Emily regarded the mercenary lord coolly. She'd heard a lot about the commander of the Crimson Company, the famed 'Lord of Blades'. but she knew better than most that even the mightiest stories had a person behind them. The person standing in front of her seemed like a fighter, at least - he didn't have the build of a fat, 'lead-from the back' type, and the blood on his armor indicated that he'd been a part of the defense. Emily hoped this would help him see reason.

After Tobias introduced her as an important visitor, she stepped forward without waiting for the noble to speak first. "Damion Blackmont, unless I'm mistaken. My name is Emily Gehrman, I kill monsters. Different monsters than the kind you have here, usually, but it's all the same principle." She paused for a moment and cast her eyes about the gathering of soldiers - advisers to their lord, probably. Recognition or something very like reverence seemed to be dawning in their eyes; one in particular, a young, lightly armored girl (somebody's squire, probably) dropped the sword she was holding and gaped open-mouthed.

Emily rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you might have heard something about me. Look, all you need to know right now is that I know what I'm talking about. You and your men are camped in what might be the most dangerous place in all of Borea. There are no wolves in Farsil, but there's something much worse. " She pointed over to a nearby tattooed corpse that had minutes ago been a slavering monster. In truth, she had no idea what they were - werewolves turning back into humans was an entirely new development, and even outside that her knowledge was limited on the subject; barely anyone knew anything about the werewolves, save that they were best avoided.

Nevertheless, it wouldn't do to let this on - if this Blackmont turned out to be a fool, he might ignore her advice if confronted by the edges of her knowledge, which might lead him to do something... stupid. Emily folded her arms and stared the man in the eyes. "You're a soldier, Blackmont, but I'm a hunter. And you, and your men, are being hunted. You need to close ranks, consolidate, get the wounded in the middle and get as big a fire as you can going. Most animals don't like fire. After that, you leave these woods first thing in the morning, and you never look back or ask questions about what happened here, and you do not try to 'get even'."

Emily furrowed her brow as some of the hypocrisy of that last statement occured to her. It was different, she quickly decided. Mutants were a blight, a disease infecting the world that would sweep over the whole world given half a chance. Werewolves were a feature of the landscape this deep in Farsil. The huntress tilted her head and awaited the mercenary lord's answer.

A long lifetime ago, Ioannes Arsenikos -- then only the heir to a single city on the coast -- had spent a number of years in the Jade Kingdoms, studying the strange ways of the magicks that its inhabitants still claimed to possess. Nine out of every ten supposed practitioners were not mages but magicians, of course, and you were more likely to have some cretin steal your coin while watching them than to learn anything particularly useful. There had been one old man, however, who claimed to have knowledge of the ways of life and death.

"Only death can pay for life," the man had explained in the way signature of the self-acclaimed mages, his words seemingly insightful but almost entirely meaningless. But as Ioannes watched in interest the man had slaughtered a number of ugly green frogs and spent the good part of the afternoon performing strange rituals over them. Ioannes had kept a firm grip on his coin purse, but was pleasantly suprised -- if a little disgusted -- when one of the frogs regained its feet and began to amble about. And Ioannes vividly remembered how the old man had put an end to his creation when he had suitably impressed his visitor; with a torch he set the creature alight like so much kindling, and it made no sound as it burned as if made entirely of tallow.

On the streets and in the taverns sometime afterwards, Ioannes had learned something just as interesting. That old man, the locals claimed, had been a simple trickster only a few months prior, but more and more of the ancient magicks seemed truly to be awakening. Ioannes had gone on to observe another half-dozen magicians, including a supposed fortune-teller (who took his coin and told him he would be a great man) and a rather impressive pyromancer who could summon flame from the air.

Only death can pay for life. A sickly feeling overtook Ioannes as he struggled to maintain a hold on his nervous horse. He began to understand why so many half-trained armies of slave soldiers had been sent out to die from the gates, and was immensely glad to have burned the bodies when they grew too numerous to bury.

But that was not important. What was important was the battle at hand, two dozen of Ioannes' finest cavalry locked in a mortal struggle with more black-clad warriors as the dead began to pour from the hallway through which they had entered the courtyard. As Ioannes traded blows with a silent black knight, he noticed out of the corner of his eye as one of the foes cleaved the head from his enemy's horse. Beast and rider fell to the ground, the horse crushing the man, but within moments both had risen again on the other side of the battle.

There was no time to be wasted. With a lucky strike Ioannes buried his blade in the neck of his enemy, who fell to his knees as black blood hissed from his gorget. He might rise again in moments, Ioannes knew. But in his off-hand was the torch with which he had lit his way through the dark and twisting chambers of the citadel. When the knight rose again Ioannes jabbed his torch into the gash he had created. The living corpse began to smolder as though it were made of kindling, and by the time it had raised its sword once more the arm holding it was aflame. The sword-arm remained raised, billowing with acrid smoke, as the creature fell lifeless to the ground.

"Flame! Give them flame!" He wheeled his horse to look to the horseman to his right, a minor household knight. "Send word to the infantry." The knight's face was pale as ash as he drove an opening into the flow of undead. Whether the man would make it out of the fortress was another question entirely.

Across the courtyard, the nameless, almost inhuman-looking leader of this vile fortress stood, one first gestured out in silent challenge. Just to look on the strange and horrible runes that covered his armor and shield caused Ioannes' head to ache, but he forced himself to watch as he spurred his horse forward.

When they stood separated by only a few paces, Ioannes dismounted his destrier. It would only be further encumbrance in such close quarters; he could only hope that the horse would not go mad with fear and charge away. Looking back, Ioannes watched as more of the dead -- some he knew well, having seen their corpses filling the halls he had passed -- spilled into the courtyard. But for now all that existed was Ioannes and his foe. They both raised their blades.

The black knight's armor seemed to drink up the light in exactly the way that it should not have, making the entire courtyard seem a bit darker. His shield was dark oak covered in a thin layer of the same metal, graven with unreadable runes. His sword was twice the size of Ioannes', clearly intended for a large man to wield with two hands, though his foe held it with one as though it were a child's wooden training blade.

The commander seemed to have no words left to say. Instead he simply swung his blade, a brutal sideways slash that might have cut Ioannes cleanly in two had he not interposed his own weapon. There was a terrible screeching of metal, but the tempered orichalcum sword held strong. Ioannes stepped into the reach of the blade and swung at his foe's chest. Instead his sword clashed against the heavy shield. The black knight made a cold, grumbling sound that might have been a laugh as he countered, bashing Ioannes out of the inside of his sword-reach with his shield.

They traded blows several times further, the song of steel filling the courtyard as Ioannes' horsemen continued to hold off the remaining black knights and the undead horde that continued to pour in. But while Ioannes was a skilled swordsman, he was not entirely a match for this beast of a necromancer. With another savage blow of his shield he knocked Ioannes to the ground, and raised his sword to make an end of it -- but the booming, icy laugh turned into a noise halfway between scream and groan when one of the cavalrymen, riding desperately from across the yard, buried a lance to its hilt through the necromancer-warrior's chest.

Khalaevna liked little less than being ordered about, and it took great strength to not lash out at the Northerner. Her soldiers may have been fierce in their devotion to Mortaroth, but the Over-Tyrant had no god other than herself. What difference does it make who I claim to worship? she reasoned internally. So long as I keep on ruling .

The Over-Tyrant bent down, her knees popping beneath her massive weight, and grabbed hold of the staff which bore the head of Aureus Icelake.

“I pledge my allegiance to the Old Ones; the true masters of the North.” She declared firmly “Their enemies are my enemies, and I shall be the vessel of their furious retribution.”

No sooner had the Over-Tyrant finished speaking, then the world seemed to twist and darken around her. She took one cumbersome step forwards, and then her enormous body gave way, and she was sent tumbling to the ground. All the while she could feel something...changing inside her. A current of dark majesty crashed through her veins, burning beneath her skin, as she could feel herself being morphed from the inside out.

Her head struck the floor, and the world went black.

---

When Khalaevna reawoke, the world had changed around her.

Her eyes fluttered open, and the sights which greeted her pushed and bent her mind to the farthest reaches of believability

Stretching out before her, was a tide of tooth and claw and horns and hooves. Where once there had been Northmen, there was now a sprawling horde of twisted creatures, covered from the waist down with coarse brown fur, walking upon cloven hooves the colour of obsidian. Their bodies were rippling with muscle, and swirling ivory horns exploded from either side of their head. Their teeth were sharp and jagged, jutting out beneath eyes which hissed and crackled with demonic fire. They still bore the armour and weapons which they had as men -swords and axes - dull armour and leather gauntlets, but their transformation into beasts had been complete and absolute.

Other monstrosities joined their ranks;

A mammoth, bestial creature which stood upon legs like tree trunks, and bore two, warped heads. A great leathery fiend which looked as though it were made of exposed muscle, with huge bat-like wings, and claws which looked to be crafted of pale bone. And a stooped pink-skinned abomination, with a face devoid of any features, and a thousand blinking eyes dotting its raw flesh.

Khalaevna’s mind was rattled with shock, as her eyes struggled to comprehend the sights before her, she leant backwards, and found herself supported by a seat of hard black stone. Gazing down in disbelief, the Over-Tyrant found that her gigantic body was propped up on an ornate palanquin, imbued with ancient nordic runes, and hoisted up upon the back of a swarm of shrivelled, gremlin-like creatures, with gnashing mouths full of twisted teeth, black and sickly with rot and pus.

Khalaevna’s own attire was gone; replaced by golden rings and rich silks, which exposed the wobbling pale mass of her obese form. Her black hair was woven in gleaming clasps, and jeweled studs pierced her ears.

It was then that the Over-Tyrant decided what her role in this game would be.

She opened her mouth and called out, addressing the horde of horrors before her.

“My Children! We have embraced the powers bestowed upon us by our new masters, and with them we shall bring blood and fire to the Southern Kingdoms! The path to our salvation shall be paved with the bones of those who seek to block our path, as we cast the rotten corpses of their false gods down into the abyss. Their towns will burn, their cities will crumble, and their streets will run red, as their life seeps out of them. I am the Over-Tyrant, and it is my hand that shall rip apart these bastions of weakness, and raise up a kingdom of pleasure and pain from its ashes!”

The demon’s roaring could be heard for miles around, as it shook hills, and valleys, and the very mountains themselves.

Asa stepped gingerly through the silent gloom of the Library, careful not to disturb the teetering towers of books and piles of scrolls littering the vast, vaulted chamber. Relics of ancient knowledge rescued from oblivion by the Witch King's many agents, waiting to be sorted and stored by the small army of librarians that tended to this place.

They were nowhere to be found today. The upper levels of the fortress emptied of their own accord when the King was taking the Augurs.

Asa suppressed her own growing dread as she drew closer to the Arcanum, ignored the faint, barely discernible whispers, the fleeting figures hovering on the edges of her vision. She pushed open the heavy brass doors at the end of the Library, the ones that usually remained locked.

Inside was a round chamber of white marble, the walls carved with densely-packed writing in a flowing, alien script. In some places the lettering suggested the form of almost human figures, skeletal and sinister.

A brazier smoldered in the center of the room, tendrils of smoke like clutching fingers rising from the crimson coals.

Dratha was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, the Book open before him.

"Asa, my love," he said quietly as she entered. He half-turned towards her, and for a brief moment in the half-light it looked as though he had two eyes, but when she blinked she saw only the ragged socket on the left of his face.

"The scouts have returned," she said, "Avikogerix has struck his camps. He is leaving the hill-country and heading back north."

Dratha closed his remaining eye. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he sighed like a man about to give in at last to some great temptation.

Hardly the reaction Asa expected at the news. Avikogerix and his band of mutants and raiders had been plaguing the foothills and lower passes for months. Many of the Legion had died fending off his attempts to advance farther in the Teeth. His retreat should have been a great relief.

"Othman- what's wrong?"

"The North, Asa. The North is all wrong," he said, standing wearily. He tucked the Book into the folds of his robes. "Would you summon the officers to the throne room? I must prepare."

"For what?"

"To march on Aquilonia."





Dratha reigned his horse to a stop along a rise above the Old Road, and took a swig from his flask, grimacing. Octes and the other legates clustered behind him, awaiting orders.

The drumbeat march of his legions along the cracked flagstones of the Atlantean highway filled the chilly morning air, punctuated by hoarse shouts of command from the centurions. Row upon row of spears glittered in the climbing sun, a sea of shining steel.

"What word from the scouts?" asked the Witch King.

"Aquilonia is invested, m'lord," said Octes, "The Acharnaens are in strength, their number exceeds our own by some thousands."

"That will change," said Dratha, taking another drink. The legates shared disquieted glances but did not speak.

"My lord, do we mean to attack this Arsenikos?" asked Octes.

"We mean to take the city," said the Witch King.

Flint's eyes scanned the horizon, examining every minute difference in the clouds or bit of movement there might be. He was no dragon-slaying knight, that much had been made clear days earlier, but the Archranger was no stranger to tracking a beast. He had spent the past three days chasing the dragon, and had come close enough to send an arrow into its belly twice. Though the dragon still lived, both opportunities were met with relative success -- The creature knew Flint was tracking it by either sense or some sort of magical intuition, and had not once stopped flying north for food or water. Having flown nonstop, the dragon would stop every few hours for rest, with each brief period bringing the now-sleepless Flint a bit closer than he had been able to reach before. Twice, he had been able to reach the dragon and shoot it with an arrow, and twice, the dragon took off into the air before Flint was able to fire another.

Having spotted the black speck just above the silhouette of a mountain range he had been chasing for days, he took off once again, leaping from tree to tree. By then, most men would have died, though the Archranger was not like most men. He sometimes wondered why that was, if his wordless thoughts could really be taken for pondering his existence. Maybe there was a fire inside of him. Maybe the dragon had that too. He recalled his youth for a moment -- which was rare for the man -- and was sitting at a chair in his family's one room cabin. His father spoke with a man in a grey hood, worriedly glancing back and forth from the man and his son. He remembered his father. He was a bald, plump man with a long brown moustache and furry eyebrows. He had given Flint his first bow. Flint paid little mind to the two, but was eager to be let outside. Outside was where the trees were. He did not know why, though he sometimes felt close to them, sometimes closer than his family. Sometimes, he heard them.

Flint shook his head. The dragon had not slept for four days, though neither had he. He was able to occasionally pluck a few mushrooms or berries during his pursuit, and had quickly filled his waterskin many times, though the stress was beginning to take a toll on his mind. His lungs heaved with cold, dry air, and his throat burned like it never had before. The sickness he had picked up days ago had filled his nose, giving the man an unpleasant pounding in his ears and forcing him to breathe through his mouth, which was now mostly covered in snot. As cold as it was, his body felt increasingly hot, and his legs burned and wobbled and shook with every step. He hoped the dragon would stop to rest soon. He was malnourished, sick, sore, and tired. The only advantage he held over the beast was that two arrows weren't sticking out of his side, though he wondered how much that had affected the dragon.

As if his prayers had been answered, the speck on the horizon dipped down into the trees. Flint noticed that they were now far enough North that below him on the ground, and on the branches of shorter trees below him, there was snow. Flint continued his pursuit, hopping from branch to branch like a shadow, staring at the snowier pass ahead.

---

Flint dropped from the treetops, landing on the ground with both feet and a hand to steady himself. The dragon had landed somewhere up ahead, and was likely resting by now. Flint knew little of dragons, though he knew it would find someplace warmer than the cold northern forests to sleep. Flint knew not to follow a bear into a cave. He suspected for the same reasons, it would be unwise to follow a dragon. Still, he hurried on. The snow covered the dirt and dying vegetation of wherever Flint had found himself, and the sky was a haunting grey. Snow fell onto the skeletal, greying trees. Flint felt as if he were being watched, or warned to turn back. He trudged on through the snow, notching an arrow onto his bow. He was close to the dragon. He could feel it.

Damion raised an eyebrow. "Emily Gehrman, eh? The famed monster hunter in the flesh..." He frowned as he listened to her advice. She was correct in that he had grossly miscalculated—he had not, even in his wildest fantasies, imagined that any of the local folktales would turn out to be accurate—but to flee? He had carefully crafted the reputation of the Crimson Company over many campaigns and hard years. His companions and his soldiers had absolute confidence in him, and Damion himself had a reputation of unfailing victory. If he were to cut and retreat now, to beasts that most did not know the existence of beyond commonly retold fantasies...
He shook his head. It would ruin his company. He could not afford it, especially when they were on the cusp of such a coup. His decision made, he stared Emily in the eye, his tone clipped and measured.
"I thank you for the advice, monster hunter. However, I cannot accept it. The Crimson Company does not retreat, or break its contracts when given in honest nature." He paused, allowing this to sink in, and held up a hand as her outrage bloomed. "However, I am not fool enough to not realize that these creatures are an enormous threat. They killed nearly one-hundred of my men. We only have thirty bodies of the beasts to compensate for our losses." Damion swallowed hard, his anger quite apparent. He paused to master himself, then continued.
"You're correct, I am a soldier. This is not the type of battle I am used to fighting. But as you said yourself, you are a hunter. And I am now looking to start a hunt." He said, his eyes wide and intense. "I would be most appreciative if you were to aid me in this venture, madam."

The bound captives, once they regained consciousness, were less than forthcoming upon questioning. Safiyya did her best to threaten and bluster, but she was opposed to outright torturing the men. They seemed to sense this, and as such barely responded when interrogated. They were slightly more forthcoming when Chibuzo took his turn questioning them; whatever intuition they possessed let them know that he was less merciful than his employer. Even so, the scouts gave up little. They were Lemurian in blood, but Borean in breeding. Tough as mountain goats, and every bit as stubborn.

However, the small amount gleaned from their clipped responses was rather worrisome for Safiyya. They knew nothing of Phaedreus, having apparently never even heard of him. The ruler they served was a different Atlantean altogether, only referred to by the ominous epithet of the "Lord of Iron." This distinct difference to Saffiya's knowledge of the region was unsettling, and suggested that her maps were decades out of date. What they didn't say revealed more: their hesitation to speak of their numbers, not even bluffing, hinted that their keep was lacking for manning. Regardless, the spires of the castle, which the captured soldiers called "Sepulchrave," loomed overhead with the promise of riches and secrets.



The necromantic warrior, his black heart pierced by the lance of one of Ioannes' lancemen, cried out with inhuman fury. He immediately dropped to his knees, black ichor pouring from the wound left by the retracted lance. Fueled by despair and madness, he crawled forward, chokingly uttering foul curses in eldritch tongues. This pitiful act of desperation did not continue long, and the black knight died at Ioannes feet, face-down on the cobblestone and a death grip around the Atlantean's greave.

Though Ioannes wished to quickly return his attention to the greater battle at hand, the dark warrior's corpse caught his eye. The black pool of blood gathering in the wound in the knight's back seemed to shudder and ripple, despite the stillness of the corpse it rested on. In it, Ioannes saw an abyss darker and deeper than a starless sky or the ocean's midnight depths. And as he stared into it, the abyss stared back at him. The spectre of death ran an icy finger down Ioannes' spine. Whatever unholy masters this creature had served, they had seen him in that moment. They had seen him, and now they knew of him. Ioannes swallowed hard, and did his best to push this thought from his mind, though it seemed to always linger at the edge of his thoughts.

The necromancer's death had only a marginal effect; the dead no longer rose where they fell to join the horde's ranks. Essentially, the enemy's forces would no longer be bolstered by his own fallen. This left him to contend with the formidable hordes that already pinned down his men. Ioannes still had a desperate battle ahead, and he offered a silent prayer to whatever gods of goodness and purity that still remained in heavens so crowded with darkness and demons. He prayed for strength, and he prayed for fire.



The trek through the unforgiving mountain passes that lined the border regions between Borea, Hyperborea and Lemuria had become exceedingly easy, the Trade Queen found. What was once an arduous slog through difficult terrain, filled with hostile warbands was now a glorious march. Small pockets of Northmen that had previously harried her caravans and troops were now eager to join her, offering up their mightiest warriors to receive the metamorphic blessings of the Dark Gods. The former clans of Mourslev seemed pitiful compared to the roaring, baying, howling horde that she now commanded.

The Over-Tyrant herself had found herself quite changed, as well. She felt infused with unusual vitality, as though she was a battery of power, which she unleashed with the barest gesture of her hand or sword. The pathetic pack of sycophants that had been the clan chieftains were put the the sword the very night she had received this power. In their place was a cabal of shamans and witches that followed the Over-Tyrant, offering secrets of arcane power and the praises of the god of the North. A nominal improvement, in all honesty, as Khalaevna felt from them all the loyalty of starving wolves. No, the greater improvement was that she alone commanded her warriors, rather than having to use the chieftains as proxies. Their beastial natures unleashed, her armies demanded a master, and she was all too pleased to take their reigns.

In time, the mountains gave way to the foothills of Borea's northernmost reaches. These lands were sparsely populated, mostly small Lemurian settlements, but they were more than sufficient for Khalaevna to test the newfound might of her barbaric hordes. The foul Northern wind blew through the land, toppling everything in its wake. Small villages were razed as easily as if they had never been there. Better-defended settlements were crushed in hours. With tooth, claw and iron the Over-Tyrant's monsters vaulted over walls and battlements, their queen sometimes joining the battle herself as she loosed emerald flame and amethyst lightning from the comfort of her palanquin. Villagers were dragged kicking and screaming from their homes, and in short time a small town's worth of slaves trailed behind the marauding horde, bound in irons and dressed in scars and rags.

Though her might was terrible and she lavished in her power, the Over-Tyrant was not at ease. Niggling thoughts plagued her near-constantly. The dead, soulless gazes of her beastman warriors were loathsome to meet, and filled her with unnatural dread. Her pet warlocks seemed to talk about her behind her back, and they were quick to remind her that they served their gods, not her. Her sleep was exceptionally turbulent, as her dreams were crowded with unsettling visions. A city of boiling brass, a forest of silent silver, an endless sea of sand, and a great, green sun hanging low in the sky over it all.



The lands surrounding Aquilonia seemed bereft of all life and substance. The Iron Legion was quickly reduced to feeding from its stored rations, which compared to the dedicated supply lines of Arsenikos' forces, were quite meagre. As the main force gradually closed in on the ancient capital, morale seemed to waver. These Northmen and other barbarians were ill at ease in this desolate land. Murmurs of ancient superstitions sounded over the marching ranks, and the nights were filled of prayers of protection from such colorful figures as "the Forsaken" and "He Who Holds in Thrall."

Dratha himself was on edge as he rode on the Old Road. The Book, held at his breast as always, seemed unusually... active. It was warm to the touch, and its pages seemed to flutter of its own accord. When a cold wind from the west cut through his coats and leathers, he could swear that he felt a steady pulse from the Book. Regardless, he did not turn back; whatever lurked in Aquilonia, it was his to conquer. It would be Dratha who mastered the secrets of this world, and the grave of Atlantis held many answers for him.

At last, his main forces crested one of Aquilonia's famous seven hills, and looked down into the city below. From the North, it was eerily still; one could barely tell the siege had broken through the walls and the battle had spilled into the city. Even so, the tendrils of Arsenikos' supply lines and his fields of tents were plainly visible to the West. This was Dratha's chance to sweep the city out from the Atlantean lordling, while he battled whatever force lurked within the city's iron walls.

His forces rode down to the Northern gate, and the sounds of battle more clear the closer they approached. It was strange though; they only heard cries of death and despair, rather than roars of fury and conquest. The Northern gate was closed, but the Witch King himself willed it to rise with his arcane might; he was not called the Lord of Iron for no reason. The Iron Legions streamed into Aquilonia, brandishing the myriad weapons and war cries of their many disparate tribes and ancestors. They found within the walls Atlantean soldiers besieged by the living dead; monstrosities that even when hacked beyond bodily recognition would still not stop. Hope bloomed on the faces of the weary soldiers as what they assumed to be reinforcements arrived. However, once the Iron Legion had sufficiently hacked down the wights that assailed them, they turned their blades on the Atlanteans, killing many with this surprise assault.

Dratha rode behind his vanguard, taking care to keep his horse well away from any grasping, undead claws that laid underfoot. He was confounded, yet intrigued by these legions of dead soldiers. The Book was oddly still, though unnaturally warm, and so he felt it safe to draw on its power. With witches' eyes he looked on the undead warriors, and saw in them small sparks of otherworldly vitality. Borrowed life-force, powering puppets of flesh and bone. With a wave of his hand, Dratha stole these embers of life from the living dead, which quickly collapsed as they returned to their natural state of common corpses. Though none but he could see it, Dratha held the black fires of undeath in the palm of his hand. With enough of this power, he could create a funeral pyre great enough to burn down all of Aquilonia.



A sickly odor drifted on the snowy wind, wrenching Flint's tired features into a grimace upon noticing it. There was taint in this place; the Scourge had taken hold here. His mind felt dull and slow, but questions still worked their way through it. Why had the dragon led him here? Was this a trap? He knew less than he liked to admit about dragons; perhaps if he had paid better attention to the stories his village elders had told, he would be better off now. He dismissed that thought, though. He severely doubted anyone he had ever met knew the slightest thing about real dragons.

Arrow notched, he steadily crept through the icy underbrush. The stench of disease grew ever stronger as he followed the dragon's lumbering tracks. Snow turned to slurry under his boots as the terrain subtly shifted. There was an obvious break in the brush where the dragon had pushed through into a clearing, but as Flint cautiously passed through it, there was no dragon to be found. Rather, he stumbled onto a literal nest of corruption. A small glen, nestled against the sheer stone of an eroded mountain and surrounded by woods on each other side. The overwhelming stench of taint filled the clearing, watering Flint's eyes and causing him to cough and retch in disgust. Strange lichens and mushrooms look the place of grass and shrubs, strangling the trees and climbing up onto the stone of the mountain. They pulsed with subtle luminescence, even slightly quivering where they stood. It was as though they were suckling away the very life and energy of the world to fuel their corruption.

However, Flint's eyes could not linger on the fungal infestation for long. Roaming in the glen were monstrous, black shapes; teeth, claws and fur. Flint recognized the mutants immediately, and ducked behind a tree to avoid their notice. Luckily, it seemed the monsters were otherwise distracted. Their beady eyes were pointed skywards as their mouths full of rodent teeth chittered madly. They slowly gathered around a central creature in the virulent nest; a great, bloated monstrosity triple the size of any of the ratlike beastmen. It moaned and heaved horrifically, a billowing mound of pallid flesh barely covered by furs and parasites. Flint looked closer, and to his horror realized that not only was the monster female, it was a mother. With each inhuman cry, it birthed a small brood of pink, hairless mutants, which chewed through their own umbilical cords. The wretched ratlings then slithered away to a small, covered den of vegetation to feed on a mound of rotting carcasses.

So abject was Flint's horror that he barely took notice of the shadow that loomed over the mutant nest. With a deafening crash of wind and a righteous, feral roar, the dragon made itself known. It descended upon the band of mutants, grabbing one in its mighty talons, and returning to the skies above. Flint could not see the dragon through the cover of trees, but he heard the terrible death-cries of the mutant, which was followed by chunks of the monstrosity landing wetly in the glen. Twice more the dragon repeated this tactic, as the mutants could do little other than to scratch futily at its thick scales. Once the number of monsters had been reduced a reasonable level, the dragon landed in the clearing, crushing two more mutants beneath its weight. The dragon roared, and rivers of orange flame poured forth from its maw. Mutants were incinerated where they stood, and the corrupting fungus they lived in was scoured to ash. The mutant broodmother and her progeny were unworthy of the dragon's claws, and so they were burned away with purifying fire.

With the mutants dead, the dragon turned its attention to the foot of the mountain at the far end of the glen. With another triumphant roar of flame, it purged the malignant growths of the Scourge from the stone. However, the dragon did not relent as the corruption was burned away. Its fire turned from orange, to yellow, and finally to brilliant white as it melted away stone and sediment. At last the dragon relented, and as the steam, smoke and melting rock cleared, a great silhouette appeared in the rock face. Three times the size of the dragon that Flint had been tracking, smooth shapes of purest white shined through, utterly untouched by fire. The preserved skeleton of a massive dragon was eventually revealed in all of its glory, and the lesser wyrm roared to greet its ancient ancestor.

Ioannes had closed the gates of hell, but the demons had already pushed their way through.

The desperate strength of the remaining black knights had wavered at the death of their leader, and soon the tide of the battle within the courtyard had turned. Those struck down no longer rose once more, though the thoughtless hordes remained standing. Ioannes regained his torch, fallen during battle with the necromancer, and with what cavalry remained he fought a desperate battle, fire and sword against dozens or hundreds of sets of gnashing teeth and pairs of clawing hands.

It might have been minutes or hours by the time that the undead stopped streaming into the courtyard, and all that remained was the slow crackling of embers and the charred flesh and bones strewn about. There was no time to revel in this achievement, however; no doubt just outside the citadel another horde fought against the main army. And so he scattered his horsemen to the wind, with one message to send to his forces' remaining commanders: To pull their forces back into the fortress, and block the gates behind them. The black-iron citadel might have once been the home of experiments unholy and horrific cruelties, but its narrow hallways and tall towers stood the best chance of repelling what foul undead continued to roam.

---

The great majority of those who had participated in the assault, thank the gods, had remained in good order where Ioannes had left them at the gates of the citadel. When the dead had begun to walk again they had held firm, keeping themselves between the horde and the fortress. Though at its worst it had seemed as though the undead were about to break through their ranks, two events had saved the majority from sudden doom -- first, a desperate rider had emerged from the fortress, shouting wildly to use fire. Though it took precious time for the archers to light arrows aflame with their lantern's oil and infantrymen to toss their torches haphazardly into the horde, another boon soon appeared. Whereas for the beginning of the fight the undead had seemed nigh-unkillable, eventually they began to fall as any mortal might. When the horsemen rode from the citadel to order a retreat into the castle, it was a significant portion of those soldiers who had originally entered the city who heeded it.

Other news was less savory. One detachment of soldiers, the last to arrive before the dark citadel's gates were closed and barred, claimed to have been in the process of raising the northern gate when they were set upon by the undead. Shortly afterwards, what seemed to be reinforcements had somehow raised the gates from the outside and stormed into the city. These supposed allies turned on the Acharneans as soon as the wights were able to be killed, slaughtering many before the orders to retreat had finally reached the outskirts of the city.

Regardless of who these mysterious attackers might be, the situation was less than ideal. The majority of Ioannes' host still sat in their siege camps against the bay, and those within the city found themselves besieged by the remaining undead. Ioannes gave the order not to waste any more ammunition on the hordes outside the walls unless they seemed to be succeeding in an assault against the fortress -- an unlikely event, since his soldiers had barred the gates and clogged the narrow and twisting passageways with whatever furnishings and debris could be found. With what axes could be produced they hacked at the few bare and scraggly trees of the courtyard, and lit them aflame from the citadel's black iron towers -- a smoke signal that would signify danger Ioannes' army outside the walls. His wife, to whom he had given command of his main forces, was tactical beyond any right a person had to be -- with any luck, she would be reinforcing the trenches and spikes and palisades of the camps and drawing the besiegers into defensive positions in response.

It was to one of the aforementioned black iron towers that Ioannes walked wearily, every step reminding him of the aches in shoulders and the weight of his armor. And every time he blinked his memories seemed to go back to the impaled necromancer as he lay dying, and the lingering truths and horrors that had lain within his eyes. But all that must be pushed aside, for there was other business to attend to -- first, to see if he could find out from the towers exactly who had flooded through the northern gate.

"Hold the main avenues with your phalanxes," Dratha told his legates, "The dead will trouble us no more. Do not attack the southrons unless they strike first."

"Yes my lord," replied Octes, turning to bark orders at the assembled centurions.

Dratha signaled to his guard, then spurred his mount in the direction of the citadel.

The city around him was a charred ruin. Buildings of granite and marble were empty husks, stained by fire and blood, littered with the bodies of wights and southrons. The pride of the Empire, reduced to silence and ashes. He closed his remaining eye as he rode down those empty streets, envisioning the city in proud, ancient days, times this Arsenikos upstart no doubt thought himself restoring. Bustling avenues, thick with pedestrians shuffling between merchants stalls, noblemen and philosophers born aloft on palanquins, snaking a path through the crowds. The shining, gilded dome of the Palace of Wisdom, rising before him where...

Dratha opened his eye....where the black iron walls of the Citadel now were, a thick, ugly spike towering over a ruined skyline like a dark fang set among broken teeth.

A band of wights rounded a corner and, snarling, hurled themselves at Dratha and his guard, but at a glance from the Witch King the undead collapsed into ash and bone.

"I am Othman Dratha, Lord of Sepulchrave," he shouted hoarsely as he and his party neared the fortress. The hordes of ghouls clambering up the rust-pitted walls and hammering at its gates fell lifeless at the Witch King's approach. The southerners along the ramparts aimed their bows at the newcomers, sparing astonished glances at the sudden collapse of many hundreds of wights.

"Let further bloodshed be avoided, lest it feed the fell Power here. Summon your lord- he will wish to hear what I have to offer."

---

The night sky was starless. That was never a good sign, even if it was easier to hide in the pitch black night.

Safiyyah waited patiently as a pair of rough looking men with swords on their belts stepped on past the braziers lighting the entrance to the dark tower. She dangled from the wall to their right, her gloved hands pressed against it like a spider's legs, not gripping but stuck to it.

Seconds passed. A minute. One of the men said some sort of joke in the Borean tongue, something she couldn't quite hear. His friend laughed, and their footsteps grew distant.

With a heave, the Iiramite burglar pulled herself back onto the ramparts, glancing left and right one last time. Nobody was coming. Nobody was looking, and the braziers gave out a light that was small and red, faint from a nightlong vigil over this place. And there, just before her, stood the door. Safiyyah pulled off her sticky gloves and stepped on over to it.

It was an impressive door, to be sure, stately and made of fine, ash-colored wood. Twisted shapes adorned its edges, and the knob was in the shape of a dragon's head. A quick glance revealed that it was locked, and most probably trapped as well. Dealing with both would take time. Time was not a luxury Safiyyah could afford.

So, she pulled a small metal box from the folds of her clothes, and she gingerly opened it. She removed from inside it a small metal strip, then spread the green paste on it around the hinges of the door. The wood hissed as the nasty stuff ate through it, and within seconds she was able to carefully grab the door where the hinges had been and step on in.

It was always better to evade danger rather than face it needlessly.

One word entered Safiyyah's mind as she stepped into the forbidden tower: gloom. The darkness was thick like soup. Even as she set the door back in place convincingly and lit a candle with which to see, she found that it offered little light and no comfort. It would suffice, though. Holding her candle high, she saw rows upon rows of books, stacked higher than she thought was fair for one man's collection, some of the tomes' covers etched in languages long forgotten by the world.

If only I had time to read them all, Safiyyah thought to herself, but she kept on moving. She scanned the covers of those books, noted the tables in the room. Upon one was an astrolabe and what looked to be a more modern map. Safiyyah snatched it. She'd need a good map later.

Her search seemed to take hours, though Safiyyah knew it did not. Fear and darkness had a way of playing tricks on the mind. At times she could swear there were eyes in the shadows, but such was mere imagination. She ventured through the labyrinth of tomes, ancient volumes, and mystic texts, taking two books which interested her most. At the end of the hall she came to another set of doors, this one made of thick brass, its entirety rounded with a strange, alien language. It seemed so familiar...

But time was precious, and the master thief was already at work. It took but a minute of poking about with her lockpick and probe. There was a pop; a click; and then the door was cast wide, a groan like rolling thunder echoing as it did. Safiyyah entered with her pack in hand.

It was a magnificent room, far better lit than the others, though what the source of that sickly white light was could not be discerned. It certainly did not come from any flame, nor were there crystals embedded in the walls. Deciding not to question the magical means of mountain-dwelling warlords, Safiyyah took stock of the rooms contents. Marble floors, more of that strange script along the walls, shapes like bodies seeming to pop out of the wall... It was a good illusion, playing mean tricks on the eyes. Safiyyah wondered if she could replicate such an effect.

But more important than any of this was a set of ornate, ritual daggers arrayed on a table at the back. Something in Safiyyah's mind clicked: those were ancient Atlantean daggers! And the script on the walls, the language she could have sworn she recognized - it was one of the languages of that era, perhaps a bastardized form of the old Iirami alphabet. Her heart pounded and she began copying as much of the script along the walls as she could as quickly as she could, grabbing what looked to be a journal of some kind and flipping to the back. She scrawled onto those pages the text on the walls, text which seemed to repeat itself, and filled three pages with the stuff. It was then, in that moment of elation, that she noticed something.

Some of the writing was gone.

Gone. It had been there but a moment ago. Words do not walk away, Safiyyah reminded herself, confused and rather upset with herself. Another optical illusion. She looked around, but sure enough, no words were hopping around the room. No matter.

The daggers remained, though. Safiyyah approached them cautiously, half-certain they would disappear as well. They did not. She eyed the strange implements, wondering what odd things might have been done with them. A chill ran through her body as she reached for them, but she was no superstitious girl. She snatched one, and then another, and the last one too, stowing them all into her sash. They would be better observed in a safer place.

And that was when she suddenly found herself lurching forward, her head slamming into the table with a terrible crack! Wood split beneath her skull; splinters dug into her face; and before she could gasp for breath, she was hurtling backward across the floor. She slammed into the marble on her back, the most painful of sensations coursing through her body. Blood was in her eyes. She wiped it away, coughing, head spinning, mind racing.

Nothing? There was no beast, no gargoyle, no angry guardsmen pointing a sword at her throat. Above her was only a ceiling upon which was painted a terrible battle. It showed people dying, a city ablaze, and a terrible, terrible scene of a woman having a nail driven through their head.

It was her.

Quickly, Safiyyah rolled to the side, just in time to see a large iron spike slam into the floor where she had been but a second earlier. She got up quick as lightning, stumbling away from the cracked floor, bleeding from her forehead and face. Her blood should have felt warm, but she was cold. She was cold as ice. And looking back at the shapes where the writing had been, she understood.

The words did come to life. They did walk. They were words of protection; words of warding; words binding spirits to this place to serve as its protectors.

One of the daggers yanked itself from her sash and came down toward her chest. Safiyyah batted the unseen arm away skillfully, then sped for the doorway. It slammed shut in front of her, and she looked about the room quickly. One, two - no, three sets of words had left the wall, all of them vaguely like a man's. Three shapes. Three opponents. Three invisible devils.

Safiyyah started running, shoving her her hands into a pouch on her belt. She didn't remember whether it was powdered silver or chalk or gold dust or just some kind of sand; it didn't matter and she didn't care. She listened carefully for a footstep, and there it was, to her left. She tossed a fistful of powdered chalk at the creature there, covering it wholly. Safiyyah grew a wry, triumphant smile. She spotted some of her blood picking up off the floor, and so tossed another bunch of the stuff at that creature as well, making its outline visible to her.

But where is the third? she asked herself. But she had no time to guess. The missing dagger was in a monster's hand. She'd find it, or it would find her.

The creatures - not humans, she reminded herself, perhaps not even once-living things - came at her, totally silent, not even making sound where their feet touched the floor. Safiyyah yanked free one of the remaining daggers from her sash, ducking under the swing of the first and slicing at its side as it ran past. It hissed like a cloud of gas as her blade went through it, and she could see black ink oozing up into the air from its invisible wound. Still, it wouldn't stop moving, and Safiyyah could barely bring the dagger up again as the second creature came rushing at her. They bleed, she thought to herself as it reached out with its arms. Do they think? Feel? Were they people?

It took all her will to hold her dagger out, certain these things were not people. They may have once been, but no longer. She put the weight of her body into the thrust, and even though the invisible monster grabbed hold of her, she stuck her blade into its stomach, feeling a spray of something like mud splat upon her clothes. She looked down, staring as the black ooze rose up from where she'd stuck the thing with her dagger.

The creature covered in chalk fell upon her, heavy and thick, but as the last of the inky stuff escaped its body, it fell through her. A strange, soft mist of letters rose into the air around her, fading into nothingness.

Thunk! Safiyyah wasn't sure exactly what had happened for a moment, save that her leg felt odd and stiff. When she looked down, she saw a dagger - the lost dagger - sticking out from her thigh. The burglar screamed, and her scream surrounded her, ringing throughout the huge, marble room. Then, the dagger twisted about, wrenching her flesh and shredding it with its serrated edge. Her vision became watery as tears jumped from her eyes.

But she knew where the third beast was. Desperately, she took her dagger in both hands and jammed it down where she knew the monster to be. Black ooze came out, and so she pulled it out again, and she stabbed again and again and again. The air seemed to shudder, and then the weight on the weapon in her leg gave way entirely. It was gone.

Across the room, the last creature, still covered in chalk, sat crouched against the far wall. It did not move. It simply stared at her - she could feel its stare - as Safiyyah stared right on back.

Safiyyah had never felt such intense hatred directed at her until that moment. Gasping for breath, the alchemist stood on up, took the third dagger out of her leg, and grabbed the journal off the table. She then left the tower as quick as she could, dread gripping her the whole way as she went.

The last monster had seen her. It would tell its master. What was more, that master commanded unholy magics, and he would know she had stolen his secrets and destroyed his puppets.

Yet she was too afraid to go back and dispatch that creature, and she wondered if, perhaps, it knew that.

The night sky was starless. It hid more than thieves, it seemed. Safiyyah made her escape.

The sun was high on the horizon when Ioannes rode out to meet the so-called Lord of Sepulchrave.

He did not do so alone, of course. When the gate was raised he emerged at a brisk pace, mounted atop his destrier and in the company of a half-dozen armed and armored horsemen. He had taken a grindstone to his blade and a cloth to his mail before emerging; the steel shone like spun silver, while the razor-sharp orichalcum edge of his longsword flashed a dull gold.

His company came to a stop some twenty meters from the gate, men parting on either side to deliver him to this Dratha. From atop the not-so-distant walls, it would hardly be possible to ignore the archers and crossbowmen looking tensely at the parley.

"I am Ioannes Arsenikos," he spoke in a voice that belied no concern. "King of Acharnae, and of much more besides, and heir to the too-long-empty throne of the Atlanteans. I would suppose by the attack on the northern gate that you have not come to swear loyalty to your liege."

"Quite a capital you've won for yourself here, Imperial Majesty," said Dratha, nodding toward the piled corpses and soot-stained rubble. A smirk twitched across his scarred face. "No. I don't wish to swear anything to you, except my desire for peace between us. I did not come here to fight you or to add this blasted ruin to my domain."

"Then what have you come here for?"

"Those riders you slew. The wights and slaves. What do you think they were doing here?" asked Dratha, "What do you think will happen to you if you stay?"

"Do not presume to think that my efforts have been for some vanity," Ioannes countered, anger apparent in his demeanor. "Have you gazed upon the dark walls of this city? I came to add it to my domain, but I remained to cleanse the city of its foul masters.

"And I have," he continued. "My forces have slain their armies and their black knights and their foul necromancer leader alike. I do not mean to remain here. Bend the knee or turn back to your fortress, it makes no matter. I plan only to tear down this citadel, vanquish what perils remain, and move on to riper fruits."

"Well, our cause and intentions are the same. But I am afraid destroying what lurks here is well beyond your skill."

With the mutants dead, the dragon turned its attention to the foot of the mountain at the far end of the glen. With another triumphant roar of flame, it purged the malignant growths of the Scourge from the stone. However, the dragon did not relent as the corruption was burned away. Its fire turned from orange, to yellow, and finally to brilliant white as it melted away stone and sediment. At last the dragon relented, and as the steam, smoke and melting rock cleared, a great silhouette appeared in the rock face. Three times the size of the dragon that Flint had been tracking, smooth shapes of purest white shined through, utterly untouched by fire. The preserved skeleton of a massive dragon was eventually revealed in all of its glory, and the lesser wyrm roared to greet its ancient ancestor.

Flint wasted no time in notching an additional arrow onto his bow, pulling the string back with an almost audible creak. He had been hiding in the thick brush as the dragon made meals of the mutants, and had silently made his way closer through the bushes. He had a clear line of sight to the dragon's neck, and was now calculating the wind's movements in his mind, making micro-adjustments to the position of his arm. Suddenly, the dragon turned its head to face Flint.

Flint fired.

The dragon roared, engulfing the twin arrows in flame, splintering and burning their wooden shafts midair. The dragon stared at the archranger, as if slighted by his attempt at assassination. It took two steps toward Flint, who stood motionless, going through every bit of survival training in his mind. Before Flint could surmise a plan, the dragon grunted for a moment, before taking off into the sky. Flint reached for an arrow from his quiver, though, he hesitated. The dragon had the opportunity to kill him, and yet, it had flown away. Flint paused, before letting go of the arrow's delicate fletching. The archranger was not a man known for his mercy, though out of a sense of sportsmanship, or perhaps gratefulness, he decided to leave the creature be for now.

Flint dropped to the ground for a moment, catching himself with one knee. He was exhausted, and with the adrenaline of the encounter wearing off, the state of his mind and body were quickly becoming apparent. Flint stood up with a grunt, twisting in both directions to crack his back, and began to make his way towards the dragon's skeleton to investigate. It was undamaged by the fire, which seemed peculiar, though Flint figured with the arrival of dragons, he should expect peculiarity.

Flint reached the skeleton, pausing to wonder how old it was. The teeth were as tall as he stood, and still retained a sharp, serrated edge. Flint carefully placed a boot on the side of one of the teeth and pulled himself up and over, landing on both feet and a hand. The inside of the dragon's skull was surprisingly warm, with an earthy smell. Flint took a seat with a hard thud. He desperately needed to rest, and since he was now only investigating the skeleton, seeing as it didn't seem like it would change any time soon, a short rest was more than warranted. Flint leaned back, pulling his cowl further over his head, and closed his eyes.

---

Flint stirred, opening his eyes. He was no longer sitting in the mouth of the dragon, but standing at the foot of the mountain. Surrounding him was an impossibly thick mist, scattered with tiny flitting spots of light that twinkled like miniature stars. The mountain before him was as tall as it had been before, though it was now a steely silver rather than stone, and the skeletal dragon embedded inside was missing. In its place was a clearing, as if it had been carved out of the mountain, with a circular stone floor. There was a great shadow coming from the alabaster sky, though the glittering mist made it impossible to make out clearly.

The looming shadow grew bigger and bigger until it broke through the thick layer of clouds and mist shielding it from Flint's sight. It was a dragon, though not the dragon Flint had been tracking. It was much bigger, with an ink-black coat of scales that made it seem like it was covered in hot pitch. Its eyes were without pupils and were as milky white as its teeth, and its tongue was a dark purple. It landed at the clearing on the mountain, and slowly turned to face Flint. The dragon opened its mouth, hissing at the archranger, who had noticed he was without his bow or dagger.

In the dargon's mouth was a small furled shape, which Flint stared at with a squint before realizing what it was -- Himself. Curled up to sleep and in the same garb he was wearing, at the same spot in the dragon's mouth as he currently slept. The beast growled a low-pitched gurgle before sending a plume of black fire towards him. Flint turned to move, though his legs felt as if they had been stuck to the floor, holding him in the fire's path. The fire enveloped him, concealing his view with an impenetrable blackness, though he remained unburned. Flint's visage had quickly become nothing but darkness, though in front of him, a small bit of light could be made out. The light grew and grew, turning green and focusing into the image of a forest -- Flint's forest.

He could recognize the forests of Borea anywhere. The oak trees and aspen, sycamore and redwood, were all friends to him. He was soaring above the Borean forests, his vision becoming clearer by the second. In the distance, the trees appeared to grow orange. Flint focused his eyes through the haze of his vision. The trees had not turned orange, they were burning. As far as he could see, a clear and straight line on the horizon slowly crept towards him, incinerating the trees. Flint's body was frozen, though he continued forward through the air and towards the trees. Just beyond the line of fire, Flint noticed black shapes in the distance. An army. They held banners, hacking through foliage wildly, leaping over trees and boulders like fleas. They had been touched by The Scourge, perhaps, or something far worse. Flint closed his eyes tightly.

Even with his eyes shut, the Archranger was not free from his visions. He was now back in the forest, riding a black and white speckled stallion. The horse's coat constantly shifted colors, from black to white and black again. As Flint rode, wings sprouted from the horse's back, and it took off into the sky. Its skin began to melt, peeling away to reveal a set of green-brown scales. It was the dragon Flint had been tracking, and it cackled at him with delight. Before Flint could respond to the transformation, the dragon rolled through the air, tossing him off his back. Flint turned to brace himself for impact, shutting his eyes tightly.

Flint opened his eyes once more. Though he had been falling towards the forest floor, he was now floating in a river. Snow fell lightly from the sky, covering about an inch of the shore, while the center of the river was filled with floating isles of ice and snow. On either side, tall trees sprouted from the ground, and the same mist that originally filled his dream had returned. Flint began to swim towards the shore, eagerly paddling away from the river's icy center. He blinked for a moment, and once again, was transported away.

Flint stood at the center of a brilliant green forest. In front of him were the rangers, all of them, in their entirety. Men of various heights and sizes wearing hide armor, dark green robes, and other familiar ranger garb stood at attention, all facing him, and all armed. Around them were stags, wolves, moose, badgers, and seemingly every denizen of the forest. Further around the circle, stranger creatures emerged from the thick brush. Centaurs stood watching from the shadows, and enormous walking trees were close behind. Flint looked down -- In one hand was a scepter, and in the other, a crown. Flint squinted his eyes in confusion, and looked up to find himself in a new land.

Again, Flint was surrounded by flames, and again, he was unburned. All around him were great hissing wyrms, spitting twisting plumes of flames at his pyre. The largest of the dragons sat in front of him, as if transported from his earlier dream. It was black with white eyes, and the same purple tongue he had remembered, though it did not bathe him in flames as the others did. Instead, it held a black horn in its mouth, cradling it delicately between its teeth. It limply let go of the horn, nudging it towards Flint with its nose. Flint blinked again.

Flint woke up with a gasp, covered in a cold sweat. The once white sky was now a dark blue -- Gods only knew how long he had been sleeping. Flint rolled to his side, and felt a small object on his chest. He turned to view it, and pulled himself back into the edge of the great dragon's teeth. There, as if laid by some strange miracle, was the horn. It was made out of a black wood, with a barely visible imprint burned into the side. Inspecting it closely, Flint immediately recognized the etching. It was the skeleton of a great, black dragon.

The King of Acharnae rode through the black streets of Aquilonia, observing the efforts of his men. They piled corpses in enormous pyres, filling the city with the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh. It was a preferable alternative to the miasma of death that prevaded previously. Others marched door to door through what were once settlements, clearing out any stray wights that may have strayed from the hordes. All the while, a dark tension hung over the Atlantean soldiers. Camped in intervals throughout the city were the men (Ioannes was loathe to describe them as soldiers) of this Witch-King of Sepulchrave, who stood about laughing and jesting as his soldiers worked. Ioannes shared their distaste for these barbarians and Northmen, who just today had killed their comrades.

Still, there was little that could be done about it. Ioannes had struck an uneasy peace with their master, and so they occupied the city alongside the Atlanteans for as long as their lord was within it. If they had not arrived, Ioannes' forces would have been far more greatly depleted in the battle against the undead (casualties the "Iron Legions" inflicted notwithstanding), and his men hardly had the strength to oust them after a long day of fighting. Though he distrusted the savages that Dratha held in thrall, Ioannes eventually decided that they meant no harm as long as the two kings were civil.

Ioannes was in no hurry to make an enemy of Dratha. Each man had their own concerns. The Witch King had set off some hours ago to plumb the depths of Aquilonia's catacombs, and Ioannes had more conquests to plan. Though it put him ill at ease to think about it, he realized that every polis that had fallen in the Years of Dusk could be just as infested with darkness as this one. He would need to refine his tactics and equipment to better face against this threat. He remembered as well that not only did he know of this new enemy, the enemy now knew of him.



The returning journey to where her companions awaited her was an uneasy one for Safiyya. The sloping mountainside was perilous to descend in the dark, but that was the least of her worries. All the while she looked back over her shoulder, fearful of the phantoms of the castle following her to her camp. By the time she had returned, dawn was nearly breaking over the mountains. Chibuzo had dozed off in waiting for her, and Safiyya's return startled him awake. He suggested she get some sleep before they set out, but the alchemist insisted otherwise. Though she did not say as such to her stalwart companion, she wanted to get away from this place as quickly as possible.

Safiyya slept in the saddle for a ways as they journeyed towards the North-West. A fitful, short rest, but she doubted she could have slept at all in the shadow of that awful castle. After awakening in the late morning, Safiyya stopped to examine the map she had plundered. This was honestly a far more useful acquisition than the ritual daggers, which she was still uneasy about. The map was quite extensive, and annotated thoroughly. The writings were in modern Atlantean, but the shoddy penmanship made them difficult to decipher. Had a cyclops written these scratchings?

In any case, several interesting details stuck out to Safiyya. Each of the ancient Atlantean poleis had been marked on the map, with a small note under each one. Most carried the simple description of, "Fallen," but a few around the Northern coast of the sea had a name written under them, "Arsenikos." To the north, many Borean settlements were marked similarly, with entire swaths of the map shaded over and marked as, "Plague." Curiously, a small region to the north-east carried even darker etchings, and the strange description of, "Wolves." Did this author have some sort of phobia? In any case, many small settlements and encampments were drawn in by hand throughout Borea, and even into Lemuria and Hyperborea. However did this man come by all of this knowledge? Were his phantom servants his eyes and ears far abroad. A shiver ran down Safiyya's spine as she considered the possibility of being stalked by his monsters no matter how far she ran.

She dismissed the thought, though. Safiyya had better things to do than let her anxieties get the better of her. There was an adventure to be planned, and she had all the guidance she needed in her hands. She looked back at the map. One city stood out above all the others, drawn with loving care and intricate heraldry. It had even been circled and had some arrows drawn toward it from where the dark castle had been drawn.

"Aquilonia: Fallen."



Aquilonia was an ancient city, rife with secrets and mysteries. Many of these buried themselves deep beneath the city, in its lengthy bowels of sewers and catacombs. It was in these dark and ominous depths that Othman Dratha found himself, navigating the winding passages by torchlight. A small retinue of hand-picked warriors followed closely behind him, each gripping their own torch as if their lives depended on it. While he had chosen the steeliest of his men to accompany him, it had been quite some time since they began their descent (perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, none were sure), and their unease was becoming apparent. None had yet suggested that they leave the undercity of Aquilonia, but Dratha frequently heard them muttering prayers to some obscure deity or another. Dratha briefly considered joining them, but he knew there were no gods left in Aquilonia.

In truth, he didn't entirely know what he was doing, either. His men assumed that he had a destination or goal in mind upon setting out into the city's dark depths, but Dratha had only slightly more direction than they. The Book had been pulling on him since he had entered this Gods-forsaken city, and only now that the primary issue of the wights and cabal of dark knights had been dealt with could he follow where the Book was guiding him. He felt it closely, wary to its slightest fluctuations, as it gradually guided them further and further down through darkness. He sincerely hoped that the Book was not leading him to his demise; it had never led him astray before, but it had never really led him anywhere specific, either.

Further they descended, until Dratha's boot met something unusually heavy, nearly tripping over it. A robed, human form laid sprawled across the passage that they were traversing, clearly dead. Cautiously, Dratha rolled the figure over to take a better look at it. A gaunt man, no older than Dratha himself, clad in strange black vestments like some manner of priest. He was quite freshly dead, no more than a few hours by the looks of him, and had taken his own life by the way of the dagger in his hands and the slash across his throat. Wary of a trap, Dratha sensed for any spark of unnatural life in the man, but found nothing. This was a corpse, and nothing more. Three more priests were stumbled upon as the descent continued, and soon thereafter a black knight impaled on his own sword. After a certain point, corpses practically littered the catacombs, filling them with the scent of blood. Dratha and his men to stepped around them, but the Witch King's mind was ablaze with questions. Was this an act of desperation? A ritual? Or a preference to surrender? If anything, he knew at least that the Book was leading him somewhere close to where this city kept its secrets.

The journey continued, and their torches began to sputter and flicker despite having not entirely burned out. One of the men began to panic; the others did their best to constrain him, but they were faring little better. Within minutes, the torches had gone out completely and Dratha was forced to guide the way with witchfire. It was then that what they had assumed to be tricks of the mind deep under the city seemed all too real. Unearthly whispers resonated through the catacombs, and pale lights danced in halls just out of sight.

"He returns," whispered Aquilonia's ghosts, "After aeons lost, the master returns."

Dratha decided that his men, barely holding themselves together, would only be a hindrance from this point on. He left them a mote of witchfire by which to see, and told them to keep watch as he continued on alone. They did as commanded, and began praying loudly as Dratha passed out of sight. The whispers increased in intensity as Dratha continued to follow the guidance of the Book, each hailing the return of their master. The phantoms grew bolder; their luminous forms passing in and out of sight around Dratha. After only a short distance, he arrived at what he assumed to be the final chamber. A circular arrangement similar to the courtyard of the citadel above, though rather than the ruined fountain of Aquilonia, there seemed to be a sheer, black mirror in the center of the room that laid flush with the floor tiles. He approached cautiously, and his witchfire flickered, sending a ripple across the mirror, revealing it to be a pool of dark ichor.

Before Dratha could ponder these mysteries any further, the Book violently wrenched itself away from his breast, and flew up into the air. It drifted as though on unseen strings until it came to hover over the center of the dark pool. Its pages flapped wildly as it began to conjure magic of its own accord. Dratha dared not disturb it, and could only stand aghast as the pool of darkness began to shift and writhe. As though surfacing from its depths, an unnatural being emerged from the pool, eventually settling to stand on its surface. It seemed incorporeal to Dratha, but the black ichor that coated it allowed it to become visible to his eyes. A skeletal figure, mostly humanoid, but with three skull-like faces and no less than six arms. It regarded the book casually, casting it back into Dratha's hands with a gesture of one of its many hands.

The thing spoke, and though its tongue was alien and inhuman, Dratha found that he could understand it. He realized that this was the spoken form of the strange script that filled the Book, though he had never devised its pronunciation. "You are late, Eye of Seven Despairs. Twelve-thousand years by my reckoning." The voice felt like icicles in Dratha's brain, as though he was unprepared to hear it but forced to, regardless. "A small and forgivable offense. Years have been kind to you, most skinwalkers perish after a scant century." The thing looked at Dratha, crooking its multifaceted head curiously. Its gaze felt like the weight of gravedirt crushing the Witch King. "The Usurpers are all but vanquished, what word is there of the Punished? Is it their agent that defies our masters?"



Flint quickly found that the dragon he had been tracking had found him, instead. It paced in the clearing just beyond where he rested in the mouth of the ancient dragon, looking back at him frequently. As the archranger emerged from the skeletal maw, he could feel a mix of impatience and relief wash over him. These weren't his feelings, what were they? The dragon stalked toward Flint, and yet he felt utterly unthreatened by it. He stood still as it approached, not moving even as it came close enough that he could feel its steaming breath. The nagging feeling of impatience increased, and it was then that Flint realized that these were not his own feelings, they were the dragon's.

With a mix of curiosity and amazement, he reached out to the great beast with his own thoughts, but felt nothing in return. He tried again, this time with only his feelings rather than his niggling, human thoughts. He reached out to the dragon with his wonder and curiosity, and he felt the wyrm acknowledge him. It responded aloofly, unconcerned with Flint's infantile interest. Though it shocked him whenever he felt it, this felt utterly natural to Flint, as though he had been born to commune in the language of primal thought and emotion. It was not only the dragon he felt now, but the whole world around him. The serenity of the forest, the solitude of the northern wind, and the implacably ancient power of the bones behind him.

The dragons was growing increasingly impatient with Flint's introspection. It urged him along, as it could smell more corruption on the wind. The taint must be purged; it must be scoured away with pure, cleansing fire. Flint echoed his agreement, and offered his solidarity. The dragon made to set off, but stopped as Flint attempted to climb atop its back. A quick jerk was enough to send Flint off and flying onto his backside as the dragon growled indignantly. Flint had legs, and should use them. Embarrassed, Flint followed behind as the dragon set off to take flight. It seemed even with a primal understanding of the world around him, social cues were still easy to miss for the ranger.

"Aquilonia... Fallen?" Safiyyah sipped at her cup of warm tea, turning this new information about in her head. That name was as famous as any in the old world, a city she'd heard of in books of merchant journeys from before the end of nations. It was said that Aquilonia was one of the few cities in the world whose splendor could rival the cities of Iiram. It was a place of learning, a place where bold and well-carved columns held up great structures, where philosophers and actors alike met in stadiums to ply their trade. Aquilonia, it was said, was most beauteous.

It made Safiyyah feel a pang of regret to know yet another of the great empires was merely ashes now.

"You're brooding again," said Chibuzo. The alchemist looked behind to her right to find her dark-skinned bodyguard taking a seat on the other side of the log she was sitting on. "You've had a haunted look ever since we left that pass. Tell me what you saw."

"Witchcraft," Safiyyah mumbled in answer. The scholar shook her head, twisting her torso and moving her legs to face her companion. She felt a numbed throbbing sensation in her leg, but it wasn't so bad. The medicine she'd taken staved off most of the pain. She didn't want to think about that any further; she still had to decide where to go. She still had to find the Philosopher's Stone... or find out what in the name of all holy things was responsible for the strange things she'd just witnessed.

"If this map is accurate," Safiyyah began, holding the map out so her companion could see, "there are few places that are safe for us to go to. The lands to the west, here, are wracked with... some kind of plague." Safiyyah traced a line with her finger across the thick parchment. "And you and I both know there are beastfolk and other such monsters to be found if we go north. You've killed one of those monsters before."

Chibuzo's face was stiff and his expression hard. Safiyyah knew that meant he was troubled. "The world grows smaller every year," he growled. "Perhaps we should return south, back to my home. You could surely find a husband..."

"No," Safiyyah said quietly, thumbing the map with a click of her tongue. "We'll find what we hunt for yet. Look here, along the coastline. What do you make of it?"

Chibuzo squinted at the page, then said the name aloud: "Arsenikos." He folded his arms over his chest and nodded to himself. "It sounds Atlantean."

"More specifically, it's an Atlantean name," said Safiyyah with a little grin. "It's a first name associated with masculinity or manhood, something like that. And if you jot someone's name on a map, surely that must suggest they are in control of that region, no?"

"That seems reasonable. This Arsenikos could be some sort of witch or bloodthirsty warlord, though."

Safiyyah snorted. "It doesn't matter if he's a warlord, a witch, or a seven-chinned merchant prince. What matters is that the name 'Arsenikos' is a lot less foreboding than the words 'Plague' and 'Wolves' and 'Fallen.' What matters is we can resupply and perhaps even find valuable information. Those are cities on that shore."

Chibuzo grunted, then grabbed his spear and pushed himself to his feet. "Then we'd best get moving while there's daylight."

---

Acharnae was the city the two foreigners decided to go to. It was a long road they treaded, though thankfully an uneventful one. There were a scant few villages they passed through on the way, but these seemed desolate and empty. Where had the people gone? Their homes were intact, but doors were thrown wide open and anything worth plundering had been taken. Had they fled for the hills? Had someone captured them? Did some phantoms whisk them away for some magician's dark designs?

The closer Safiyyah, Chibuzo, and the world's smartest mule came to Arachnae, the more populous the countryside became. First they saw farmlands that were well tended rather than abandoned; then they spotted a little temple built near mountains. It was here the pair chose to stop for the day, and it was in a discourse with the priests that managed the temple of Atlantean gods that Safiyyah first heard something of this "Arsenikos." He was the Emperor, so it was said, though there was some debate among the priesthood about how rightful his claim actually was. Safiyyah kept that information in mind.

The next morning, the alchemist and her bodyguard entered Arachnae through the city gates, presenting themselves as merchants. It took a small sum of silver coins to get into the city without having an intrusive search of her wares conducted, but before it was noon Safiyyah found herself in a city that reminded her of her old home.

While Maliqesh could certainly have been called the prettier of the two cities (at least in her eyes), Safiyyah decided that Arachnae had a certain humble, rustic appeal to it. It had columns, but they were much more simple in form than Safiyyah had imagined an Atlantean city's columns would be. It was smaller than Maliqesh as well, and the market wasn't quite as lively...

But then, Safiyyah thought as she found herself an empty space to set up her stall, this city is still around and Maliqesh is gone. That thought rang in her head for a long while.

It did not take long for the exotically dressed merchant with the ebony-skinned warrior to find herself subject to the interest of a great many curious townsfolk. They merely watched her at first, but once her stall was ready there was a suitably large pack of men and women eager to see what sort of wares the easterner had to offer. She sold incense, tinctures to enhance the senses, healing salves and other such useful wonders. She sold, too, some scented candles, some amusing sparkling baubles made of alchemically-reinforced glass that children could play rough with, and even her last bottle of date wine. By the time the sun was starting to go down, Safiyyah found her stall looking a rather lot more empty, and she disappointed more than one customer when she let it be known she had to pack up for the day.

---

As Safiyyah relaxed into her nightgown and laid herself out on her rented bed, she smiled. It had been a fruitful day. All the well-to-do folk were quite interested in foreign wares, and it wouldn't be long before lords and ladies came looking for something to let them stand out amongst their peers. She could stay in the city for a few weeks more if she had to, take her time, and...

The alchemist jerked up to to a sitting position and looked out through the window of her bedroom. She thought for the barest of moments that she saw a face there, staring at her, but there was nothing. She pressed her hand against her chest and calmed herself down. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep again.

She couldn't.

The Iiramite woman got on up from her bed and took a seat at the desk in the room. That was where she'd set out those three strange knives from before, arrayed in the same fashion she'd first seen them. She couldn't help but gaze at the blade of the one that had pierced her before, and she wondered if there might be some sort of spell on her now. She wondered if there was something terrible that could be done to her now that the strange weapon had tasted her blood.

Irritated, Safiyyah shoved the daggers aside, pushing to the far right edge of the desk and against the wall. She then lit a candle and opened the journal she'd stolen from the castle, for the first time taking a closer look inside.

"What secrets do you keep in here, cyclops hands?" she murmured as she stared at the book. Flipping through the hard to read pages, she found very little of note, and she wasn't sure she had the energy to give the book a good, thorough inspection just yet. But she glanced out the window again, as if expecting to see those invisible specters there - hah - and was glad to see there was still nothing to be seen but the night sky and a quaint little city.

Tomorrow, she decided as she stared out at the city. Tomorrow, I will find out more about this Arsenikos. I will meet the lords and ladies that call this city home. I will win them over, and through them I'll learn what secrets this Emperor hides. And I will also visit this city's libraries and see what there is to be learned about these daggers and words...

Safiyyah looked back down at the book, flipping to the part of the journal she'd copied the text from the walls. She wondered if, perhaps, some spirit could leap out from those words as well.

The thought unnerved her. She flipped back to the beginning of the journal and began to read.

Never before had Ioannes been so happy to see such a familiar sight.

It was a difficult choice, but he had made the decision to leave Aquilonia to the carrion crows who called themselves the Iron Legion as soon as possible. His soldiers, much the worse-for-wear, had marched out of the gates of the once-beautiful city, over piles of disfigured and burnt corpses, and reunited with the very confused siege camps outside. After a short debriefing, the entire army had begun to pack away its tents and fill in its trenches for the journey back to Acharnae.

There, Ioannes planned to take on fresh supplies and fresh levies, and to see if any of the other polis would be swayed by deed of his actions. He sent riders to every corner of what had once been Atlantis, with two goals: firstly, to spread the word of how the King of Acharnae had purged sacred Aquilonia of necromancers, demons and walking corpses; second, to see if any of the other cities of the realm had been reduced to a similar state as Aquilonia. He hoped that the infection had been contained, but some part of him knew that it had spread. Even before they arrived at the city, some of the polis had not responded to his calls for fealty, had he? Now they must, for the sake of the protection of humanity -- if any still survived.

Even more infuriating than the idea of half of the cities of Atlantis lost to demons was to think on that bastard so-called Witch King and his mongrel armies. Ioannes would gladly have sent word to his camps and storm the city once more from both outside and within, if not for the man himself and the powers he held. No, Dratha would be a trickier brigand to deal with, but there would be time once the realm healed. The man must return to his stronghold soon enough. Those barren lands and burnt homes cannot support an army without supplies by sea.

Some weeks later, Ioannes finally set his sights on Aquilonia, the city of his heart. Its triple walls stood proudly, and the farms outside remained much the same as when he had left them. He left his wife half of his horsemen to deliver her to her own city-state to raise the banners again there, and rode through the three bronze gates of the city. He had sent word ahead by the ship that had delivered supplies to Aquilonia. A ragged cheer went up from the walls at the sight of the approaching forces, and the three gates were raised high. As he rode the winding path to his keep, Ioannes explained what had happened to the garrison's commanders.

At the castle's portcullis, he was stopped by a particularly eager soldier. "Who goes there?" the man called.

"Your liege," Ioannes responded wearily. "Open the gate."

The guard stammered, the gate opened, and Ioannes shed his worn mail from aching shoulders as he climbed the serpentine stairs to his chambers. There, safe, home at last, Ioannes Arsenikos slept like a king.