspberry across his forehead.

Simian War Paint — Carbunkle recognized it immediately.

The monkey crunched down on his toast, and turned to pack his bag.

V. RUMINATIONS OF A HALF-ORC PALADIN
Where is Corben?
Tapping my boot makes a nice empty ring in the palace foyer.
I wonder how old that tapestry is? I’ve heard five different tales of the old story woven into the threads there. Sir Fogo, the protector. Hero of the under-dwarves with his trusty cohort, Mitchel.
Cohort. Is Corben my cohort? Were Fogo and Mitchel best friends, too? That’s the problem with the old tales, characters are established through their actions, rather than inner emotions. But no one really likes inner dialogue anyway, that’s why the heroes have cohorts.
Has Corben been standing there smirking at me for very long?
That’s a rather large sack he’s got. Much too big for him to carry. I should carry it for him.
Yes, I WOULD like some beef jerky.
What’s next?
Nice day for a walk.
Corben doesn’t ever stop talking for very long.
The Lodestar is a glorious ship.
Did the bag just sneeze?
There’s a princess inside!
It’s like I just unwrapped my birthday present!
I hope I didn’t say that out loud.

VI. THE GRAND TOUR
“The deck almost always offers an incredible view. I recommend looking ahead to where we are going. For some reason we’re often heading into the sunset, usually at the conclusion of an adventure.”

Haskeer gestures towards the door below. They head down.

“Mr. Carbunkle claimed the captain’s quarters apparently when they first boarded the ship.

There’s the moon room, Miss Echo’s in there; didn’t she offer you a bunk?

Red Circle: Corben and Fin; Blue Circle: Agnar and sometimes Mr. Mobius; and Green Cir-”

Alice’s looks curiously at the half-orc as he stumbles over his words.

Haskeer says softly, “We don’t use that room for now. Not yet.”

Moving on he gestures to the cargo bay, “Mr. Martin, Dayjen, The Vagabonder, and I share space there. The engine room is something exciting to see! The Vagabonder and I have made a forge from the-”

Noises and shouts from up on deck cut Haskeer short. A chorus of three people retching in unison. His bright blue eyes look up as if they could see through the ceiling. Another murmur of voices and he quickly turns, heading back the way they came.

Carbunkle, Echo, and Fin have returned from the Devil’s Forge, and Izus is with them.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

VII. RUNNING THE BLOCKADE
“I’d stay down here, if’n I were you. It’s not safe up there!” Martin calls out as Alice stumbles her way up the Lodestar stairs. Her footing is unsure as the ship lurches up, down, and side to side without warning. Steadily though, she climbs up towards the deck, and pushes the door wide.

Pandemonium! Corben at the controls shouts to be heard over the din of battle!

An armada of Seafoam flying gunships, bronze and silver scattered from one end of the horizon to the other, in madcap pursuit of the Lodestar!

Artillery fired from below explodes off the side of the ship, rocking it sharply!

A bright flash draws Alice’s eye upwards. The brown-cloaked figure tumbles in the air, fell energy crackling all around him. He wills himself to a stop mid-fall, changes direction, and charges forwards! He seems to collide in mid-air with a great airship, nearly blotting the sky directly overhead: the twin of the Lodestar, with ’Heartbreaker’ carved into its side!

A stray blast of electricity, fired from the Heartbreaker’s deck, singes the doorframe inches from where Alice is standing. She gulps and retreats back down into the relative safety of the ship’s hold.

VIII. STONE WINGS AND HEARTSTRINGS
Haskeer dodges a swipe from one of the stone eagles, ducking behind his tower shield. With a shove, he throws the bird from the deck of the Lodestar and into the air. Wings open and carry the beast away.
Bonk! Flap!

He turns and says, “So the Princess Alice is nice…”
Swipe! Claw! Slash! Smash!

“I mean she has nice hair. Erm… Her hair smells nice. Never- nevermind.“

The paladin takes a hard impact from a direct hit and falls on his back. He pushes the shield over himself and presses his feet against it, holding back the attack.

He glances up at Corben, “Don’t smile at me like that. This isn’t one of your quests to… No. That’s not the look. Ow!”
Blam! Bam!

The ship buckles, knocking the birds from the deck. Haskeer rolls over and smashes his shield into one of the autonomous statues.
Shield Bash!

A stone feather swivels on the deck as the rest of the crew sweeps the avian attackers away.
Haskeer picks up the feather.

“I mean…I think…I don’t have any idea what I think.”
Crush! Romance!

IX. DIRTY
“I think you should go for it.”

Corben and Haskeer had pulled ahead of the others as they made their way along the stone aqueduct. It gave them a chance to talk out of earshot. They were both being cautious, reminded of their encounters in Jacradam. No mummies so far, though.

“She wants to help us save the world, so that’s good. She’s not the stay-at-home type, so she won’t be boring, which is good." Corben cracks a lascivious grin at Haskeer, and distantly behind them, Carbunkle laughs, “heheeeheh,” a dirty old man laugh if there ever was one. With ears like those, he heard most anything when he wanted to. "She took care of Cai, so she’s got a nurturing side to her too, though. That’s good. She seems smart, which is good. She is cute, which is good. She didn’t run screaming at the sight of you, so she has a sense of humor, which is good.”

Haskeer gives Corben a dirty look.

“And don’t forget, she’s rich, which is always good,” Corben teased.

Inside, he sighed. Another girl named Alice. Somewhere, the devil who owned Corben’s soul was laughing. Corben was not.

“The Precursors certainly kept clean sewers,” Corben comments offhanded as the Lodestar crew trudges along the ancient subterranea of Kythera.

X. SMALL TALK
“Just talk to her. Get to know her better. Find out what makes her tick, you know? Why is she here? What are her plans? All else fails, ask her about her family. Make small talk.” Corben idly spins one of his chakrams around his index finger and stares again at the great glass mural behind him. There were three in the building they’d found themselves in, a school or education center of some sort.

“Small talk?” Haskeer says as if it is some dark fate waiting to claim him.

“You’re going to have to start talking to girls eventually. If you don’t, I’ll never fulfill my vow.” Haskeer raises a quizzical eyebrow, then Corben reminds him. “By all the gods, djinns, and devils, I will not let you die a v—-”

Corben laughs off the strong punch in the arm he receives, holsters his blade and takes a swift hit from his flask. “Has Carbunkle turned on that mind-chair-contraption-thing yet?” With a grin, “Two gold, it blows up.”

“WOOOOO-WHEEEEEE!!” Carbunkle shouts from around the corner. The gnome comes wandering past Corben and Haskeer. His hair is blackened, and smoke seems to be seeping from his ears. He salutes the pair as he stumbles past, says something in a language neither of them understand, and promptly collapses.

“Close enough. Pay up,” Corben smirks.

Haskeer retorts, “No bet.”

Just then, the doors to the Visitor’s Center swings open. Two marines decked in ornate Arkanic armor, proudly emblazoned with the Seafoam logo, come walking through, rifles tucked under their shoulders. They shout at the sight of the Lodestar crew and immediately take aim.

“To adventure?” Corben says as he readies his chakrams for battle and dashes off to one side of the hall to flank the attackers.

Haskeer sighs to himself as he draws Dinedan’s sword.

“There’s rarely any time for small talk on our ship.”

The Behemoth roars as it sends death flying across the field.

The wooden target shatters with the impact, a burst of flame and electricity tearing through along with the deadly projectile.

Lieutenant Colonel Wernau’s marksmanship was impeccable; it should be, he thinks to himself, he’d spent a lifetime perfecting it. His rifle unit had been the first to field test the Mark I at the Battle of Starfall thirty years before.

The colonel reluctantly looks up from the scope as a young private approaches.

“Private Dode, report.” The colonel’s clipped tone makes the messenger snap to attention. Wernau was expecting news. They’d readied several squads of marines as soon as the Seafoam outpost spotted the oncoming airship and sent them in search of the invaders.

“Sergeant Cassail’s squad has made contact, sir.”

“And? Where are they?”

“In Tanglewood. The Visitor’s Center.”

So the airship landed somewhere to the east of the Arkanic site. That narrowed down the search. “Does Cassail and his men have the intruders contained?"

“No, sir.”

“No?” Wernau was surprised. After all, Cassail was a Burner Third Class.

“Sergeant Cassail’s dead, sir. Four other confirmed casualties. Two of the squad are still unaccounted for.”

“What happened?” Wernau almost absently loads the next round into the stock of the Behemoth. It hummed to life as it prepared to fire again.

“Sergeant Cassail’s squad were sweeping Tanglewood as ordered when they located the intruders in the Visitor’s Center. After a brief skirmish, Cassail retreated and tried to lure them out into the open, but they dug in deep. Sergeant Cassail led his squad in after them.”

He got impatient, and it got him and his men killed, Wernau grouses to himself as he fills in the rest of the details. The marines should have held their position, kept the intruders pinned down, waited for reinforcements, then swept into the Visitor’s Center. Outmanned and outgunned, a single squad of marines would have been no match for a crew that managed to get past the Seafoam armada, even with a Burner. Sergeant Cassail should have known better. Wizards were supposed to be smarter than that.

“The intruders’ current whereabouts are unknown, sir," Private Dode finishes.

“We’ll find them. Get me Major Erres.” The colonel takes aim across the firing range at the next wooden targert. Private Dode salutes sharply and exits.

Wernau squints and fires the Behemoth. The shot hits the target, but off-center. The wooden effigy goes spinning round and round on its pole but remains upright.

Wernau takes a deep, frustrated breath, filling his nostrils with the scent of gunpowder, and reloads again.

I.
Jonas landed hard on the stones of the parade ground, blood seeping from the deep gash in his leg. He retied the crude bandage, and forced himself to stand.

The rain fell.

The church was hours ago. It felt like weeks ago.

He had passed through the wet night, the sudden slide of cobblestone and slate roofs. A brace of once-men has surprised him in a narrow alleyway. His sword had prevailed, but one of the dark things had left the bleeding wound on his leg.

Now, at last he had pulled himself over the stone walls of the castle. An abandoned hay cart had provided a suitable ladder.

The windows of the castle blazed with green light. The same green light that filled the empty eye sockets of the dead of Gilead.

Jonas laid one chilled hand on the hilt of his sword. He pulled the good steel free, and stepped carefully through the open gates of the castle.

II.

As he closed the door behind him, the sound of rain hushed.

The grand entryway was covered with mushrooms. Sickly, purple and pulsing slightly – as if each bulb was taking a slow breath.

The green light bloomed from a pair of corpses sprawled on the marble stair. A pair of guards. The squire moved towards them, but then stopped. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to find the faces of old friends rotting on the steps. The light seemed to pour out of the vicious wounds on their neck and back, like an echo of blood, burning green and merry.

Jonas kicked the mushrooms aside in disgust and made his way up the steps.

At the top of the stair, a hand print had been charred into the wooden door. The squire placed his own hand next to it, to compare. The other hand was thinner, long fingers splayed.

Is this the devil? Luthen’s devil?

The squire wiped the water out of his face, and entered the hall.

The wide hall was silent.

Each door that the squire passed was flung open, green corpse light gleaming.

A group of dead children and their governess, chests and lips covered with yellow vomit. They were laid out in a perfect circle, feet to the center. A basket of apples placed at the center.

Three men dressed as nobles slumped around a silver table. One man’s arm had been cruelly spiked to the table, the flesh and bone laid bare. Golden forks and knives were still clutched in all three’s hands – gibbets of meat hung from all three’s lips.

The green doorways opened their arms, as Jonas began to move faster.

A fat man that brained himself against a stone ledge.

A room stacked high with furniture, dressers and bureaus pulled in close. A thick stench rose from the center of the barricade.

Two skeletons huddled in the ashes of a massive marble fireplace, hands still clasped.

Jonas found broad stairs, and climbed.

III.

He kept his eyes on the steps ahead, and forced his wounded leg to move faster.

The final step caught him unawares, and he stumbled forward. His shoulder screamed as he crashed into a stone pillar. He leaned against it for a moment and caught his breath.

He heard laughter, and jerked his head up.

The wide doors were twenty feet high and enameled with steel and silver. They were slightly open, and the sound of brittle glass-laughter came from within. The green light was brighter here, forcing him to squint as he stared at the crack between the doors.

Jonas took a step towards the door, then stopped. He passed his sword from hand to hand for a moment, wiping the sweat of his palms on his sodden trousers.

Glass-laughter, knife-laughter – the laughter of breaking. It sounded again, and the squire found himself backing up slowly from the door.

He leaned his head forward, shaggy hair fallling forward. He gripped the hilt of his sword , each knuckle a sickly yellow-white.

Too far. Too far to turn back now. I must know what happened here, I must.

Jonas of Gilead stepped through the silver doors.

IV.
He blinked his eyes, faster and faster – forcing them to adjust to the violently green illumination.

A pile of corpses was stacked in the center of the room, a reeking bonfire. The green light poured out of dead mouth after dead mouth, twisting and coalescing into a blaze in the center of the room.

The squire heard the knife-laughter again, and a man stepped into view. He was dressed in simple black garments, and was flipping through a book idly.

The man seemed to flicker between the gaps of flame. Jonas saw glimpses of something tall and gaunt, skin stretched across bones.

Jonas gasped and pulled his sword up.

The man smiled, and the squire’s blood turned to water. Jonas felt sweat pour down his face – a fever burned. The smiling man was wearing iron shoes, and Jonas remembered the blind priest’s words.

“Why, hello young man.” the thing who was not a man said. ” I’ve been waiting for you. “

“My name is Fairchild.” the smile said.

V.
The squire’s sword moved, swinging in a high arc towards the man’s face.

Fairchild tucked the book under his arm, and casually caught the blade in his left hand.

A burst of light. Jonas saw a bone-thin hand with too-long fingers holding his blade. The skin was green and smooth — or did it only appear so in the emerald corpse illumination?

The flash was gone. The man pushed the squire’s blade aside.

“Now, now.” the man smiled. “No need to be so forward. There will be plenty of time later for that sort of thing. Now, have a seat, young man.”

Jonas felt his knees buckle, and his knuckles hit the marble floor. He still clutched the hilt of his good steel, but it felt heavier than a millstone.

Fairchild sat calmly on the pile of corpses, and pulled the book into his lap. He drummed his fingers on it for a moment.

“I knew someone would come, but I didn’t know who. A hero? A prince? Who are you, son of Gilead?”

Jonas said nothing. He tried to move, but his arms and legs refused.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter.”, the smiling man mused. “You are the one who was promised. You will be my hunter.”

I will be nothing for you, the squire thought. I will find a way to make you pay.

“Oho! Your mortal eyes blaze so fiercely. It must be hard.” Fairchild said sympathetically. “To crawl on your belly through the ruin of your home — to find all that you knew destroyed. Everyone you ever knew. Dead. How you must thirst for vengeance….”

The tip of his sword blade moved a quiet inch. Jonas focused on the feel of the hilt in his hands, and tried to make the sword move again. He kept his eyes on the smiling man, on his green throne.

Fairchild clapped his hands.

“Enough of that. It is time to speak, you and I. I must pull you from thoughts of the past, so let us speak simply. Yes, it was I that did all that you have seen. Every living creature in the land of Gilead is dead. Dead and worse, by my hands.”

Jonas saw the man’s hands change — fingers too long, and green, green, green. The squire choked with horror and grief.

” Well, not quite.” Fairchild leaned forward. “There is one survivor. Would you like to see her?”

The squire nodded, and fought back tears. And managed to move the sword tip another quiet inch.

The man who was not turned slightly, and pushed the arm of a corpse aside. Nestled within was a small, cloth bundle. It moved slightly as Fairchild pulled it free, and then it began to cry.

A baby, held in a prison of green spider-hands.

Fairchild held it forth, and smiled.

“Now, let us talk about the terms of our covenant.”

VI.

“This child is the last. The last beating heart in all of Gilead. Except for yours, of course.” Fairchild smiled.

The bundle hung, inches from the squire’s nose. Jonas stared.

The baby appeared healthy, a patch of yellow fuzz on its head, dried tears and mucus covering the face. Jonas felt a sudden desire to reach into his pocket and find a clean hanky. The sudden image of standing in this room of green fire , piled high with corpses in a city of death — wiping the snot off of a baby’s face; the image slid through his battered mind, and he found himself grinning. A quiet huh left his lips as he almost-chuckled.

The tip of his sword moved two inches along the floor. He was still held by the power of the creature Fairchild, but he felt looser. Like a frog in a child’s palm, he couldn’t escape but had room to wriggle.

“Do you know this child? I found her in the back of a baker’s shop, just popped her in my pocket like a day-old muffin, and brought her here.” Fairchild pulled the child close into the crook of his left arm, and waved towards Jonas with his right.

The squire found he could speak. ” No. I don’t know who she is. “

“No matter. Princess or pauper, whoreson or maid. You. Her. It doesn’t really matter. It’s the blood. The blood, you see?” Fairchild sat down again on the mound of corpses, cradling the child to his breast.

“I don’t…”

“..understand? That doesn’t matter, either.” the man who was not waggled a long finger. “You came here to find out what had happened to your people, to learn the truth — to save them? Quite a grand quest, I applaud you — or would. I don’t want to drop the baby!”

Shattersteel-laughter rang in the throne room. Jonas glimpsed again Fairchild’s true form — gaunt flesh stretched on a tall frame – naked, green and merry.

“I came here to purge this world of Gilead’s blood, and I’ve succeeded. Almost.” the creature rose. “There is still you, and this child — and a few wandering remnants scattered across the world.”

Jonas felt a sudden heat in his heart. This creature was right, there were others out there – the Legion, travellers, families that had settled elsewhere. Gilead could live on, an army could gather and make justice for the fallen.

“Ah, hope. A foolish thing, there flickering in your eyes.” Fairchild idly ran his thumb across the baby’s cheek.

The child screamed as if his touch was acid.

“My time is limited, so let us speak plain. I need an..agent. Someone to hunt down your remaining kinsmen. It is going to be you. But, I need you to consent. So, enter my service or….” Fairchild held out the crying child. “…or I kill this child. Right here. Right now. And then you.”

VII.

A chessboard. A battlefield. Another time.

Think it through, boy. Think about all the moves, the avenues of attack, the consequences. What are your options? What tools do you have?

“Oh…oh my. You’re actually considering it.” Fairchild chortled. ” I can see it in your eyes. Just as was foretold – but I must admit I’m actually shocked. That it could be so simple to sway you.”

No, Jonas. No! You’re not thinking far enough ahead – don’t just think about this move, think about the fifth move from now. Take your damn hand off that piece, boy — and think!

“Thousands of corpses litter the city around us, but one mewling child has worth to you? Amazing.” the creature said.

Is that really the move you want to make, squire? Are you certain? Bone-certain?

“Every life has worth.” Jonas said. ” And dead, I’m no good to anyone.”

The squire gave up trying to push his sword tip towards his enemy. Instead, he pulled the sword back to his side. Fairchild seemed to allow this movement, his face that was not rapt with curiosity. Jonas set the point of the blade in front of him, and closed his hands around the hilt and crossguard. He leaned on the sword for a moment, feeling the good steel beneath his fingertips.

“For the child’s life, I will give you my sword. “

Are you certain? Bone-certain?

“Well, about that…” Fairchild smirked. “One day she must die, ever leaf and stem of the tree must be cut. Every drop of blood spilled on the dry sand.”

“Then promise me — only I can do it. When I’ve hunted down every single one of the others, she will die by my hand. By my hand, or by none. And then I’ll be the last blood of Gilead, and you can do what you wish with me.” the squire said.

The words came out of his mouth steadily, with no emotion. Jonas heard the words, but couldn’t remember thinking them. It was quick thinking, logical and clean — not the way his mind usually worked.

“Your blood won’t be an issue, my friend. Entering my service is going to change you a great deal.” Fairchild laid the child down on the empty throne, and came slowly down the steps. “For the better, of course. A marked improvement upon your current state. I accept your terms. Are we agreed.?”

Fairchild kneeled, the illusion dropping away. Green and gaunt, he spread his hands on either side of the squire’s blade — fingers splayed wide, palms up.

Is that really the move you want to make, squire?

Jonas took his hand off the piece, and the sword tumbled forward into Fairchild’s waiting hands.

“We are.” he said.

VIII.

The creature’s green fingers closed around the blade.

“I shall make you…”

The blade was falling, it fell again and again.

“…make you …”

Jonas let go of the blade and it fell.

“…make you…”

Green fingers closed around the blade, and Fairchild looked up. His eyes were nothing.

“I shall make you of power and gold.”

The squire let go of the blade, and it fell.

“I shall make you of…”

A squire stumbled through the dark and rain.

“…power and gold.”

Green fingers closed.

“…and gold.”

A boy said good bye to his friend. He left in the rain.

He let go of the sword. His eyes were nothing.

“I shall make you of power and gold.”

IX.

He felt his ribs shatter, leaving his heart exposed. A breath of cool air on his beating heart.

“Ah, yes – plenty of room. Room for five.” Fairchild purred.

Blood poured out of the squire’s empty eyes and his fingers slid along the stone. His body arched backward, and there was pain.

There was so much pain.

Then he saw them.

A hound with blue eyes.

A snake with green scales.

A knight with brown armor.

A lady in white.

A crow with yellow talons.

They were gone, but they weren’t.

Fairchild slid a long green hand down his chest, and the wound closed. A jet of purple and green fire cauterized the wound, and left the flesh smooth and unbroken. The green creature cocked his head, and laid an appraising finger aside of his pursed lips. He nodded with satisfaction.

” There…we’re done! Now get up.” he stood and moved back towards the throne. “You have lots and lots of work to do.”

The man stood up. He realized that his hands were clenched in the folds of his brown cloak. The fingers slowly released, and he saw they were coated thick with blood. On the floor surrounding him was a wide pool of blood.

It’s mine. The thought seemed to echo inside the wide cavern of his mind, like a marble dropped in a basin. The last blood that I will ever shed.

“And now — the name!” Fairchild clapped his hands like a stage magician. “It has waited for you here — for so long. Hovering at the end of your road, waiting for you to wear it like a crown. The name whispered in the dark. The name promised. Oh…you don’t seem very excited…”

The creature actually managed to sound petulant. The man said nothing.

“Very well, then. You are Izus Torossian. Take your payment and go.”

X.
Izus Torossian walked through the empty streets, with a bundle in his arms. The raw sound of a baby crying battered at the air.

The dark things – the once-men stayed far away from him, he strode across the wet cobblestones unopposed.

Izus wished something would attack. Something he could fight.

The inside of him felt wide and vast, as if he had stumbled through a door in his house and discovered a vast concert hall; the orchestra tuning their instruments and waiting for the maestro’s baton.

He was smarter, faster, more. He was more.

Izus looked down at last to the crying child in his arms. The rain had slowed, but a few drops still fell on the babe’s unprotected face. He pulled the edge of his cloak up, and covered her carefully.

“Shhhh, little one. Everything’s going to be okay.”

The child stopped crying at the sound of his voice, and dropped off into an uneasy sleep — rocked by the motion of his strides.

“Everything’s going to be okay.” he said again, and found no comfort in the words.

Present day.
An excerpt from the personal journal of Ong-Bara’zakund Khadrak-Fahdran:

My name is Ong-Bara’zakund Khadrak-Fahdran, and this is my true testimony. As my Master’s foremost apprentice, I was asked to accompany him upon the journey to Caleron so that I may chronicle his communion with the Exile, Ungrim Agrul-Fin. As instructed, I successfully hid myself and was seen by no one, including the Exile. I hereby swear that this is a faithful account of what I witnessed that night.

When the Exile arrived at the sprawling rooftop of the palace of Pere Karavelle, he seemed genuinely surprised to encounter my Master-—his own elder half-brother. My Master greeted the Exile warmly, showing neither anger nor judgment, despite the betrayal for which the Exile was convicted. In response, the Exile was hostile, screaming that His Holiness was a “murderer, traitor, and usurper”. My Master reached out to his brother with compassion, asking him to renounce evil and return to the humble teachings of our Order—-and even telling him he could return to the mountain if he wished. But the Exile was crude and proud, spitting in rage at His Holiness. He then claimed to have found powerful allies to help him conquer Ong-Bara’zakund. He then launched himself across the rooftop and attacked my Master with hideous deformities worn upon each hand. Upon one was a set of hooked, blood-drenched claws, and I am horrified to recall what had become of his left hand, for it was unnatural.

The hand appeared solid, glassy, and completely black, like obsidian, and yet could instantly change its shape like a liquid. It conformed to the wishes of the Exile and altered its form from moment to moment as needed. It was hideous and obviously animated by some ancient, evil magic. At certain points he used it to anchor himself to the towers and steeples of the rooftop as he leapt about in defense. But most often it became a solid adamantine mass in his attempts to strike my Master. The Exile’s form utilized a combination of both the abomination as well as the claws, and his attacks were theoretically flawless, but they all failed. His Holiness’ form is unsurpassed by any living being. The Exile pressed continually, but my Master easily deflected each and every attempt. His Holiness’s every movement was ancient and precise, like a waterfall eroding a mountain. The Exile’s skill was formidable to be sure, but he quickly became emotional and gradually despondent upon realizing that his form could never hope to overcome that of His Holiness.

And then began the series of events that I can neither understand nor fully explain.

My Master said these words to the Exile, “Younger Brother, listen to me…there is so much you do not yet understand…much you were never told…about the Prophecy, our Uncle, the true nature of your punishment and exile…and sadly now there is no time. For in this moment, you must understand that you will very soon become Droskar’s slave—and you will not even know it. Through you he sees all that you see and do, and he is always watching and plotting. And because you willingly chose to accept and use his power, you remain unaware of his full influence. If he chose to, he could seize your mind at any moment, and he has done so in the past. But for now he chooses not to, for he would prefer you to become his willing thrall though use of the gauntlet. Moments from now, in your anger—coupled with his anger—you may lose your own self entirely and become wholly reliant upon his power. The more you call upon him, the more powerful he becomes in this world. Do you not see? Through you, he hopes to gather new followers and return life to his sad, ancient cult and thereby rule this world. Therefore, Younger Brother, I ask you to renounce him. You must let go of his power before it is too late. I will help you if I can.”

The Exile snarled at His Holiness, yet I could tell that something had changed in his eyes, for he appeared conflicted and less focused. His eyes darted back and forth from my Master to the hand as if he were desperately trying to make a decision. Finally, he focused solely upon the hand, and when he did so it began to move of its own will, now apparently independent of the Exile’s wishes. For an instant, I swear it looked like a cornered beast, but then with astonishing speed it seized the Exile by the throat, taking the form of a collar slowly constricting around his neck. The Exile was shocked at the strength of its grip, and though he ripped at the creature with the bloody hooks of his free hand, it was of no use. My Master quickly leapt to his side and placed his own hands upon the strangling mass. I expected that he too would to try to force the creature’s grip upon the Exile’s throat, but instead he became still and quiet, amazingly entering a state of deep meditation. The Exile then saw My Master’s composure and seemed to draw strength from it. He calmed himself, and the two knelt motionlessly for long seconds. I could then see the hand begin to shudder and loosen its grip upon the Exile’s throat while at the same time a white energy began to envelop the hand. The white energy started to grow stronger, but as if countering in response, the hand started to pulse with its own completely black energy. The two forces fought back and forth, like a tug of war. Each time the white energy glowed, both My Master and the Exile would grow more calm and serene, reaching profound depths of meditation. But each time the black energy pulsed, the hand would mutate into either spikes, blades, or other ancient and rare dwarven weapons. And with each pulse, the black weapons lashed at the two brothers, and I could feel the creature’s rage. They were both literally torn apart before my eyes again and again, but the white energy of their meditation also healed and restored them each time. Though they each were each sliced, gouged, pierced, and repeatedly torn open, they never once moved nor showed any signs of pain. They each remained still, calm, and passive, healing after each pulse. But I soon realized that the black pulses were growing in frequency and strength, and they were winning out while the white pulses grew gradually less effective in healing. The sound of the black energy waves continued to grow, eventually becoming deafening as they beat more and more rapidly, finally reaching an uncountable tempo.

At that point, I can only remember a final gigantic blast of white light and along with it a incredibly pure silence. All of my senses could only perceive that white light, and I do not know how long this condition lasted, for I can only say that, in those moments, time itself felt immaterial. Gradually my perceptions righted themselves, and I saw there was now no one on the roof where His Holiness and the Exile had previously been kneeling. They were gone, nowhere to be seen. I now hereby admit that at that point I deviated from my strict instructions. For rather than immediately begin my journey home, I began a search to find any trace of the either of the brothers. Though it was a considerable distance away from the palace, I quickly found the Exile’s body in an alley. Just as I arrived, however, the body was also found by someone else—someone who appeared to recognize the Exile. I decided it best not to interfere and to instead continue the search for my Master. To my shame, I failed to find him anywhere in the city. Whether he yet lives or has perished like the Exile, I cannot say, but I have now resumed the long journey back to Ong Bara’zakund.

I can only say that I remain humbled, awed, and entirely baffled by what I witnessed that night upon the roof of the palace of Pere Karavelle in the land of Caleron. My name is Ong-Bara’zakund Khadrak-Fahdran, and this has been my true testimony.

Robed figures gather around a stone altar in the secret place, its etchings hinting at the arcane and the profane.

“Is the news true?”

“Yes. Agros has returned.”

“The Floating City! As He promised—-”

“But the Scripture says it will return when—-”

“We’re not ready! We’re not ready!”

“The end times are upon us! His Chosen return!”

“The Inferno returns to burn the world. And from the ashes —”

“The Inferno… has been extinguished.”

“Tyrinel? Dead? Impossible!”

“How?”

“Agents of the Sorceror-King.”

“Cai!”

“The Key Knights? They are no match for — "

“Not the Knights. Aeronauts.”

“Sky pirates?

“No. The Lodestar.”

“The Lodestar again?”

“They’ve defeated Tyrinel and the air fleet he built. His entire brood of dragonkin, killed to the last. The citizens freed and the city claimed as their own. All in a single night.”

“Damn them. Damn them all.”

“First Acacia, now Agros… "

“Surely more than coincidence?”

“They know.”

“How could they know?”

“They know nothing. They are concerned with… different matters.”

“And if you’re wrong? What then?”

“What if they are the — ?”

“If they continue to meddle in our affairs, they will be dealt with. Steps have already been taken.”

“Forget about the Lodestar. Tyrinel the Inferno is dead. What do we do now?

“We wait. Until the Red Day comes. Until He is Reborn.”

“Until He is Reborn.”

The congregation in unison open the fronts of their ritual gowns, revealing the scarlet mark tattooed there. The mark of their Lord.

They join their hands and raise their voices as one.

“Zul. Zul. Zul. ZUL. ZUL. ZUL. ZUL.”