He stood quite still, curved sword held loosely in one hand, dark eyes watchful and alert. He was in the nave of some ancient temple to a forgotten god, half buried in the sands. Shafts of sunlight streamed through cracks in the crumbling dome above him, filtering through falling trickles of dust to create strange, clutching shadows in the reddish gloom.

He tilted his head to one side, as though listening for something in this forsaken place other than the howl of the wind outside.

After a long silence, he nodded, as though satisfied.

"I come in my own name," he said, "I offer my own blood."

He ran his free hand quickly against the edge of his blade. Blood pattered from his palm onto the sand-covered floor. Outside, the wind picked up to a new pitch. Something stirred, or seemed to stir, in the darkness of the temple, just out of vision, but he did not show his fear. To do so, in this place, would be death.

Yes, yes the blood is precious. said a voice like echoing brass. It came from everywhere and nowhere, filled with unimaginable greed. This libation merits reward.

He closed his bleeding palm, wrapping it in a strip of linen.

"Now," he said, "I claim the offered reward. Reveal to me that which the augurs foretell. What doom approaches?"

A warm and humid breeze blew through the iron bars in the window of the chamber, carrying with it the fetid odor of the ricelands to the south. The disagreeable warmth and odor woke Remun from his afternoon nap and he sat upright upon his sleeping mat. Woven dumur reeds crinkled under what little weight his slender body carried as he stretched his arms out and twisted himself around to crack his back. Beads of sweat had formed upon his brow and moistened his greasy mane of thick black hair, indicating it would be too warm to go back to sleep. Unfortunate; as the days continued to get warmer and more humid, Remun had planned to sleep during the warmest parts of the day and commit the more comfortable evenings to reading and study. But if the days continued to be this warm and warmer still, it would be too hot to comfortably sleep or read. With trained discipline, he squelched a twinge of disappointment with this detestable heat. He then crossed his legs and held his arms outward, touching his palms with only his ring fingers - as instructed in the B'zuri manuals - and began to meditate.

After some time in meditation, Remun returned to the world refreshed and acclimated to the heat of midday. He rose from his spartan sleeping accommodations and made his way to the window where he peered through the three thick iron bars embedded into the window's stone blocks and surveyed the outside world. Through the iron bars, Remun had a commanding view of the city of Nyssos. A forest of chiseled spires rose into a hazy yellow-orange sky capped in flattened cupolas of bronze. Smaller minarets rose skyward as well, sprouting from the lower patios and balconies of the primary towers. Banners of purple cloth bridged the distance between several spires and minarets, casting strategically-placed shade on the streets, gardens, and plazas below. At the very base of the spires around him, the streets ran on raised plazas above a winding maze of canals flowing with brown, muddy water where small rafts constructed from tightly-woven dumur reeds paddled along. And far below him, at the base of the spire Remun occupied, the terraces of the palace overflowed with lush, inflorescent plantlife. Looking at Remun's immediate surroundings, one might think he were locked within some castle's dungeon, but indeed, Remun's chamber was situated at the top of a minaret of the palace of the mighty Sashul Davorgada. And given his rude accommodations and his lowly appearance, one would scarcely be inclined to believe that Remun could possibly be a son of the terrible Davorgada, an heir to the entire Salished Dominion.

But that is precisely who Remun was.

There had been a time when Remun himself could not believe or accept his lot in this world. The iron bars through which he peered, eroded down to a taper at their bases, bore testimony to that. During his first year locked in this tower, Remun had tried to file the iron bars down with bits of steel, stone, or anything remotely hard that he could scrape away at the bars with. For an entire month during that first dark year, Remun spent every waking hour grinding away at the iron bars with the aim of removing them and casting himself through the window to a death that would release him from the awfulness of his existence and end his captivity.

Remun's confinement was borne of the paranoia and cold-bloodedness of his own father - the Sashul. Knowing the history of his own dynasty, Davorgada knew the tales of the Sashuls Esur I and II, and his own great-grandfather Tiomad IV - all of whom were claimed to have been assassinated at the order of their own sons that they might assume control of the empire. Recognizing the threat of patricide by his sons, but wanting to preserve his lineage at the same time, Davorgada elected to imprison his own sons until his death. Remun and his elder brother Idrim were imprisoned when they were only boys - the time at which Davorgada first feared his sons might try to murder him. That had been nearly ten years ago, and Remun had not once seen his father, his brother, or anyone else during these long years of imprisonment.

Other men would have lost their sanity many years ago, but Remun had developed a novel means of coping with this fate. With an elder brother who would take control of the empire before him should his father pass and Idrim likely electing to keep him locked away in his chamber, Remun accepted long ago that he would likely never leave this tower alive. But though he was to spend the rest of his life locked away, Remun could still roam Azoth through the words of the books he so voraciously read. Remun had successfully petitioned the guards who delivered his meals to bring a tome or scroll every other day from the palace's extensive library. And over the years, Remun had read a thousand texts from across the known world and beyond.

With no other means of occupying his time, Remun knew a great deal about nearly any subject one might possibly imagine. From his study, Remun had become an expert on the history of Azoth and its numerous nations and peoples; he had taught himself to read and speak Drathan and Nyr'khol. With great difficulty, Remun had read the esoteric scrolls of the monastic B'zuri and taught himself their arts of meditation. He had read a hundred treatises on ancient wars and compared the teachings of dozens of holy texts from the Qayu to the Twenty-Seven Hidden Precepts. There was one passage in particular from the latter text that had left an impression with Remun: From wisdom comes power. Truly Remun had devoted his life to that particular teaching.

Remun departed from the window back to his bedroll and the pile of tomes and scrolls laid on the hewn stone floor beside it, he dragged his bedroll over into the sunlight for the best reading illumination and took one book off the top of the pile. It was a thin book of vellum bound to a cover of thick leather, with "Treatise on the Arshadar Rebellion of the Year of the Setting Sun 7,992" written in Drathan glyphs on the cover. Remun was very excited when his guard delivered this book to him yesterday along with his nightly meal, and he had read much of it through the night until he was too tired to keep his eyes open. Remun found that historical tomes dealing with the history of the Salished Empire written by Salished scholars were riddled with favorable bias to the Empire. Foreign perspectives offered a more even-handed account of the Empire's history, but the librarians must have refused to keep such books because his guards seldom brought them to him. But this text must have slipped by, as few of the librarians were likely to be able to read Drathan. Remun eagerly opened the stiff velum pages and resumed reading.

...By that time Sashul Davorgada of Nyssos had been notified by his spymasters that Lord Laryss Vissaban had sent missives to Archmagister Khalul. In these pieces of correspondence, Lord Vissaban had pledged allegiance to the Congress of Masters in return for support of his rebellion. The gravity of the situation was now abundantly clear to the Sashul; this was not just another upstart lord wishing to abandon the ailing Salished Dominion. Lord Vissaban was a stake being driven into the heart of the Rainlands by the Congress. Should Lord Vissaban's rebellion have come to fruition, the Salished Empire would have been cut in half, isolating the less populous western half of the empire from Nyssos. The Drathan Union would then be in the perfect position to march up the Shelf of Vorgul, retake Zar Salis, and more. Sebir Tul would pose little obstacle for an invasion from the Ashlands, and so the entire western half of the Salished Empire would have easily fallen. Sashul Davorgada therefore understood that if Lord Vissaban's revolt was not immediately put down, it would be the death of his empire.

The Sashul moved immediately to quash the alliance between Lord Vissaban and Khalul the Magnificent. A small force was sent under command of Vizier Izadrun to fortify Zar Salis and the Shelf of Vorgul while the Sashul and the bulk of the Salished host marched on Arshadar. Sashul Davorgada immediately began a siege in which he unleashed a savage volley of burning boulders against the very walls he had ordered fortified six years prior. On the 17th day of the fifth moon of 7,992, Archmagister Khalul's mercenary army of Ashenriders had bypassed Liandry and Sebir Tul in an attempt to break the siege. The Sashul's army suffered heavy losses from the initial charge, and may have broken were it not for the timely intervention of the Sashul's own mercenary contingent of Xiangese. The Battle of the 17th ended in Salished victory, but only just, and a daunting siege of the hardened citadel remained...

Remun was interrupted from his reading when he heard footsteps echoing up the stairway just beyond his locked door. He glanced out the window, still early afternoon; his guards were not due to deliver his dinner for hours yet. This was peculiar indeed. Perhaps his guard had finally found that copy of The History of the Dead Hive. Remun took note of his stopping place and shut his book before making his way to the door. On the other side of the door, Remun could hear several people talking in hushed whispers while a guard fumbled with a jingling keyring.

The door opened, revealing Remun's typical guard opening the door for a cadre of warriors clad in the ornate plate and lamellar armor of the Sashul's Guard. The stone-faced warriors parted to make way, for behind them was a man dressed a silken robe of blue with a white, beaded sash slung across his breast - the sort of garb one usually only saw worn by palace courtiers. He had aged considerably in ten years time; his nappy, braided beard had faded from the jet black he remembered to a silvery gray, and his gaunt, sharp cheeks had sunken even further inward, but Remun still recognized this man as Irssun of Tehre, one of his father's spymasters and advisors.

"Remun," the worry-wizened man croaked, "look how you have grown. It has been so long since I have seen your face. Do you remember who I am?"

"I-Irssun," Remun recognize in a near whisper. In his solitude, Remun very seldom spoke at all. It had been weeks since he had last uttered a single word, and the sound of his voice felt foreign and unwelcome in his own throat. "Yes, I remember you."

"Before I utter another word, I wish to express my deepest sorrow for what you have had to endure for these many years. If I had one grain of sand for every time I pleaded with your father to release you and your brother from imprisonment, they would outnumber the sands of the Erg." Remun could see Irssun's lips tremble before the next words left his mouth. "I never wanted this for you... but your father was incorrigible..."

Was? Could this be...?

"My father is dead." Remun concluded. Irssun nodded in tacit confirmation.

"Your father passed away in his sleep in the evening. He had been in failing health for years now."

"I see." Remun acknowledged, his words mouthed out listlessly and his voice devoid of any feeling. "I presume therefore you have come to release Idrim and I from our imprisonment, now that my father has passed."

Even the stoic Sashul's Guard exchanged glances with one another as Irssun paused to find the most delicate way of explaining the situation to Remun.

"I forgot that you have had no way of knowing... your brother Idrim is dead as well." Remun had no words for Irssun. He blinked, dumbfounded.

"Idrim took his own life five years ago, he..." Irssun once again paused to find the correct words. "He took a post from his bed and scraped it to a point against the floor and with it pierced his heart. This is why we could not allow you to have any furniture during your imprisonment, not even a proper bed. We could not loose you, Remun. Please understand."

"Then I am Sashul." This time the very words in his throat felt alien, threatening to choke him as he tried to pronounce them. Just an hour ago, Remun awoke in his chamber like any common criminal, unaware he was the Sashul of the entirety of the Salished Empire. It was a day he had convinced himself would never come. This had to be a dream, or perhaps a nightmare.

"Yes. In accordance with the ancient laws of the Saliszi and Mardok, you are become Sashul of the Salished Empire. But for now you must do precisely what I say. There will be a day for coronation and pageantry, and all the formalities will be adhered to in due time. But you must understand, Sashul, that these are extremely trying times for the Dominion. No one must know that you are the son of the Sashul and more importantly, no one must know that your father has perished. We must proceed with caution, and you must come with me."

Remun felt he had little other choice than do as Irssun asked. And so, after almost ten years of imprisonment, Remun stepped out of his chamber and descended the winding stairway down the tower as the Emperor of the Salished Dominion.

“Boiled rat! Get ya boiled rat, right ‘ere!”

“Coppa’ bands! We’re sellin’ tha’ finnest coppa’ bands in all of Tzieania!”

”Swords, ‘un axes, ‘un spears! All the best metal for stickin’ ya foes with!”

For a people who supposedly despised order so zealously, the Chainless were very good at imposing their own primitive laws upon little pockets of Tzieania; with the Free Man’s Bazaar being a prime example.

The marketplace itself was hollowed out of a cavern in the side of a crumbling cliff-face, with stalls and stores assembled from pieces of old boats, or fallen watchtowers. Faded bedsheets and old world flags had been recoloured with homemade dyes in order to bring a bit more colour to the bazaar; hanging from flagpoles, or draping over one of the larger emporiums of scavenged junk.

The armoured thugs that served as so called soldiers in the Chainless “army” were dotted about the place, their eyes fixed to wherever the largest cluster of shoppers was. There was no established uniform for these guardsmen, so they garbed themselves in whatever rusted scrap was on offer; wielding makeshift polearms, or old rapiers that were mottled with fat blotches of rust.

Louise Couriere moved cautiously through the buzzing rabble of Tzieanian, a dark blue bandana pulled over her head, in order to hide her tell-tail red hair. She was dressed in tattered scraps of linen, with a sword belt that held a modest-looking saber strapped around her waist.

“Next time, feel free to take Vincent on whatever deadly suicide mission into enemy territory you have planned,” Laurent hissed from over her shoulder, as the two undercover Sentinels tried their best to navigate through the bustling crowd without incident “as much as I want Tzieania back in the hands of the right people, I’d quite like to be alive long enough to see it, if that’s all the same to you, madame general.”

“Getting cold feet, Laurent?” The general asked with a wry smile “You seemed a lot more keen a few hours ago.”

“Yeah, well I couldn’t let Vincent show me up in front of Elodie…” he grumbled, going slightly red in the face.

Louise laughed inwardly. She’d learned long ago that a pair of teats was the perfect motivator for most of the male Sentinels (and a few of the lady Sentinels, too).

“If we make it out of this deadly suicide mission mission into enemy territory unscathed, then I’ll be sure to put in a good word with Elodie, for you.”

“You said that last time!”

“Eh. she’s great bait.”

The pair slipped out of the horde of browsers, and over to a small wooden den that sat away from the central hustle and bustle of the Free Man’s Bazar. The den itself looked to be made from bits of an old sail boat, with a curved roof that resembled the ship’s bow, and a motley curtain strung together from hole-ridden bits of the mainsail.

A well-built man with a hard jaw guarded the entrance, dressed from head-to-toe in scale mail armour, with a curved sword dangling from his leather belt.

“You get lost, lil’ girl?” The guard stared down at at Louise, mocking her in his gruff drawl.

“The land of ash is sinking, drowning like my heart.” Louise said calmly.

“But a fire inside is blazing, to wash away the blackest of arts,” The guard said slowly, raising one eyebrow.

“The broken chain shall be mended, and the usurpers kingdom struck down.” Louise continued.

“The line of old shall be restored, and the pureheart shall claim the crown.” The guard mumbled.

He paused, considering Louise for a moment.

“You go inside,” her grunted “the boy stays out here.”

“Will you be alright, my lady?” Laurent shot her a look of concern.

“I’ll be fine, Laurent.” She said with a warm smile, before brushing her way past the mainsail curtain, and wandering into the dark room which lay beyond.

The soft tinkling of a pair of iron balls, filled with copper beads, woke the miner long before any bird could. His eyes slowly adjusted to the cool dusk and the silhouette of a petite figure curling around the door. The figure moved forward, creeping into the room, as soon as the miner craned his neck up from his coarse linen pillow. The bed-sack stretched to its limits as the miner's daughter slid inside, her new shoes adorned with bells piercing the quiet as she went. A small smile surfaced on the miner's face. He slid an arm around his daughter and she threw an arm across his belly. They lay there for a while until the sunlight came.


D'shad was the first to receive the message. The cast iron door to one of the palace entrances had been hammered by a small fist a worrying amount of times before a patrolling guard soon unbolted and heaved open the door. She had ignored the guard's initial query entirely, ducking under his armoured hand. A hostile shout followed the girl into the opulent hallway. She had dodged and weaved past the milling palace residents and the council members, the honour guardsmen and the Ministry attendees until a narrowing series of steps defeated her stamina. She had run all the way from the lower slopes of the Isolated Mountain, specifically from the developing mines, with snot streaming from her nose and welling tears that were only kept from bursting out by the panic that gripped her. The gentle tinkling of her bell-tipped shoes had raised quite the clamour throughout the echoing halls and two honour guardsmen were upon her in a second - one of them nestling her into an uncomfortable and strong hold while the other dug through the pockets of her clothes and patted down the shoes on her feet.

"There's nothing on her." This guard concluded. The brutish one that held her grunted in response. The girl was frozen in shock all the while, her vocal cords seemingly unemployable though she was itching to scream up the stairs to where the Ministers were. Her eyes fluttered about the stairway, finally stopping for a second on the guard that had searched her. She recognised his presence properly for the first time. This man before her, his intimidating appearance aside, was just as able to listen to her as the Ministers were. Bushy eyebrows and a pair of confused and relieved green eyes were all she could see of the guard's face, so she hoped that he had functioning ears by which to listen, nevertheless she began:

"Father went into the-"

"What on Azoth is going on here?" With this exclamation, the girl stopped short, and both she and the two guards swung to face the archway at the head of the stairs. There stood an additional two of the honour guard, two women, one on either side of the youngest Ahsor Vok sibling. This man was important enough in both presence and rank to have taken hold of the room and its inhabitants immediately. His young age of twenty-one displayed a sense that the man had reached his highest potential, and that each subsequent year would only wear the man down, but he would tell you otherwise, instead believing that he has much more to learn and that he is strong enough to adapt to life in any form it comes to him. Whatever the rumours about the Minister, he was at this time certainly a reliable figure who could stomach disturbing news. The girl recognised him as such, now standing silently, with the first guard's grip still on her shoulder. The guard with the green eyes stood aside from the girl and bowed his head slightly in respect, then promptly spoke.

"Minister D'shad, forgive us. We captured this girl running through the halls, heading in the direction of the Ministers' Quarters. Other guards were shouting behind her, so we assumed..." He trailed off awkwardly, realising then the lack of information they actually had.

"What? That this girl is some pint-sized assassin? First of all, I am concerned of your opinion of any of the Ministers if you believe we cannot defend ourselves from an attacker of this stature. My mind subsequently dwells on the actual purpose of a girl clanging her bell-boots through the palace halls. Did either of you think to let her speak her mind in your ever so necessary defence of mine and my family's lives?" D'shad droned on in an amiable tone characterised by humour and sarcasm. The two guards chuckled with embarrassment and one quickly relinquished his grip on the girl's shoulder. Then the green-eyed guard thought of a legitimate response.

"She didn't speak, Minister, up until... well, she mentioned her father in a breathless state." The guard knelt and brought his face before the girl's, his bushy eyebrows raised high and expectant of the girl to release some exposition. "Go on, you were planning on telling him this, right?" The girl nodded somewhat and drew in a deep breath, composing herself in preparation to speak, though she was still sniffling and her eyes held onto some quantity of liquid. Even D'shad, famed for his endless quibblings, was impressed by her ensuing rapid sentences.

"Father went into the mines a little after daybreak, I mean he's a miner, that's his job, he wasn't going in without being allowed to, I mean you know the few houses placed near to one of the mines? Yes, we live in one of those, me and Father, not Mother anymore because she stayed behind in the city and started living with this other man who had more money, but Father took me here some time ago and now he works in the mines. Uncle Mhyrie is our mine's supervisor, that's how Father got to work in this one, because he is the brother of Uncle Mhyrie, so we live next to his hut by the mine and Father goes in most days to do his job," The girl sucked in more air and gave the onlookers a short reprieve. The green-eyed guard looked to D'shad to allow him to stop her going on, but the young Minister was too amused for the moment to heed him. "Yes, so, he went in after daybreak, not long ago, and I like to watch him go in because he waves to me, and afterwards this supervisor, not my Uncle Mhyrie, usually gives me some of his leftover bread which is nice. I was sitting there, just before, and then there was a huge noise from inside the mine and rock on the ceiling fell down and filled the passage a little into the mine! And Father and Uncle are down there today with some others, and now they're trapped! They- They're trapped!" Her breath failed her at this point, and the snot and tears began to flow once more.

"Oh, oh no." The other guard by the girl, the one that had grabbed her, muttered suddenly. D'shad's humour had all but fallen away, and the cogs in his mind were almost visibly at work. No-one moved for a second, until D'shad spun around and pointed his finger at one of his female guards.

"Please, would you alert Rhashul and Habruth to this news? Tell them I am going to this mine without delay." The woman bowed and left through the archway. With but a gesture D'shad bade his other guard to follow him and they rushed down the steps to reach the girl. "Now, brave girl, thank you for informing me so soon. What is your name?"

"Vernillios Calsh, sir." The girl said betwixt sobs.

"Very well, Miss Calsh. Would you be helpful enough to guide us back to the exact mine wherein this event occurred?" She nodded one final time. "Come, take my hand, then. We will do all we can to aid your Father and your Uncle Mhyrie."

"D'shad - Minister D'shad, sir!" One of the honour guards called before they could leave the stairway. The Minister turned in irritation, that someone would prevent him from rushing to the disaster site. This someone was not the friendly green-eyed guard, however, but the brutish guard who had grabbed Vernillios in the beginning and had taciturn since. "Please, there's a man, one I knew was in Supervisor Mhyrie's group today. I'd like to come..." He could not think of more to say. D'shad was concerned about being slowed down.

"A relative? I can take a message, if you're quick."

"No, sir. I... I'm sweet on him, Minister, and he's the same for me. Please, I'd like to be there."

D'shad sighed and then beckoned, "Come, then. Quick. Drop as much armour as you can, so you can be faster." The Minister re-affirmed his hold on Vernillios' hand and then jogged towards the exit. The guard began to fumble with his iron vestments, and with both the green-eyed guard and D'shad's female attendant, who was already free from heavy armour, assisting him, he was soon on D'shad's trail.

---

The band of four ran as fast as they might through the narrow streets of Zoltur. The beginnings of a working day showed its signs all around them; merchants hung up their signs and offered new deals on products they had a surfeit of, children gathered around wells with empty buckets in hand, people gathered around early morning preachers with their palms together and their eyes closed. All in all, the city was operating as normal. People hadn't heard yet of the mine's collapse. D'shad spared the people his notice for the nonce, though he usually made efforts to maintain good relationships with anyone living inside Zoltur. He was not spared their attention, however, for a handful of well-meaning shouts came his way, and one man, after losing his job and drinking his sorrow away the night before, blamed his misfortune on D'shad and the Ministers. Vernillios had found some new source of energy within her body, as she found herself in the lead of the four despite her previous run having just ended. Behind the girl and the Minister, the male guardsman was turning red with the effort, and he was beginning to struggle to keep pace. He glanced incredulously to his fellow guard, a woman of D'shad's personal detail, who was releasing not a sound of exhaustion and sported the same expressionless face as she had maintained previously.

They passed the last stone-bricked building, cramped close between the city wall and a clutter of other buildings on the street. D'shad yelled to a standing guard by the sturdy wooden door and flashed his Ministry Seal in his hand simultaneously, for good measure. The guard noticed both the man and the Seal and the door was ajar by the time they rushed through it. The four were alone now, on a beaten path of dirty brown rock, that was bordered by tall grasses on its right side and the towering wall on the left. The path had been built up with sand from the nearby coast, for the rock had been littered with potholes and sudden drops into the grassland below, and the sand now shifted under the impact of the band's boots. Before long, the only sound was these repeated impacts, and the sharp jingling of Vernillios' bell-boots.

"It's around this path, here." The girl shouted, turning and choosing the lower of the paths where the last path stopped and two new ways appeared. This path ran parallel to the other, but it remained on a steady level while the other climbed quite drastically to an opening in the mountain that rose up before them. They ran almost exactly south for fifteen minutes, making sure to watch their footing when the path grew narrow, for what had been an incline downwards upon leaving the city was now a veritable cliff. Finally, they made it to an open landing, where a fence protected unknowing men from the cliff and a collection of houses stood. They were all of them completely out of breath, save for the female guard who seemed quite unperturbed by the journey. Although, D'shad kept moving forward, leaving the others to rest for a second. He examined the nearest rock-hewn house up close. In truth, he only knew of the tiny miner villages and their ventures into the Isolated Mountain by their concept, and had never travelled this high before. He had always been too preoccupied with city matters or his own dealings around the various grasslands and cultivation sites. The view from the vantage point was spectacular - it extended the horizon far out to the sea, and the coast's every indent and outstretch was visible. D'shad made a mental note to this place at some point. He had discovered something he had been missing: a comprehensive, mountain-aided view of the land they lived on.

"Well, then!" Came a gruff voice from the mine's opening. "'Seems little Vernillios climbed all the way up the food chain! The 'honourable' D'shad Ahsor Vok finally graces us with 'is presence." D'shad responded, quite offended, while the girl and the two guards gathered behind him.

"I'm sorry, but I think any hostile precedent you have set against me should be put aside. We are here to help with this cave-in, not squabble." D'shad said this forcefully, but with enough of a congenial tone to make the miner in front of them unclench his fists.

"Yeah, well... thanks. Your two soldiers there can go help the other miners," They did so immediately, the man obviously more enthusiastically than the stoic woman, "Now, if ya' don't mind, lil' Vernillios, me an' mister Minister here might talk alone fer a second." She seemed about to protest, but a serious look from what D'shad assumed must be another supervisor sent her walking off toward the mine. When she was far enough away, the supervisor stepped a little closer to the Minister and his voice declined to a hushed muttering.

"Now," He said, "Ya' might be wonderin' about the particulars of this here 'cave-in'. We were too, us supervisors, an' we agreed that there ain't no way any pressure or structural problem caused the mine ta' collapse."

"Well, if not that, what else is there-" D'shad started.

"If ya'd let me finish!" The supervisor snarled. "Ya see, we found some kinda signs a ways into this mine a coupla' weeks back. Troublin' signs. Signs of somethings' bein' here before Zoltur was even a dream in yer big brother's head. An' it may be... that these somethings ain't dead and gone. It may be that they've finally found about us livin' here, an' diggin into their ol' home. If that's the truth, Minister," He bit his lip and showed genuine worry in his eyes, "Well, you might be wantin' to get a few more of yer soldiers up here..."

Torches roared softly as Irssun led Remun deep within the palace, somewhere below the magnificent throne chamber and opulent halls he had scampered throughout as a young boy. Remun had forgotten much of the palace's layout during his years of confinement in the tower, but he distinctly recalled being forbidden from playing in these cellars. The stones that comprised these cavernous halls were ancient indeed; the torchlight of the Sashul's Guard illuminated infant stalactites that had formed over a thousand years of sediment-rich water leeching through the stones of the vaulted ceiling above. Cobwebs laden with centuries of dust hung in the stolid air as banners of a long dead and forgotten kingdom. Mardok the Subjugator, the very first Emperor of the Salished Dominion, founded the city that would become Nyssos atop the ruins of the castle of some vanquished Rainlander king, and this dark undercroft was the last remnant of that ancient citadel.

The vaulted corridor led into an antechamber illuminated by a brazier, where a handful of palace guards stood vigil at the entry to a larger chamber beyond. Without doubt, they knew Irssun and his entourage of Sashul's Guard, but they did not recognize Remun, and so they failed to make way as Irssun approached.

"Forgive us, Master Irssun, but I cannot permit the boy to pass," one of the palace guards spoke up, stepping directly in the path of Irssun and his entourage.

"Stand aside," Irssun commanded. "This boy is the last living son of the Sashul. You will let us pass." With no further comment, the palace guards stepped to the side, standing at rigid attention on both sides of the portal to the chamber beyond. Irssun, Remun, and the Sashul's Guard went inside.

Beyond the archway was a larger chamber whose stalactite-studded ceiling was held up by pillars of crudely-hewn stones. The floor was covered thickly in dust. Shards of pottery and dust-covered urns embedded within the soil suggested that this was once a storage chamber for the ruined castle. Looting warriors under the command of Remun's distant forebear likely smashed these very pots and vases a thousand years ago during Mardok's sack of the original citadel. Today this chamber housed broken and ruined remains of a different sort.

In the flickering glow of a triad of braziers filled with crackling coals: a man-shaped figure resting upon a wicker cot, draped over with a veil of purple silk. Remun stepped past Irssun and the guards and stood above the veiled body of Sashul Davorgada. Remun gingerly tugged on a corner of the veil and revealed the lifeless face of his father, only to find a face he scarcely recognized.

A withered, pallid visage met Remun's eyes as he drew back the sheet. Fatty, wrinkled skin hung limply to his face, seemingly ready to slough off at the slightest agitation. There were bags under closed eyelids, sagging and purple with red veins coursing just beneath the skin. His hair was thinned and gray and the natural knappiness of ethnic Salished hair had been left unchecked, resulting in a long, wiry mane. Gone was the stark jet-black beard that Remun remembered, so meticulously greased and braided that it looked as if it were carved from crespice wood; a mop of frazzled whiskers were all that remained.

This was not the Sashul Davorgada that had been Remun's father, the liberator of Arshadar, the executioner of Lord Vissaban and a half dozen other rebellious lords, and the man who had imprisoned Remun for ten years for a crime he would never dream of commiting; but he had been once. A thick and squarish jaw peering through the sallowed flesh and the tall, blocky nose that Remun had inherited gave proof that the corpse before him had indeed been his father many years ago.

"What happened to him?" Remun asked with languid dejection, keeping his gaze fixed upon the face of the dead Sashul.

"Nothing nefarious," Irssun responded, stepping forth to join Remun beside the cot. "He passed in his sleep, the Sashul's Guard posted outside his bedchamber reported nothing of note until he failed to wake this morning. I personally inspected the chamber, and found no sign of struggle or intrusion - as your father's spymaster for a generation I know the hallmarks of even the most delicate assassinations. If he was poisoned, I could find no trace of it in his salivary humors. There were no bites, cuts, scrapes, or wounds. Not even the Dratha have assassins capable of dispatching a target so cleanly. If anything, it was fear that killed your father.

"Fear?" Remun asked, parting his gaze of his deceased father to meet Irssun's sharp, calculating eyes. "You mean to tell me that jailing his own sons was not enough to quell his paranoia?" The smallest ember of anger burned within him, and even the calming B'zuri rituals he had learned to control this fury were struggling to quench the vitriol threatening to ignite within his heart.

"No," said Irssun plainly. "Ever since his own coronation, your father heard only treachery in every word and daggers in men's smiles. Just as your brother was born and before you were ever thought of, Vissaban's revolt served to assure your father's lunatic fears. The Congress of Masters lost their chance to break the Salished Empire on the ramparts of Arshadar, but they soon recognized the chance to break the Sashul instead. Their spymasters fed us misinformation, fabricated rumors of treason where no malignant plots existed. Your father personally executed two lords that I later found to be entirely innocent. The lords therefore feared their Sashul, and the Sashul feared his lords."

"Constant worry and fretting ground your father down, and when his health failed him, many lords saw their opportunity to free themselves." Irssun continued, pacing slowly around the cot now. "Varrod and his clique and the Ahsor Vok family have departed the dominion except in name, and another four holdings have expressly refused to answer to Nyssos. Half of the Empire is in revolt; Khalul achieved with a score of spymasters what all of Vissaban's levies and an Ashenrider army could not. So great is the triumph of the Congress that we cannot even commit your father's remains to the necropolis of Zuag-Si, for a wretched and depraved clique of degenerates has been allowed to usurp control of the citadel there. And even if that were not the case, the funerary procession would certainly be waylayed by the brigand armies and pirates that now rule the countryside."

Remun replaced the veil over his father's face. "It would appear that the situation is utterly hopeless," he concluded spiritlessly. "When the lords know that my father is dead, and a boy who has scarcely seen the light of the sun since he was child is proclaimed Sashul, what hope is there for the Salished Empire? The lords will unanimously abandon the Dominion, for no lord will ever answer to a boy whose only understanding of Azoth comes from books and scrolls? I think that a spymaster of all men would be able to predict such an outcome.

Why would you even let me out of my chamber to begin with? You would be better served leaving me in my chamber to rot while you fled the coming catastrophe. Do you intend to see me to the coronation, only to serve me on a platter to the Dratha in exchange for your own life?"

"You will not question my loyalty, you dolt!" Irssun snarled, startling Remun. Save for the crackling braziers, silence settled once again upon the cavernous undercroft. "Even your father was smart enough to trust in me. If you wish to make it through the coming days without a blade in your throat then you will do as your father did and trust in me as well."

"Understand, Remun, that I have no illusions as to the current state of affairs," Irssun continued with a sigh. "The coming days, years perhaps, will be among the darkest in the history of the Salished Dominion. But they need not be the end, or even the beginning of the end. I see you have little faith in yourself, that you do not believe yourself fit to be Sashul."

"How could I be?" Remun protested. "I know nothing of being Sashul."

"Not true," Irssun interjected. "On the contrary, you will likely be the most well-learned Sashul in the history of the Empire. You have spent the last ten years studying history, religion, politics, and statecraft. You have been training to be Sashul with utmost rigor since you were a child."

"Y-you knew I read?" Remun asked incredulously.

"Knew?" Irssun scoffed. "I've been giving you most of those texts. Did you seriously believe that this palace's library had intact copies of the B'zuri Manuals just laying about? Those scrolls cost a small fortune to procure, but I knew that their teachings would keep you from going mad in your captivity the way your brother did, so I acquired them for your study. I've been guiding your studies these years without your even knowing."

"But why?" Remun asked again. "Why should you care, Irssun? Why would you not simply leave?"

"There is something that few Sashuls or kings or emperors ever come to realize that I need you to understand, Remun: kingdoms and empires are not merely the playthings of kings and Sashuls. There are nearly a million souls living in the Salished Dominion, some of which I count as friends and kin and I will not see them all butchered and enslaved by Khalul and his ilk. I will not pass into the divine with the destruction of this empire written as my epitaph. And so I will spend my days serving you, the legitimate heir of the Salished Dominion, until my final breath, that you and your progeny will lead our people through these dark and treacherous times."

"If that is your motivation," Remun said, determination in his voice for the first time he could remember, "then I will put my trust in you. I will not let this empire sink into the abyss of deceit and bloodletting. I will be the Sashul that the Dominion needs."

"I am relieved," Irssun replied with a sigh, perhaps in relief or perhaps also in anticipation of the toil to come.

"There is much to be done." Irssun continued, turning to the veiled body on the cot. "The world must know eventually of the passing of Sashul Davorgada. In lieu of interment at Zuag-Si, his earthly remains shall be burned in a mighty pyre that his soul may be committed up to the heavens on the rising smoke.

And there, our people will be introduced to their next Sashul."

Huge and crimson and shimmering, the sun sank behind the jagged black line of the horizon.

The Dust Way was empty, 'cept for Olms and his gaan-lizard, plodding toward the disappearing light. Caravans out of Zar Pellos wouldn't be plying this stretch for a few months yet, waiting for the wet season to end, when the wolf scorpions went dormant and nyr'kiin raiders could travel less far from their burrows.

Olms wasn't worried about any of that, himself. The Dust Way was a straight thin line cutting through miles and miles of boulders and thorny brambles and not much else. He knew these parts and what lived in 'em. Knew the kinds of things that were big or numerous or stupid enough to try'n take down a full grown gaan and an armed rider. Knew that even without the lizard, he could take most anything south of the Smoking Forest. He and the Sword slung across his back.

He felt the weapon twitch very slightly in its scabbard as he thought of it. Or maybe at the thought of shedding blood.

He grimaced and took a long pull from a dented flask.

In the distance, a horn sounded, and dark silhouettes crested a slight rise in the road, just beneath the red horizon.

Olms frowned, squinting into the sun. A column of soldiers, looked like, headed towards him. In the direction of the Empire.

The Masters starting their bid for the Rainlands, he thought.

He thought about what to think about this. Wondered what was the lesser of two evils, the Congress or the Shashul.

Olms'd plied his trade in the ashen wastes of the Union for most of his life, working for merchant-lords, slaver-chieftains and often even for Drathan magisters themselves. He had few illusions about the glorified coven of bandits that presided over this place, an entire country little more than a vast slave-pen, so different from the Empire which, even now, even nearin' its own twilight, still provided its subjects with a good living, however modest, and with order, with settled laws rather than the whims of changeable warlocks. He thought of all those villages in the Rainlands without walls- without need of them, for centuries. Remembered ridin' through those places as a boy with his father, wondering at how they stayed safe from the muties and the bugs, and the old man sayin' they didn't need to, on account of the Sashul and his armies. How rare that was, to not live in fear!

What would happen to them when the Drathan lords divvied those little towns up among themselves in the course of their endless and pointless feuds? He thought of market squares turned into slave-auctions, of rice-paddies turned into grub farms.

He thought then of Yta, whom he had once loved. He thought of her dark eyes and her knowing half-smile. Thought of what the Salished priests had done to her in their Foundry Temples.

The Sword twitched again.

"Let the Drathans have it," Olms said quietly, to no one.

Not for the first time, he pondered how the coming war might be related to his current errand. Wondered whether this new contract would set him at odds with the ambitions of the Congress, or whether he would be serving the endless schemes of that canny old spider, Khalul.

The outriders put an end to this speculating. They surrounded Olms silently and in short order, four of them descending like ghosts from the flowering thickets of strangle-vine that bordered the road. Hulking aelg-men with their pointed eyes and teeth riding lean young gaans and the slender, swift horses of the Ashlands.

These men knew what they were about.

Olms reigned his lizard to a halt, unscrewed the top of his flask, took a long drink.

"Evenin'" he said, tilting his hat back on his head and meeting the gaze of the rider in front of him. The other man's face was a busy mass of scar tissue and he was holding a nasty-looking axe loosely in one hand. The buckler strapped to his other arm was painted with the sun-and-moon sigil of Zar Dratha.

"What's yer business on the Dust Way?" asked the rider.

"Headed to Zar Yiin," said Olms, "to meet up with an old, ah, associate of mine. One who pays well."

"Your line of work?"

"Sellsword," said Olms with a smile, "I believe that's tolerated in the Union?"

"You're ridin' west," said the rider, "With Salished steel strapped across your back. The real stuff, I think. The Soul Steel."

"Doesn't sound like something a spy would do, does it?" said Olms, "Not a good one, least ways. 'sides, I'm no braid-bearded Rainlander, am I? Not like the man I killed for this."

Slow and deliberate, Olms drew his sword. The mounts of the riders surrounding him shifted and growled uneasily.

It was a beautiful weapon. Curved, slender, single edged, it caught the dying light as Olms drew it, flashing scarlet.

Olms met the eye of the rider in front of him. There was a long moment of silence.

"If he's a spy, he's a dumb one," said the rider, the nervous edge to his voice was barely audible, "Let him pass."

A stiff breeze blew across the Ashlands, plucking ash from the earth and sending it to drift through the remains of a caravan as well as the large group assembled beside it. It wouldn't take an intelligent man to realize what had happened; there were the corpses of men and mutants all around with their blood seeping from numerous wounds, while the group was obviously divided. On one hand there was a number of men and women of numerous races chained together, bruised and dirty, and alongside them were men whose garb matched the garb of the corpses and most of which were nursing fresh wounds. The other group was composed entirely of Nyr'kiin, many of them mounted on great lizards but even more of them on foot. And every single one of them had several weapons sheathed somewhere on their bodies, most of them wielding maces or bows but more than a few with several primitive firearms each. The Nyr'kiin had obviously attacked the caravan, and were now dealing with the survivors.

The leader of the Nyr'kiin was at the front of their group, mounted on one of the great lizards and with a pale blue markings painted on her face and body. Her name was Chyn'Ik'Zakeer, and like all of the Nyr'kiin present she had been a member of the warrior caste for her entire life. And at present she was looking down on who she assumed was the leader of the caravan she'd just raided; or perhaps they'd killed the leader and he was just the second-in-command. She didn't know for certain and she could not care less; the result would be the same either way. The man was dirty, just as dirty as the rest of his men, and he had a open wound above his eye causing his greasy hair to be glued to his forehead with blood.

For the longest time Zakeer simply stared at the man, waiting for him to speak. Her face betrayed no emotion aside from the occasional twitch of her antennae, at least to their captives; her subtle body language and pheromones made her irritation and impatience with the man evident to her fellow Nyr'kiin. But finally, her impatience made her the first to speak as the man did nothing but glare.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" Zakeer asked, not enjoying the way the words flowed from her mouth. Her jaws were made for speaking the tongue of the Nyr'kiin, and the word of the apes felt wrong in her jaws; sounded wrong as well because of the hint of hissing and clicking underneath her speech. Of course, she didn't realize how off it sounded.

But at those words, the man's glare turned into a snarl of rage. "You monsters attack us without any provocation, butcher my men, and then ask what I have to say for myself?" he said, not even trying to hide the fury in his voice.

Zakeer felt nothing but annoyance at the man's overt display of emotion, "Of course."

The answer shocked the man into a moment of silence, before he began to sputter angrily. He hadn't been expecting an answer so blunt and without any hint of explanation and he momentary had no idea what to say to the monster before him. But finally he managed to yell "Why the hell did you attack us?"

Zakeer cocked her head, the first sign of emotion recognizable to the man that he'd seen, and answered by gesturing to the group of battered and bruised captives chained together. "They are slaves are they not?" she asked.

"So?"

"Yes or no."

"Well, yes they're slaves but why the hell does that matter?"

"Where did you get them?"

For a moment the man was confused by the question, and why exactly it mattered. But then it dawned on him, and he couldn't help but think to himself how much of an idiot he'd been. Everyone knew that the Nyr'kiin hated the Dratha, and there likely wasn't anyone else he could've acquired the slaves from. He could've believe he'd accidentally wandered close to enough to the hive to be caught. "Why the hell does that matter?" he answered defensively, in the vain hope that not admitting to dealing with the Dratha would perhaps lead to some small measure of mercy.

But Zakeer was growing even more tired of the man, and chose this moment to jump down from her mount and stride right up to the man. They stared at each other for a moment, the man forced to crane his head upwards to look into the Nyr'kiin's eyes and then the man opened his mouth to speak. But he didn't get a single word out before Zakeer's fist slammed into the side of his face.

The force of the blow had knocked the already weakened man over, and as he stood back up on shaky feet he spit a shattered tooth onto the dusty ground. He glanced over at his men, but none of them made any move to help him as they were paralyzed by fear. But the man stood defiantly again, spitting blood onto Zakeer's face. She simply stood stock still for a long moment, the blood beginning to run down the leathery shell on her face. She was infuriated by the man, of course, but there was no way he could know that. That is until her hand shot out again, but this time grabbing the man by his throat.

The man tried to get out of her grasp, but when he brought his hands up in a vain attempt to pry her hand off his neck, she grabbed them both by the wrist with her lower arms. And she simply stood like that, watching as his face turned red and his eyes began to bulge out. But she was cut off by a shout from one of her men.

"Chyn'Ik'Zakeer, we have three!" came the voice, speaking in the tongue of her own people.

She quickly threw the man down, leaving him coughing and heaving in dust as she made her way quickly towards the voice. It had come from near the slaves, who were all huddled in a terrified mass. But they parted for her, and those few who didn't were shoved roughly aside until she came to the one who's called her.

She was a fellow warrior, with the blue paint and weapons of their caste, but she was kneeling beside three other Nyr'kiin. They, however, were stark naked and without markings in addition to being chained together. Zakeer knelt down beside them, looking to the warrior and telling her to grab some food from their packs. She attempted to greet them by gently brushing her antennae against theirs, but they recoiled from the touch.

"No, no, it is okay," she said hoping they understood the language of the men at the very least, "You are safe now."

"Never safe," one of them said, "Never."

"No, you are safe now. I swear; just come with us," she said, but was interrupted by another.

"We can't; they'll find us," he said, blabbering, "They always find us. Hurt us."

"Your brothers and sisters won't let anyone hurt you again," Zakeer said, trying to calm them.

The Nyr'kiin seemed confused by this, looking among each other. But then the warrior arrived once again, handing a small leather pack to Zakeer. She pulled a piece of white fungus from it, holding it in her hand and offering it to the slaves. They were hesitant at first, but the one who had yet to speak eventually took it and stared at it.

"Eat," Zakeer simply said, pulling another piece of fungus out. The slave quickly consumed it all, and soon the three were gorging themselves on the fungus. And when one of the other slaves, a human, attempted to move closer the warrior had to do nothing but draw her sword and stare. The other slaves quickly took the hint, and didn't even attempt to disturb the Nyr'kiin.

"What do you mean brothers and sisters?" one of them asked in between bites, "They were all taken away..."

"No," Zakeer replied forcefully, "We are all the children of the Queens, we are all brothers and sisters. And we protect our family."

"The Queen?" another asked, confusion evident in their voice.

"Yes, the Queens," Zakker replied, "I am no priest, but come with us and I will tell you all I can on the way to the Hive?"

"What's the Hive?"

"Home."

It was a long moment before any of the Nyr'kiin replied but eventually one stood up, iron shackles clanging together as they did so. And it wasn't long before the others stood up as well, but then one looked around at the other slaves. The one who weren't Nyr'kiin, "What about the others?"

"They can do what they want," Zakeer said, "It does not matter."

"Can't they come with us?"

"If they want to," Zakeer replied, but as a murmur went through the throng of slaves she made a quick amendment, "But they have to keep up on their own."

Though the three were unsure about their saviour's callousness they followed her nonetheless; after all the things she spoke of intrigued them and it was the first time freedom had ever been dangled in front of them. Zakeer quickly made her way back to the slaver's leader, who was still lying on the ground. Then she turned to the three Nyr'kiin slaves, her face blank despite her feeling a malevolent joy.

"Go ahead," she said, gesturing to him.

They were confused, and did nothing before Zakeer explained. "Surely you want some revenge?" she said, "Go ahead, do whatever you want."

At that the man looked up at Zakeer, and then to the three slaves. "Boys, boys, there's no need for this now. We can talk this out, right?" he said, his tone almost pleading as the three moved in around him. Then Zakeer drew one of her knives and handed it to one of the slaves.

"Have fun," she said, patting him on the shoulder as she turned to mount the great lizard once again. As the man screamed, she focused her attention elsewhere; whether or not they'd be able to carry all the supplied from the caravan, whether the corpses would spoil before they arrived back at the Singing Hive, and whether it'd be easier to kill the slavers now or let them walk to the Hive on their own legs. Then the screams stopped, and she looked over at the three slaves only to see them covered in crimson blood and looking over at her.

"Enjoy yourselves?" she asked.

The answer wasn't immediate but soon one of them replied, "It felt good."

"That is what I wanted to hear," Zakeer said happily, hoping at least one of them decided to join the warrior caste. Their kill was rather sloppy, and she'd love to teach one of them the true art of killing. But for now, she was certain they'd fit in back home at the Singing Hive.

Flay sat coiled like a viper in the corner of the dream-den. Embers of a poorly tended fire cast a dim light on the sunken lounge and its ragged occupants. A beastkin whelp, eyes peeled open and descended into madness murmured through chills, the narcotic smoke of the black mountain orchid at work in his bloodstream. Flay stirred at the sound of an intruder.

The door was a mound of rags tacked to a wooden frame on a wall of slick, mossy stone. The low ceiling was soot-caked and sagging in the center. Sounds of slaughter and salaciousness crept through the cracks from the brothels and butchers above. The rotting cloth at the door twisted and spat out a darkly dressed man who nearly tumbled down the handful of steps into the lounge.

Of the dozen wastrels asleep on the floor, none but Flay noticed the intrusion, and the half-beastkin stood, sniffing the air instinctively. He clutched his killing knife as he stood and long, unkempt braids of mottled-black hair fell over his shoulders. Flay stuck out his lower jaw fangs obscenely at the man, who didn't move, but rather stopped in his tracks and removed his hood.

A boy, thought Flay, relaxing. Flay sauntered up to the trespasser, giving the shivering whelp a solid kick to the ribs for the hell of it. The stuporous beastkin managed a pathetic moan and rolled over. There came a scattering of whispers from around the room as others began to stir from their narcotic slumber.

"Piss off," said Flay, wagging his tongue. Up close, Flay could see he was clearly not a resident of the Slain Quarter, let alone Zuag-Si. Clean face. No dirt or scars or weariness on his face. The boys boots were practically new.

The boy shook his head and started to speak, but Flay growled in anger.

"I said-"

"I heard you," croaked the boy.

Pup has a tongue then. We'll have to remedy that-

Flay grabbed him by the scruff of his cloak, shoving him against the grimey slum wall. He raised his knife slowly, giving his victim ample time to see the blood-stained weapon, the jagged teeth of its bite.

"Wait!" he managed. "The Mm-m-membrane requests-"

Flay angled his knife slightly upwards, imagined the gore that would spill from the pups throat if he gave but a little tug here. Something primal surged in Flays chest. His beastly heart began pumping fire and eons of weird evolution clouded his higher brain with a simple directive- Kill it.

But. But-

Did he say Membrane? Flay frowned and tucked his fangs under his upper lip. The Membrane, the fanatics who kissed Lugal's Masters collective arses and effectively kept them in control of the city-or rather from anyone else taking control of it. Flay did not fear anyone in the Zuag-Si, but he was not stupid-the Membrane had power on the streets. The crucified criminals displayed all about the city was proof enough for Flay.

"Membrane is it?" said Flay, loosening his hold on the boy.

The messenger blinked and gave a slight nod. Flay dropped his knife to his side in regret. The Membrane-and by extension the Skinless Ones, those sorcerers who nightly cloaked themselves in raw ichor, high in their stone-walled keep, were nothing to be trifled with. If this boy was truly a messenger then Flay would be wise to listen.

"I'm listening, runt," said Flay.

The messenger adjusted his cloak and peeled himself off the sticky lichen-covered wall and opened his mouth.

"You are to disband your...faction for the discernible future and leave the city at once," relief flooded his face the moment his message was delivered.

Flay smiled wickedly and bared his fangs once more. "Got word of something devilish did they? Well, I'll tell you-ah what's your name runt?"

"Kwal, but I-"

"Kwal? What the hell kind of-nevermind-tell your Masters..." Flay trailed off momentarily and looked at the floor. Behind him, his faction stirred. Ragged men and women-nearly a dozen of them rising from the blood and urine soaked sunken lounge, blinking in the pale half light of mid-morning. In a distant hall, something liquid dribbled into a cavernous well.

"Yes? What?" posed Kwal, leaning in.

Flay cocked his head to the side. "Tell them-" Flay plunged his knife forward, the man shrieking in surprise more than pain as the knife touched organs, "I refuse!"

---

Magali could see a great plume of smoke rising up into a purple twilight sky, winding earthward to a tiny pinprick of orange light somewhere far to the west, somewhere close to Nyssos. A caravan had passed through the village this morning from the capital, bringing word that Sashul Davorgada had died. She watched that distant pyre flicker and churn against the looming night setting in from the west for a brief moment, but ultimately paid it little mind and continued on her way. For as the Sashul paid little mind to the goings-on of the peasantry, the people of the Rainlands were largely ignorant of their Sashul.

The village was settling down for the night as she strolled though the disorganized smattering of wattle-and-daub huts that comprised this countryside hamlet, a ratty old basket of woven dumir reeds cradled in the bend of her elbow. The men of the village were returning to their domiciles with hoes caked in dirt or nets of wriggling fish. Cooking fires glowed from within the huts with a warm and inviting light as she strolled along the filthy, muddied ruts. The smoke was infused with the smell of boiled ashroot and lentils, which mixed with the rancid odor of human squalor that clung to this village. The smell reminded her how hungry she was, yet made her stomach churn; the odor of the town was both compelling and repulsive. Equal measures of compulsion and revulsion, Magali thought, was an apt summary of her feelings for the hamlet she called home.

She lived in a village that passing merchants and travelers typically called as Kul - the Ford in the Salished tongue, as the town was situated on a bluff overlooking a shallow stretch of the winding Tashgad River. But to the peasantry that inhabited this village, it was simply home, and any of the hundreds of other nameless villages that dotted the Rainlands might as well belong to distant and exotic kingdoms as far as the people of this hamlet were concerned. There was no need to name this place, no need to distinguish it from its neighbors, because nearly everyone who lived in as Kul had been born there, and almost all of them would die there too.

Magali's father had been one of the few to escape this place. She was but a little girl when the Sashul's men rode into the village and called the young men of the village to arms for a foreign campaign against a pirate stronghold on the Sullied Coast. Her father either died fighting the pirates of Sirtu or amassed enough loot from the capture of that fortress to make a new life for himself, because the day he marched off to Nyssos was the last time she had ever seen him. Whatever his fate, Magali was sure it was better than the short, difficult life that the peasants led here.

When he left to fight in the Sirtuan Corsair War, Magali's father left behind a wife, two sons, and two daughters in unenviable circumstances. Being a solitary peasant woman was a difficult proposition on its own, to say nothing of having four additional mouths to feed. It was not unheard of for widowed mothers in this village to throw themselves off the bluff or drown themselves in the Tashgad to escape the unbridled wretchedness that their lives had become. But Magali's mother was a tougher sort of woman than them, and she had resolved to feed her children whatever the price.

Her mother had just shooed her children out of the hut, as she always did when she was having guests over. Magali was a young girl who had only seen the ebbing of her fourteenth monsoon, but she was plenty old enough to understand what that word was a euphemism for. The younger children typically played around the village when this happened, blissfully oblivious to the shameful acts occurring within their own home. Magali, however, took pity upon her mother and had decided to help her feed the family in whatever small way she could - that she might prevent her mother having just one visit from the guests. To that end, she would be catching mudcrabs.

The huts of the village were built up to the very edge of the bluff, where Magali looked down to the river below. It was a sixty foot drop to the babbling Tashgad; a sheer drop to someone who didn't know the way. But if one looked carefully knew where to look, there was a narrow, winding goatpath that could be followed all the way down to the reedy banks of the river. With her basket clutched firmly in her left hand, and her right pressed against the silty wall of the bluff, Magali descended the narrow path down to the river.

Though she had braved this path down dozens of times before, the descent was still harrowing. Pebbles and bits of grit scattered under her muddy, calloused feet, falling off the goatpath and tumbling all the way down. Night was descending fast as well, making it that much harder to find the footholds and avoid the weak ledges that crumbled underfoot. With diligence and care, Magali made it all the down to the riverbank intact.

The Tashgad River was wide and shallow here, saturated with sand and mud. The river gurgled and churned over the gravelly riffles and sandbars. Mats of dumir reeds grew tall and thick on the sediment-laden riverbanks and sandbars, where Magali knew she would find her quarry. She drove into the reeds in search of mudcrabs. Cold mud squished between her toes and splattered up to her calves as she combed through the reeds, prompting Magali to roll her jute-woven pants up above her knees. Even at her young age she had acquired an attractive, womanly shape; her legs were lithe and muscular, running up to a wide waist, with pert lumps already developing beneath her coarse linen shirt. Already she had become accustomed to unwanted attention from the boys of the village. A few moons ago, Magali had been cornered by a pair of older boys as she was climbing up the bluff after looking for mudcrabs one morning.

"Take off your shirt and let us see your tits," the younger boy demanded.

"Go to hell," Magali snarled.

"I'm not interested in getting any of that lip," the older boy retorted with a malign grin. "Just let us have our way with you and we'll be gentle. It should be no problem for the daughter of a whore, after all."

Magali went into a fury upon hearing that. Without warning, Magali seized the older boy by the left arm and cast him off the goatpath down the bluff. Had the boy fallen from a greater height, and were there not deep mud and dumir reeds directly below him to break the fall, the boy would have surely died. Instead, the two ruffians went on to give Magali a wide berth, and the village boys never bothered her again.

The sky's twilight glow was quickly fading; night was quickly descending upon the land and it would be difficult to see anything in the thick reeds before too long. With wide sweeps of her arms, Magali parted the reeds and scanned the fibrous reed stalks for any sign of her prey. In the corner of her left eye, she saw a flicker of movement - a mudcrab fleeing for cover among the reeds. Magali sprung forward, parting the reeds away from her face until she saw the creeping thing scurrying away. She stooped down and cupped her hands over it before. When she was sure she could feel the mudcrab squirming under the weight of her hands, she scooped it up and held it to her eyes. They were ugly little things, more akin to a prawn or louse than any true crab. Their taste was also inferior to a real crab: terribly gamey, with an aftertaste all too reminiscent of rotten fish. But meat of any sort was hard to come by for a peasant, and even a few of these mudcrabs would be a hearty supplement to their meager helpings of boiled ashroot.

Magali was able to hunt down another four mudcrabs before night fell in earnest and it was too dark to see anything in the reeds. A successful hunt by any measure. Content with her prey, Magali made her way back up the bluff, stopping every so often to keep the wriggling mudcrabs from crawling out of the basket. The climb was slow and cautious now that there was only starlight to light the way. By the time Magali returned home, the visitors would surely have left and her mother would be cleaned up. After some time, she had made her way up the bluff and back into the village. The cooking fires inside the huts had died down to low embers now, giving just enough light for Magali to find her way back home.

There were horses tethered to the weedy qaubir tree growing just beside her mother's hut - the first sign that something was amiss. Nobody in the village owned a horse; mother's visitors were travelers. And not just any country horses either - thoroughbred Shiqors, stable-shod and fitted with leather saddles worth more than what most peasants could expect to earn in many years. These were not simply travelers looking for a cheap lay, the riders of these steeds had to be wealthy men from one of the cities, a sort who had no business bedding with peasant women.

And then she heard her mother sobbing.

Magali practically dropped her basket of mudcrabs before skirting around the front door to the window at the back of the hut. Her mother typically draped a cloth over it in order to keep the neighbors from spying in on her salacious work, but Magali drew it back just enough to see what was going on inside.

There was a pair of men standing about near the cooking hearth, both clad in leather cuirasses with bands of iron bolted upon the leather. Dark blue robes - the sort wealthy men from the cities wore - draped down from underneath their leather chestpieces. They were a martial sort to be sure, but they were definitely not the Sashul's men. They looked on at her mother, curled up in a heap at the bare dirt floor, sobbing piteously.

"You must stop your crying, woman," one of the riders said. "You mustn't alert her to our presence."

Before Magali could process what the man had said, a pair of gloved and meaty palms seized her by the shoulders. She let out a piercing howl into the night as the man behind effortlessly hoisted her up and slung her over the shoulders like a sack of ashroots. She kicked and squirmed and writhed and bit against the giant of a man who had taken her. But her best efforts to escape only elicited a gravelly chuckle. Her bemused captor took her around the hut and barged inside.

"I found her!" Magali's captor bellowed as he presented the girl to his two companions as a hunter might with a prize boar.

"Excellent," the most opulently-dressed of the three riders exclaimed - a young man with a nascent beard that he could only manage to braid two or three times. "I was afraid she may have been frightened off by her mother's lamentations, but I am pleased that is not the case. This profession is so much more pleasant when all parties are cooperative."

"... and isn't she marvelous," the leader cooed, brushing Magali's cheek with the back of his finger. Magali nearly bit down on his finger, but the rider withdrew his hand before she could even attempt it - as if he knew exactly when to retract his finger out of experience. "What a soul she must have... I take it her womanhood is still intact?" He said to Magali's mother. Her face was swollen with tears, and she could only respond with a wild nod between her croaking sobs.

"Mother!" Magali screamed, "what are they doing?!"

"I'm so sorry," her mother croaked in between sobs, "I'm sorry, so sorry!"

The leader of the riders drew a leather bag the size of a fist - jingling with more silver elish than the big rider could hold in one outstretched palm - and dropped it onto the dirt floor.

"We'll take her."

Olms rode into Zar Yiin as the last light of dusk bled from the sky and rain began pattering down amid the square mudbrick storefronts of the town. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

His mount gurgled with pleasure at the moisture, and Olms swung down from the saddle and gave the lizard's gnarled hide an affectionate slap, bidding her farewell as they parted ways- him into town to get falling-down drunk while she - not a gaan that took well to tyin' up- prowled the rocky wilds just outside Yiin's low clay palisade, digging up a dinner of ashcrabs and centigor eggs.

The few locals still outside, in keeping with the legendary hospitality of Ashlanders, gave Olms suspicious glares and growls of disapproval as he sauntered down the main road. Olms tipped his hat to them as he passed.

Yiin wasn't much of anything, just a handful of buildings huddled together around a brackish spring in the vast emptiness of the Ashlands. Besides the spring- little more than a bubbling, nasty smellin' pond- the only features of any note were the great iron pens in the village square where the Slaver-Clans would display their captive wares to the caravaneers and traveling Drathan magnates come summer. The cages were empty now in the off-season, save for a few silent and desultory Nyr'kiin that clicked and buzzed at Olms as he walked by. He tipped his hat to them, too.

The tavern was the biggest building in town, built in cheap imitation of the pagoda-palaces of the Drathan lords. It was sagging and leaning and weather-beat from years of monsoons and ash storms, curving eaves hung with thorny and leafless vines. Flickering light and thick blue tarric-smoke and the threats and hoarse laughter of dangerous men drinking themselves numb spilled from the doorway.

Olms clicked the hammer back on the flintlock holstered on his side- best to be prepared in these places- and went in to join them.

It was hot and smokey and crowded mostly with the poorer sorta slaver and also, therefore, the poorer sorta whore. Bug hunters, most of 'em. Sallow men with narrow eyes filled with all the meanness comes from a life of huntin' something that can hunt you right back.

Olms gave the dim, long room a leisurely once over. Got plenty of glares and threats back, but saw no sign of his new employer. Must be runnin' late. That was fine with Olms. After six days on the Dust Way, he was ready for a drink or two or seven.

Girl tendin' bar was a stunner. Musta had some Drathan blood in her, on account of the dark hair and eyes and the pale skin. Would also explain why she could serve drinks in a place like this with no one layin' a hand on her.

Curdled, the warlocks called their half-breeds. Good blood gone bad. Olms'd killed his share of wizards in his long life, and knew they bled bright red just like all men did. Usually shit themselves when they died, also like regular folk. But the good people of the Union didn't think so, and so gave even half-Drathans a wide berth.

"What's the strongest thing you got?" he asked her.

She tilted a bottle of something greenish at him and he threw a couple of silver fangs down on the splintery bar. She poured him a heavy measure of the stuff- nestwine, they called it here, on account of it bein' fermented from the fungus the Nyr'kiin grew in their burrows.

He knocked it back in a gulp, threw another few fangs on the bar, gestured for another.

She raised an eyebrow and twisted those pretty lips into a skeptical smirk, but she poured.

"Where you headed, stranger?" she asked.

"Right here, darlin," he said, this time sippin' his booze.

"The only man in Zar Yiin who wants to be here," she said.

"I reckon that's not true," said Olms, "Plenty a boys'd stick around just to get another look at you."

It was then that the tavern got real silent real fast, conversations drifting off mid-sentence, laughter muffled too quick, and all eyes went to the doorway.

The man standing there was dressed all in black, face obscured mostly by a dark-colored scarf and a broadbrimmed hat tilted low over his face. Pale skin on his bare arms traced with obscure and beautiful tattoos. A Drathan. The real article.

Eyes the color of volcanic glass, no whites, like a shark.

"Olms," said the Drathan.

"Good to see you again, Gabul," said Olms, who alone in the bar was not wearing an expression of confusion or horror. He was sitting relaxed on his bar stool, glass in hand, a resigned smile creasing the crags of his sun-beaten face, "Come have a drink."

“Need a light?” A soft voice called out of the blackness.

“That’d be very much appreciated.” Louise said calmly.

Somewhere, out in the dark, a lithe figure lit a fat wax candle, which flickered to life with a hiss of flame. A wave of light washed over the room, bringing the frail man in his wooden chair into being.

“Which twin am I talking to?” Louise asked “Krull or Grull?”

“Irrelevant,” the twin gave a wave of his hand, swatting away her question “everything that I see, so too does my brother.”

“Alright then,” Louise shrugged her shoulders, pulling a battered old chair out of the darkness, before sitting down with a thud “O’ nameless one, I’m here because your messenger enticed me with a very promising proposition; one which I’m hoping you’ll elaborate on.”

“And I shall,” Krull/Grull vowed, his voice echoing through the emptiness “just as soon as you give me what was promised.”

More than a little vexed, Louise reached one hand into her leather pouch, pulling out a small metal-disk, which seemed to bleed green light. Miniature gears whirred across its surface, and at its heart was a tiny emerald.

“Archeo-Tech is so hard to come by, without sacrificing scores upon scores of men,” the twin gave a sharp titter “the Ritorio twins thank you for your kindness, Miss Couriere.”

“Now,” Louise spoke firmly “I’d like to discuss the reason I’m here.”

“Of course, of course,” the twin bobbed his bony head “a girl wants passage into Feikaina..and the Ritorio twins can be of service.”

“So you say,” Louise frowned “yet I’ve yet to see any evidence to validate your claims.”

“Prepare to be amazed.” The cold figure grinned, showing off rows of pointed teeth.

A skeletal hand, crooked like a tarantula, went skittering into Krull/Grull’s long black cloak, and emerged not long after; clutching a pale scroll, bound by a red wax seal.

“This will get you beyond the great stone walls, sweet Louise,” the twin said with a sharp smirk “the rest is up to you.”

“That’s all I need.” Louise declared, snatching the scroll from the twin’s hand, and rising to leave.

“Be warned, little general,” the figure called after Louise, as she made her way out of his den “Feikania is no place for the weak.”

Louise stopped in her tracks.

“Weakness has never been a problem for me.”

In a blur of movement, the young woman darted back across the room, a slither of hard steel slipping out of her cloak.

The twin tried to scream, but the dagger danced across his throat before he could gulp in the air, and soon his life blood was trickling down his throat. Louise ran her hands over his dying body, scooping up the Archeo-Tech Disk, and striding slowly out of the den; leaving Grull Ritorio to bleed out in his chair.

Outside the wooden shack, Laurent stood over the pale corpse of the doorman, cleaning the flat of his blade on his sleeve.

“Did you get what we came for?” He asked Louise, smiling darkly.

“I did indeed.”

It was only natural that there would be many unusual adjustments for Remun in transitioning from the ward of his own father to emperor of the largest and most populous realm in all of Azoth. The past week had been a litany of accustoming himself to the numerous and often strange customs of being the Sashul of the Salished Empire. Among those changes was Remun’s very appearance. Prior to the cremation of his father and the subsequent coronation ceremony, his advisor Irssun had toiled diligently to give Remun the appearance of a true Sashul. His nappy, unruly hair had been combed and greased into a straight, flowing mane. He wore silk robes every day now; immaculate white and trimmed with golden yellow, royal purple, or crimson, with a matching sash draped over the shoulders. White cotton pants and slippers were occasionally visible underneath his flowing robes. Remun appreciated his new outfits, as he found them quite comfortable in the sultry Nyssos air, but there were other aspects of his new appearance that Remun did not welcome. Chief among those were his new beard.

A good beard was vital to a Sashul’s authority, Irssun had explained to Remun. The tradition of thick, black beards went back a thousand years, to the Saliszi warlords who descended from their mountain-nestled kingdoms in the Godsfang Mountains to conquer the Rainlands. Coming from the cool mountain vales to the North, the Saliszi were a naturally-hairier people than the Rainlanders, whose humid lowland home warranted no need for extra warmth. The ethnic Saliszi came to grow their beards out in order to distinguish themselves from the vanquished Rainlanders. Even to this day – after hundreds of years of interbreeding between the two peoples – most peasant men could only manage patchy scruff on their chins and jawlines. A large black beard was a symbol of wealth, power, wisdom, and masculinity; the patchy whiskers that grew on Remun’s chin and down his neck would simply not do. Irssun therefore ordered a servant to shave Remun’s facial hair down to stubble, and had another fashion a long, black goatee onto his face with horse hair and thick gobs of some sort of paste dabbed around his lips and chin – a much more respectable facial ornament for a young Sashul, to be sure.

But how it itched! There were many times when Remun could do naught but fantasize about tearing the false beard off and scratching every bit of hair off his face. He frequently tried to scratch at an errant twinge of itchiness under his nose, but rarely did his attempts get past the old spymaster Irssun, who would immediately slap the Sashul’s hands away from his face.

"Leave your beard be, your majesty," Master Irssun chided once again. "Your beard must remain intact if you wish to command even a modicum of respect from your lords. And we can ill afford to have you appear weak today."

Remun nodded in accord, and begrudgingly set his arms upon the armrests of the throne and diverted his attention from the nagging twinge at the corner of his lip to the vast throne chamber spread out before him.

The throne chamber was a massive, opulently decorated space fit for a Sashul - the Sashuls of the previous centuries, who exercised absolute rule over the Salished Empire at its zenith. When the word of the Sashul was the law for every lord in the Rainlands, the Arm, and the Sullied Coast, and the Drathan wizards lived in fear that their pagoda spires would one day be felled down with chains forged of Salished steel. Those days had come and left, but the palace built by mightier Sashuls maintained all the splendor of generations past, even if it were only just a thin veneer.

Columns of polished stone rose to a vaulted ceiling perhaps fifty feet above the floor of polished lyestone tiling, where the cornices of each column spider-webbed across the ceiling in a dizzying arabesque moulding. The intricate moulding spread across the ceiling, drawing back around three skylights positioned above the very center of the chamber, which infused the entire space with golden rays of sunlight. Tall, vaulted windows on either side of the chamber gave a view of the verdant courtyard gardens just outside, and manicured specimens of lacy cycads were positioned in alcoves between each window to allow some of the verdance within the chamber as well. The entire space was designed to draw the eye to the far side of the room, to the raised dais upon which the Sashul's throne, a towering seat nestled within its own recessed alcove carved from pale lyestone and dazzling insets of iridescent abelone shell. The builders of this palace meant for courtiers and visitors to have their focus dominated by the enthroned Sashul, but for Remun - imprisoned in a tiny cell for the past decade - the vastness of this space threatened to swallow him.

"Your majesty," one of the Sashul's Guard heralded from the far side of the chamber, "the viziers of the Dominion request your audience. Shall I grant them entry?"

Remun gave a quizzical glance to Irssun standing beside him, who gave the Sashul a twirling motion with his hands, gesturing for Remun to let them in already.

"You shall." Remun called across the chamber.

With that, the Sashul's guard posted at the far side of the chamber drew back the gatelike doors, allowing entry to sixteen to twenty men. They were dressed in fine robes of crimson or blue, many with chestpieces of banded lamellar armor covering their torsos and arms. Each man sported a fine beard - some had knappy braids twisted about one another, others had the locks of their beards held together with bands of iron - but each beard was magnificent and regal in its own regard. Sheathed swords jingling at their sashes indicated that these were martial men. They were the viziers, the lords entrusted with fielding and commanding hosts of Salished warriors.

"Your majesty," the man at the fore of this party began, coming to a stop a few paces before the dais. "We met briefly during the coronation, but I suspect that you may have forgotten me during the course of the ceremonies. Please allow me to properly introduce myself now."

This lead vizier, a younger man with an impressive mane despite his fewer years, took to one knee and drew a sword from an exquisite sheath of stingray leather, pointing it down into the lyestone tile. The blade caught the light and scattered it with an opalescent sheen, the sort of shine that steel can only carry when tempered with a human soul.

"I am Dimaza, son of Izadrun," the young vizier proclaimed. "My father served beside your father; fighting in the halls of Arshadar against the minions of the traitor Vissaban. Like my father before me, I have become a vizier in the service of the Sashul, and I shall protect his realm and his subjects until my dying breath - as did my father. It is my hope that we may shed blood together in the defense of the Dominion, as our fathers did a generation ago."

"I know of your father," Remun replied, recalling the name Izadrun from one of the texts he read in his captivity. "The loyalty of your father was well known, and I have no doubt that the same steadfastness runs through your veins."

"Then know these next words are not lightly spoken, young Sashul," Vizier Dimaza returned to his feet and returned his blade to the sheath in a single, fluid motion. "I am concerned."

"What concerns you, Vizier?"

"My companions and I sense a great danger. If I may speak truthfully, your majesty, loyalty is in short supply in this Dominion. We know that many of your lords would not heed the call to arms if I were to levy their fighting men to battle. The warlocks too know of the disunity throughout the Dominion, and I fear they seek to capitalize on it."

"The warriors of the Dratha are on the move, your majesty," an older vizier said ominously.

"I would not be so sure," Irssun dismissed with the wave of a hand, stepping out from beside Remun's throne to address the viziers. "I too have heard startling reports from the Ashlands: soldiers marshaling to the borderlands, scouts moving eastward... I have complete confidence that this is a feint. As the spymaster of the late Sashul, I have come to understand that deception is a weapon that the Dratha are far more inclined toward than any blade. What we are seeing in the east is the Congress of Masters asking us to tell them how weak we really are. We will not take their bait so easily."

"Thankfully, that is not for you to decide, spymaster," Vizier Dimaza retorted before turning to Remun. "Irssun may whisper whatever he likes in your ear, young Sashul, but know that he answers to your command, not the other way around. Hear this, your majesty. The Shelf of Vorgul must be fortified. We can hold back any invasion coming up the pathways up the shelf, but if their forces reach the high country near Zar Salis then it will be a difficult fight to win."

Irssun stifled his laughter with a loud snort. "I have kept Davorgada and his kin safe from Drathan plots since before you were in swaddling clothes, vizier. Accomplishing such a thing required some semblance of competency. A vizier needs only to know how his enemy dies, I must know how the enemy thinks. The Dratha do not mean to invade us now. It's too obvious, too brazen. It's totally unlike something the Masters would do. An invasion is a tremendous risk on their part, a risk that hinges on the recalcitrant lords doing nothing or perhaps even joining forces with the invaders. Do you find that a likely scenario, vizier?

And what might you suppose one of the rebellious or recalcitrant lords would prefer to do? Join briefly with the rest of the dominion to fend off a Drathan invasion and enjoy another generation of relative autonomy from Nyssos? Or stand by and let the Drathan armies lay waste to the Rainlands and utterly subjugate their holdings? A Drathan invasion would unite the Dominion because, to speak candidly, the Salished Empire is the lesser of two evils as far as a restive lord is concerned. The Congress understands this; what they want to know is if we are too weak and too frightened to act rationally."

"You think you know everything, don't you?" Dimaza sighed. "You think that because you have your spies all over Azoth telling you things you are all-knowing and all-seeing. But you didn't scale the citadel of Arshadar, and you weren't there to hear Vissaban utter his final words before the old Sashul ran a blade through his gut. But my father was, and he told me what transpired there."

"Something dark drives Khalul, and we must never let it take him here."

Delavan Olms' eyes slid open as the first light of dawn filtered in through the oily, ash-streaked windows of the inn. He glanced around, taking stock of his situation with the cool ease of a practiced drinker, even as a magnificent hangover blossomed like a barbed flower in his skull. The room was dim and narrow, just big enough for the bed, with a low and crooked ceiling mottled with fungus. Everything was covered in a thin layer of ash-dust, and it was already getting too warm in here.

He dragged himself upright.

He was dressed, which was a good start. His bed was empty, aside from him. He decided that was probably alright too. He had some vague memory that he'd made a pass at the barkeep, but his head hurt too much for him to remember how it had gone. Obviously, not well enough.

He staggered to his feet, boots hitting the warped floorboards with a heavy thud. Glanced once more at the bed. It was not quite empty. The Sword lay unsheathed amid the grey blankets, glittering in the thin sunlight.

"Shit," he growled, scooping up the weapon and sheathing it in one smooth motion, "shit."

He lurched into the hall, hand on the crumbling wall for support, and dragged himself towards the room he thought he recalled the Drathan disappearing into at some point in the night, somewhere between rounds ten and fifteen. The wizard had gone upstairs after Olms'd joined the game of Sashul's Bounty with some slavers all the way from Lake Ungol, but before that game descended into a hazy, half-hearted brawl.

He hit the door once, meaning to knock, but it swung open at his touch.

The Drathan was sitting cross-legged on the gnarled wood floor, shirtless, his pale skin all covered in those strange, vine-like tattoos. Black eyes were open and staring, small smirk on his thin lips.

"Morning," said Olms.

"Morning," said the Drathan, in his low, quiet voice.

"You about ready to get movin?"

"Oh yes," said the Drathan, turning to face Olms. There was silence for a long moment, then: "She'll be coming with us."

"She who?" said Olms, eyebrow arching. His pale-sky eyes wandered the wizard's dusty chambers, and fell onto the tangle of sheets in the bed, and the pretty, dark haired girl tangled up in them. The bar tender from the night previous, the half-Drathan.

"Gabul," said Olms.

"Olms," said Gabul, "I am taking her on as my student in the Art. She has promise."

"Convinced you of that, did she?"

"She did."

"Can't imagine how. Anyway, don't your kind take a sour view of their half-bloods?"

The wizard shrugged, "You ought to know- a Drathan is prejudiced only when prejudice suits him."

Olms pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "You know all the reasons this is a bad idea. Not only taking a woman on a journey like this. My experience, it gets tough to teach someone you're sleepin' with. And I ain't taught anyone any magic."

"In many respects," said Gabul, "this is a poor decision. Still, it is one I am making. Will this effect the conditions of your employment?"

Olms sighed. He didn't open his eyes, "No."

"Good."

"You get to likin' her, Gabul," said Olms, "And your brother finds out. Just another chink in the armor for him to use when he wants to."

Gabul smiled and stood, pulling on a shirt, "My brother is not interested in what we are about to undertake."

"Suppose he gets interested?"

The Drathan did not reply to that one, just continued getting dressed. The girl turned over in bed, pulling the sheets up to her neck. She looked from Gabul to Olms and back again.

She really is beautiful, thought Olms.

"Who's your brother?" she asked Gabul.

"The Archmagister Khalul," said the wizard.

--

Some would find the interior of the Singing Hive uncomfortably claustrophobic, between the narrow walls and oftentimes low ceilings, but it was something Chyn'Ik'Zakeer had always found comforting and reassuring. The floors and walls were worn from the passage of innumerable numbers of her brethren over the many millennia, but down in the depths of the Hive it was still fairly well maintained. But Zakeer had little time for thinking, as she had somewhere to be. She moved quickly through the narrow tunnels, paying close attention to the luminescent fungus along the walls, glowing a dim white in the darkness of the Hive. Normally Zakeer could navigate by memory, but she had never been in this section of the hive before. One didn't come here unless one was invited, and it was quite clear. She saw her fellow warriors standing guard at regular intervals in the twisting tunnels, she paid little attention to them and they paid little attention to her. But eventually Zakeer arrived at her destination, a door set in the side of the wall and flanked by two guards who looked at her as she stopped in front of it.

"Chyn'Ik'Zakeer?" One asked.

"That's me," she replied, and other guard opened the door and informed the sole occupant of Zakeer's arrival.

Zakeer strode in with a polite nod of the head at the pair of guards, and then stopped in the middle of room to quickly take stock. It was fancy, there was no doubt about that. There was a short table at one end, several intricate rugs on the floor as well as tapestries hanging from the walls, as well as several large indentations along the walls containing a wide variety of objects such as scrolls and glowing fungus, but the most telling things were the beaded curtains leading to other rooms. The other individual was sitting on a cushion in front of the table, staring at Zakeer. She was another Nyr'kiin, though with her black and white shell, thin waist, and stinger she looked very much like a large wasp when compared to Zakeer's thicker, grey body. But she also wore the blue markings of the warrior caste, but her marking were far more extensive and intricate than Zakeer's own.

"Chyn'Ter'Vakin," Zakeer said, with an overly dramatic bow; the two Nyr'kiin stared at one another for a moment, before the room was filled with their buzzing laughter.

"It's been too long sister," Vakin said, standing up and making her way to Zakeer.

"Well it's not like I can just stride in and visit you whenever I please," Zakeer said before the two of them gave each other a long hug. Then, once they broke apart, "After all, you're Chyn'Ter'Vakin now. Must be busy being a Grand Councillor."

"Zakeer, believe me when I tell you that you have no idea," Vakin replied, "Sometimes I envy you; politics is a whole other type of fighting altogether."

"Hey, if you weren't good enough at it you wouldn't be Grand Councillor," Zakeer said, then made a show of looking around the room, "But are you honestly telling me the perks aren't worth it? You get a room to yourself! With a door!"

Vakin laughed at that, "We both know the perks aren't important. But yes, they are quite nice."

Then Vakin made her way over to her table, pulling a pair of cushions out from underneath it. "Here, have a seat. I know it wasn't a short walk over here," she said, tossing one of the cushions to her sister.

Zakeer caught it easily, and then dropped it on the ground near to the wall; Vakin made her way over and dropped the cushion down next to her. "Yeah, it was a pretty long walk. But you know as well as I do that it's nothing compared to being on patrol," Zakeer said.

"These days you spend most of the patrol on the back of lizard," Vakin teased.

"Hey, I didn't always," Zakeer retorted, "And you don't even go out on patrol anymore."

"True, true," Vakin said with a laugh, then sighed, "You know, I am sorry it took so long to invite you for a visit."

Zakeer just waved it off, "Oh, it's no big deal. You're a Grand Councillor now, you're busy. And I have to go out to make sure the filth doesn't get too close to home. We're both busy."

"You have no idea," Vakin said, shaking her head.

"Is there something the matter?" Zakeer said, her demeanour now completely serious, "What's wrong."

"Oh, it's nothing."

"Vakin, I have known you since we were nymphs. I can tell when something's wrong, so do not lie to me."

"There's a storm on the horizon, and sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who doesn't want charge headlong into it."

"A storm? What?"

Vakin sighed again and shook her head, "With the Dratha around us, we've always been expecting a war to come at some point. But now it's getting close."

Zakeer cocked her head at this, "I don't understand, what's the problem? That sounds great; the filthy monsters need to learn to fear us again."

"Zakeer, listen to me, things are not as black and white as that," Vakin said, "You know the Salished?"

"Of course. Bloody powerhouse over in the Rainlands, no friends of the Dratha either," Zakeer said, "Of course, they're no friends of us either. But what's the problem?"

"The Empire hasn't been stable in a long time, and it seems like every day more people want to capitalize on that," Vakin explained, "And before you ask, yes. They want to go to war."

"What in the name of the Great Mother is wrong with them?" Zakeer nearly shouted. Then continued, more quietly, "I am no fan of them either, but they're not the real threat here. Those worthless wizards in their bloody cesspools are the real problem!"

"I know Zakeer, I know," Vakin said, "War is coming, and I can't stop it. But enough of the Grand Council aren't willing to throw Nyr'kiin lives away on a war with the Salished, so I've been able to convince them to wait."

"If they're really so set on war, they aren't going to wait forever you know."

"Believe me, I know. But if there are those among us looking to take advantage of the Salished, can you imagine what the Dratha must be thinking?"

Zakeer was silent for a moment as she thought, then she laughed as realization dawned on her, "Those wretches are like giant vultures, uglier of course but you know what I mean. There is no way they'll pass this up."

"If war is coming to the Singing Hive, then the Singing Hive will go to war when the time is right for us," Vakin said, "I can only hope the Dratha get a move on soon."

"Oh, so do I. I'd love nothing more than to put the in their place," then Zakeer noticed Vakin shaking her head, "What?"

"I'd still rather not go to war at all, to be honest. War is absolute hell," Vakin told her sister, "Think of how many will die. Even if we get the jump on them."

"And they'll die proud, having given their lives for their Hive and their people. I don't understand the problem here," Zakeer said, the honest confusion evident in her voice.

"You know what Zakeer, how about we forget this," Vakin said, "Believe it or nor, I didn't call you over to unload this on you."

"Well I don't believe it," Zakeer said, the joking tone evident in her voice.

"Oh hush. I just wanted to see my sister again, chat about old times, catch up," Vakin said, then stood up and made her way to one of the indentations in the wall, "Maybe get unfortunately drunk."

"Hah, just like old times. Well, I'm not doing anything important tomorrow, so that sounds great," Zakeer said, "So what've you got?"

"Well, you know those perks you mentioned earlier? Here's another one," Vakin said turning around to reveal a rather large bottle of reddish liquid.

"What is that?" Zakeer asked.

"It's wine. I'll spare you the details, but it is very good wine from a very long way off," Vakin said proudly.

"Sounds good. Just one question. What's wine?"

Vakin laughed at that, "Alcohol made from grapes."

"Grapes?"

"Oh, for the Great Mother's sake just shut up and let's drink."

It seemed that nothing was ever easy for Gadir.

Born the son of low-born burghers in Kul Nabal, Gadir was a merchant by trade. He made a respectable living by purchasing foreign goods from the wharves and bazaars of Kul Nabal and ferrying them up the river to the towns and villages situated on the Nabal, where he earned a meager profit for his labors. Though this line of work was more lucrative and respectable than spending his life stooped in some muddy ricefield as the peasants did, it was fraught with risk. With such small profits and such large investments, a single bad trade was enough to lead Gadir to ruin. His last purchase consisted of casks of fine walnut oil from the groves of Ter Kundzil. The casks, however, went rancid somewhere between the isle of Kundzil and Nyssos and so Gadir found himself in serious debt. The usurer's goons threatened to do terrible things to his wife and daughter should Gadir not come up with the 500 elish he owed in short order.

Gadir desperately sought a way to repay his debt, and he reached out to his partners for any means of earning a quick fortune as soon as possible. An associate in Nyssos directed Gadir to an elderly nobleman with a silver gray braided beard. He offered to pay the usurer 200 elish immediately in order to buy some time for Gadir's wife and child, and the remainder was to paid upon the completion of a mission the ruined merchant had little choice but to undertake. The geriatric braid-beard instructed Gadir to return to Kul Nabal where he would find passage on a ship bound for the Bay of Teeth. Nine days after accepting his mission, Gadir stepped off the gangplank in one of the harbors of Zar Dratha.

He had little time to take in this sprawling, alien city. With his wife and child depending upon his success here, Gadir had no time for even the slightest distraction. He went over the instructions that shadowy nobleman had written down for him one last time before burning the sheet of papyrus. Dressing himself in an embroidered robe of fine burgundy-colored silk and donning a matching headwrap, Gadir certainly looked like the dissident lord from Hamalsarak he was instructed to act as. With what little time he had left, Gadir tried to mentally prepare himself for the next part of his mission: to attend the Congress of Masters.

But nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to witness.

Gadir knew extremely little about the masters - the wizard lords of the Bay of Teeth and the Ashlands. Irssun had insisted that in-depth knowledge of Drathan society was not important for his success here. But what Gadir knew - or rather, heard - was terrifying. They were the ruling caste of the Dratha, the one race of mortals capable of wielding magic. Sailors and porters in Kul Nabal had told Gadir tales of the dark arts practiced by the wizard lords; a master building a creature from the bones and flesh of a score of butchered cadavers bound and animated with magical energy, another master who transmuted an ingot of mundane tin into pure azt'jalum, and of course the duel in which Khalul the Magnificent destroyed Archmagister Velym in such a manner the Salished language is insufficient to describe. The thought of having all of these sorcerers together in one place was a horrifying concept.

But Gadir's family needed him. And so without hesitation, Gadir went to attend the Congress of Masters.

Zar Voda, the meeting place for the Congress, was a city unto itself within Zar Dratha. Unlike the city proper, Zar Voda actually had walls and gates. Within the gates, the open spaces between the walls, the out-buildings, and the palace itself were filled with gardens. Unlike the gardens of Nyssos - planted richly with lush flowering trees and bushes - the gardens Zar Voda were made to resemble the desolate ashlands from whence the Drathan race originated. Raised 'plantings' were filled with gray ashland soil, with boulders of pitted volcanic pumice, snaggleroot, withered grass, and some variety of giant mushroom that reminded Gadir of sea coral.

The palace that dominated the walled complex was probably regarded as majestic and beautiful by the Dratha. But to Gadir, it was a monstrous edifice. Its first tier was a colossal rotunda of red marble surrounded by dozens of massive pillars which held a sprawling roof high above the ground that curled in on itself at the corners. The scalloped, decagonal roof ran outward like a skirt from a second tier, which was covered by a second roof only slightly smaller than the one below it. That second roof radiated out from an elliptical dome of, surrounded on ten sides by serrated minarets like a crown of teeth. Walking up the stairs to the entry, Gadir felt as if he were being swallowed alive by some gargantuan monster.

Even the guards standing vigil along the stairs and the gateway to the palace seemed like monsters. They were each clad head to toe in thick suits of seemingly-identical armor. The star and moon sigil of the Drathan Union was embossed upon their cuirasses and left epaulets in some sort of black metal. Their helmets - pressed into the shape of the skull of some snarling sea serpent - completely covered their heads and faces, leaving only black pits over the eyes for the soldiers within to see from. They stood utterly motionless while holding pole-mounted glaives firmly in their gauntlets. As Gadir reached the door, the two sentries posted on either side gave a single nod, acknowledging Gadir's existence and supposedly triggering the door to open as well. There were no hinges, no handles - just a solid block of stone or metal carved into the shape of a thousand serpents coiled and twisted upon each other. With the tacit nod of the guards, the tangle of coiled snakeflesh started contracting and squirming, causing Gadir to recoil in disgust and surprise. The sinuous mat of twisting stone pulled in on itself, creating an opening through the door. Gadir quickly walked in through the opening, trying not to think about the snakeflesh coiling back into place.

If the exterior of Zar Voda was unusual, then its interior was truly incredible. Inside the door of coiling stone, Gadir found himself standing in an atrium that let out into a mammoth rotunda. Ten mighty pillars of glossy red marble held the ceiling aloft - except there was no ceiling. The columns instead rose into a nocturnal sky far above him where a thousand stars twinkled brightly - a spectacle made all the more impressive by the fact that it was late morning outside. A golden aurora pulsed through the cosmos, illuminating the great rotunda with a dim, warm light. What sorcery could allow such a spectacle to exist? Gadir could have gazed upon the fabricated starscape for hours, and likely would have if he didn't realize he might attract suspicion for being so easily impressed. Gadir tore his gaze from the stars and focused on his surroundings, trying his best to pretend that Zar Voda was not the most fantastic thing he had ever seen.

When Gadir heard the word 'congress', he envisioned a formal assembly of some sort; a council of delegates dedicated to discussing or resolving a specific subject. The Drathan word for 'congress' must have meant something different entirely, because the Congress of Masters was unlike any congress he could have imagined. What Gadir was seeing was more like a royal court, or perhaps even a social gathering, than any sort of governing council. Toward the outer walls of the rotunda, the attendees seemed to be doing anything but deliberating. The Dratha congregated in huddled clusters, taking cups from the trays of slaves that circulated through the crowds. Their black, empty eyes unsettled Gadir, for he could never be sure if the Dratha were watching him or paying him no mind. He passed by a particularly large cluster, with onlookers tightly packed in a dense circle around some object of interest. The smell of copulation hung thick in the air and unstifled moans and gasps ringing out from the center of this cluster gave proof that this was an orgy. Some distance away from the collection of disrobing Dratha, a pair of older masters looked on with grave, disapproving gazes.

"The Archmagister intends to turn the Congress into a brothel," Gadir overheard one of the Dratha complain.

"Doubtlessly," his colleague agreed. "He aims to distract the delegates with slave whores as he tightens the noose around our collective necks."

As Gadir pressed on, he could see plenty of evidence of Khalul's distractions. Nyr'kiin with chains shackled around their ankles shuffled listlessly through the chamber, carrying plates of refreshments and drinks. In addition to the hivespawn, slave women with chains around their ankles and manacles around their hands staggered through the crowds - clearly intoxicated with some manner of sedative - until someone whisked them aside to do with them as they pleased. Not all of the slaves were alive either: Gadir briefly witnessed a glimpse of one disrobed girl with thick bruises ringing her neck and lifeless white eyes rolled back into her head. A warlock had happened upon the corpse and hungrily set about unbinding the belt on his robe. Gadir cringed and hurriedly pressed on.

Inside the ten pillars, the floor sunk down into something of an amphitheater of concentric benches of lyestone. Every single one of the Dratha mingling outside the pillars could be seated comfortably on the benches with room to spare, but only a few dozen warlocks were seated here. Those in attendance looked more like true Drathan sorcerers than the younger masters outside. Even so, none looked like they could be the terrifying Archmagister Khalul. Gadir was starting to suspect that many of the truly powerful wizards did not actually attend the Congress, and instead sent orderlies in their stead. In any case, Gadir appreciated their apathy and found a seat on a vacant bench and set about watching the proceedings on the amphitheater floor below.

"I shall remind those in attendance that it has been more than sixty years since the hivespawn of the Singing Hive laid waste to Zar Onctes and murdered my grandfather and his subjects," a young wizard continued, standing up from a bench on the deliberation floor. "Tell me, what has been done in the intervening years to stymie that threat? In lieu of a decisive response - mobilization of a host to lay waste to the Nyr'kiin forever, we have seen sixty years of inaction. Sixty years of allowing the hivespawn to consolidate their strength and curry favor with the Sashul."

"The Sashul is dead, Hystuz, and his empire will join him in the grave soon enough," a warlock heckled from across the auditorium. "There is no alliance between the Salished and the Singing Hive; the Rainlanders have no more love of the Nyr'kiin than we."

"All the more reason to strike now!" Master Hystuz declared, pacing now upon the glyph-carved floor. "Or would you lot rather wait until your own holding falls victim to hivespawn butchery?"

"Be silent already, you ignorant wretch!" One particularly animated master cried out in frustration. "The Union did nothing for the heirs of Zar Vorgul when the Salished conquered that city. What makes you think the Union will come to avenge Zar Onctes? Don't delude yourself, Hystuz, our Union is in name only!"

"Why then is there no shortage of support for the Archmagister's adventures in the Rainlands? As you said, the Salished Empire is doomed. The boy Sashul will run his Empire to ruin. The Salished pose less of a threat now than ever, and yet no one questions the Archmagister when he demands 30,000 slaves for his second attempt to conquer Arshadar."

The Dratha did intend to invade the Dominion after all. Gadir was no tactician, but even he knew that the Salished Empire's fractuous state would make it impossible to repel such a massive host, even if it was comprised of untrained slave conscripts. He feared for his family's safety yet again - not for the ire of a vengeful usurer, but the tide of war that seemed certain to fall upon his homeland.

"That is but a symptom of the political situation today. He who denies the Archmagister's wishes is a brave fool. But none of us are going to support you on this fool's errand, and certainly not when we must already send our subjects to fight on the Archmagister's behalf."

"Begone already!" And with that, Master Hystuz stormed off of the deliberation floor.

What followed him onto the center of the amphitheater was perhaps the most horrible and monstrous thing that Gadir had ever witnessed. Standing upon the deliberation floor was a gnarled monster dressed in a flowing, black robe. Its hands were bony and slender with pustulant growths rising from its knuckles and slender, clawlike fingers. A smaller third arm, twisted and curled in on itself, seemed to sprout from its chest and protruded from a small flap in the robe's breast. Its head reminded Gadir of a rag that had been twisted tightly to wring water out. The monster's head was horrifically deformed, pulled and wrung by some horrible force. Its mouth had been reduced to an oozing cavity on the side of its head with a handful of rotten teeth protruding from the blackened remains of gums at odd angles. A sagging bulb of flesh protruded from the other half of the 'face', where seven eyes of various sizes had developed. The eyes were black and featureless save for thick red veins that throbbed underneath their glistening surface - a feature that suggested that this abomination had once been Dratha.

The monster standing upon the stage was accompanied by a chain-bound slave, whose head was firmly grasped by one of the monster's claw-like hands. The slave's white eyes were rolled deep into the back of his head, but yet the man knew to walk in perfect harmony with the hobbling gait of this robed monstrosity. In its small, curved hand, it held a bowl of black, viscous liquid, into which the fingers of his one free hand. With his twisted fingers coated in the shimmering black fluid, the monster drew the finger to his mouth and hungrily slurped it up. Ichor, Gadir recognized - it was ichor that made this being into such a monster.

"I am Qux the Many-Eyed," the slave - not the monster - said to the crowd, "Archaeos' envoy to the Dratha Union. Following the plea of Master Hystuz, I am rather pleased to inform the Congress that Archaeos may be capable of redressing the heirs of Zar Onctes."

"My master cherishes the friendship he shares with your Archmagister." The slave began again as Qux set about a hobbling pace about the floor. "The studies that have been carried out with the thralls your Archmagister so graciously provided have exceeded my master's expectations. Our efforts at Archaeos have been remarkably fruitful of late, and we are not far from perfecting a means of artificing warriors from your slaves. Know that there is much work to be done, and our methods have yet to be perfected, but we now have a great many warriors at our disposal."

"Archaeos' neighbors have long been pacified, my master has no need for such an army. But the Archmagister yet has many foes. As a demonstration of our latest progress, and as a show of friendship between my master and the Dratha Union, I wish to grant this Congress the warriors we have successfully artificed, that you may pacify this Singing Hive as my master has pacified his enemies."

His Immanence drew glittering silks more tightly around him as a chill wind blew down from the Godsfangs, a premonition of winter descending. Once he had read that seasons in ancient times had come in regular succession and for fixed periods upon the face of Azoth, in accordance with the relation of the stars to the sun. An old myth, probably. The invention of blasphemous astrologers.

Winter was never predictable, but always brutal here where the mountains ended and the river Tul began its lazy descent from flinty uplands to the paddies and fields around Nyssos, and if the cold fell now upon the Rainlands, taking crops and livestock with it, His Immanence did not foresee the young and embattled Shashul remaining much longer on his father's throne.

Not that he cared overmuch. Though the Servants of the Forge had for time out of mind served the Sashul in Nyssos- indeed, had long been the secret to their power- the emperors of late had been neglectful of the gods. Dagorvada's paranoia had extended to the devout, his patronage of the Servants had been half-hearted, his clerical appointees had proved imperial lapdogs, and his sacrifices few- leaving the gods displeased and ravenous.

Perhaps the gods would withdraw their protection the Salished Empire, and give it over to the rule of impious warlocks and devious slave lords. His Immanence Rael Amon, Master of the House of Sharp Edges and Foremost Placator of the Divine Hunger, was slightly surprised to find that, in his heart of hearts, he cared not whether the Empire lived or died.

For he knew the Servants would endure. The Cult of the Forge would spread still. The sacrifices that sustained the world would continue, even in secret if necessary, for the debased magic of the Dratha had never been and never would be equal to power of the gods.

A hoarse shout roused His Immanence from such reflections, and he looked down from the crumbling balcony on which he stood. In the cobbled square below him, the beardless acolytes practiced their sword cuts with lengths of bamboo, their eyes blindfolded. Oathmen walked among them, barking instructions. One of the boys had misplaced a swing and struck the acolyte next to him, who had shouted in pain. Amon watched as the Oathmen took the lad who had shouted by both arms and drag him screaming and struggling from the line of youths, who continued their synchronized exercises without pause.

A missplaced blow was a part of learning, but showing pain was not permitted in the House of Sharp Edges. The lad would have his tongue removed for the offence. A tongue was not much needed in the life of a Swordarm anyway.

"Your Immanence," said a low voice behind Amon, who turned, grey eyebrows raised.

"What is it?" he asked of the bowing servitor who approached him.

"A message, sent by bloodhawk for you," said the servitor, "from the Ashlands."

He presented Amon with a small, tightly bound scroll.

Amon unsealed it and read, turning from the balcony as he did so into the darkened hall behind it. He reread the note twice as he walked.

Around him, the walls of the dim passageway were lined with rows of swords, their edges gleaming in the gloom. There were hundreds of them, and His Immanence knew them all, and all their histories. Every few feet, a sword was set apart in a stone shrine etched with the fierce and hungry likenesses of the gods, the intricate metalwork of the blade illumined by guttering candles.

These were the foremost treasures of the House of Sharp Edges. Ghulbane, which had been wielded by the Swordarm Sasan in his battle with the Devourer of Agan Tul, Demon-Drinker, which had cut down the Gorelord Incarnate before the founding of the Empire.

Amon came to a shrine that had no sword set within it. He read his note again. It had been sent from some backwater with the barbarous name of Zar Yiin.

The disgusting heathen Khalul and that crafty serpent Issrun were not the only ones with eyes and ears across the civilized and half-civilized world. The Servants had their spies too, though they cared little for the movements of armies and the treacheries of lords and mages. The Servants of the Forge cared for loftier things than mere politics. They were concerned rather with the secrets and mysteries of their faith, and with recovering what belonged to the gods of the Forge.

Rarely was a Sword stolen from the Servants, for there were few who could wield such weapons without being wielded by them in turn. Rarer still was it that a Named Blade was taken. But this Sword had been, by some lowborn rake from the mountains no less, a man who dealt with godless wizards and aelg-men.

The mercenary Olms.

Long had His Immanence wished to bring back this missing treasure, Severian, which had for centuries been wielded by the Lord Headsman of the reigning Sashul. Long had he sought for the wretched thief Olms.

And now he knew Olms was in the Union, cavorting with sorcerers, heading north on some strange errand.

"Bring me Swordarm Malik," said Amon to the servitor, "and bring me the blessed sword Huntsman."

"So, we were right."

Irssun gave an exasperated sigh, massaging the bridge of his blocky, Saliszi nose. "Not precisely."

"On what account was I wrong, Irssun?" Vizier Dimaza pressed. "I have warned and you and his majesty for days now that the Dratha are marshaling their forces to attack the Dominion. Only now, that one of your informants parrots our warnings, do you heed my word and that of my colleagues. Admit it, spymaster, you just can't accept that you were wrong."

"Enough, vizier," Remun commanded from across the banquet table, bringing silence to the dining patio.

Cicadas droned on from the lush foliage of the plantings around patio while the young Sashul took note of the assembled lords and advisers seated around the table. They sat around a long, low-legged table crosslegged upon silken cushions in the traditional Saliszi fashion. The mood was tense and dour, and it seemed most of the diners were too preoccupied with the discussions to pay any mind to the decadent smorgasbord laid out upon the table by the palace servants. Heaping platters of pillowy cardamom rice still wafted with steam in the glow of the candelabra hanging from the patio's vine-wrapped pergola, trays stacked with skewers of roasted crocodile fillets remained untouched, each kebab glistening with a caramelized pomegranate sauce. A shame that nearly all of this would end up wasted, but according to Irssun projecting such a level of opulence and power to palace courtiers was but a necessary evil.

"Let us all be calm and take stock of recent developments in a civilized fashion," Remun continued now that he had everyone's attention. "Spymaster Irssun, if you would please, elaborate on what your informants in the west have uncovered."

"Thank you, your majesty," Irssun began. "I have recently learned through a pair of eyes and ears inside the Congress of Masters that the Archmagister Khalul has compelled the Congress to levy as many as thirty thousand souls for a campaign into the Rainlands."

"Gods have mercy," an elder vizier croaked.

"Indeed," Irssun agreed. "Take some solace in the fact - incredible though it may be - that the Congress is even more fractuous and divided than our Dominion. Khalul will not get his thirty thousand men, but he could get twenty thousand men and that would would be the largest army Azoth has seen in seventy years."

"Twenty thousand slaves," Dimaza added. "Let me remind you that Khalul's horde will not be a legion of seasoned fighting men. A host of emaciated Ashlander thralls comprised of any man or boy capable of holding a club or a spear, that is what we can expect to face. This host will be whipped by slavers to our eastern borderlands, where they shall encounter the walls of the Vorgul Shelf. And upon those walls, this horde will find the might of the Salished armies gathered above them; the pathways up the shelf barricaded and fortified. Give me five thousand archers and I will hold the Vorghul Shelf from the combined armies of Azoth."

"Your optimism is appreciated, Vizier Dimaza," said Remun. "But how many warriors could we assemble?" The young Sashul asked, noting Irssun shaking his head.

"Anything more than six thousand is very generous, your majesty," the eldest vizier replied. "Half of the lords would not answer the call to arms."

"Vertskhilis, Hamalsarak, and the rest of Varrod's League will not stand for a Drathan incursion into the Rainlands," a wealthy merchant lord from Kul Nabal chimed in. "It is no secret Varrod wishes to fabricate an empire of his own on the Arm of Azoth. The last thing he desires to that end is a Drathan host rampaging through the countryside just to the north. Lord Varrod will support us."

"How many men do you think the Varrod League might commit?" A vizier asked.

"If you can impress upon Lord Varrod the danger to the Arm and to the trade that enriches the ports there, I think he could be persuaded to muster... perhaps three thousand."

"These are grim odds," The older vizier concluded. "We shall be outnumbered more than three to one, two to one if we are lucky."

"Numbers do not decide the fate of battles," Dimaza reminded. "I have said it before many times and I will say it now: if we fortify the Vorgul Shelf, we will hold off the Dratha handily even with inferior numbers. But if we are to accomplish that we must mobilize now." He exhorted, punctuating his sentence by pressing his finger upon the table.

"You don't even know if their army intends to enter through the Vorgul Shelf." Irssun reminded.

"Where else could they come from?" Dimaza growled. "I suppose they could take the long route, like the Ashenriders did during the Siege of Arshadar: south across the Ashlands and through the mountain passes near Liandor and north through the Sebir Forest. But a seasoned, motivated force of mounted warriors this is not. Khalul's host will be a slow, lumbering beast. The Dratha will lose most of their conscripts to mutiny and attrition if they attempt such a path. Nor could they travel by sea; their numbers will be too great to put on ships. There is no other way to go. The only conceivable route is the most direct route: through the Vorgul Shelf."

"You realize there may not even be an invasion," Irssun retorted.

"You just said your own spies told you that Khalul meant to invade the Rainlands!"

"Can spies not be wrong? Just because informants in my employ told it to me does not make it truth. We must proceed with caution before doing anything rash like mustering an army to fortify-"

"You arrogant ass! You just cannot accept the fact that you were wrong, can you?"

"That is quite enough, Vizier Dimaza." Remun demanded. He turned back to his spymaster once calm had settled over the table.

"Master Irssun, please tell us why you think it is unwise to look to our defenses when we have reason to believe the Dratha mean to attack?"

"I have been spymaster for many years, long enough to know how Khalul plays this game. The Archmagister is a fox, it is extremely unlike him to be so vocal about his true intentions even within the Congress of Masters. I sense that this invasion is a trap, your majesty."

"Your concerns have merit, Irssun," Remun decided. "However, the palace roostkeeper informed me that a bloodhawk arrived from Zar Salis just before dawn today. Lord Ghaladir wrote me, explaining that a caravan of Dratha ascended the Vorgul Shelf yesterday. Lord Ghaladir's riders intercepted them, and report that they are emissaries from the Congress of Masters. They will arrive here in four days, with a message from the Congress."

"So I had already heard," Irssun dismissed. "It does not affect my opinion."

"Drathan emissaries? That is decidedly unwelcome news," the elder vizier concluded.

"I believe we must assume these emissaries mean to deliver a declaration of war to Nyssos." Vizier Dimaza proclaimed. "The Vorgul Shelf must be defended at once or these emissaries will be followed by scouts and raiders who will harry our efforts to mobilize a defense."

"If the Dratha mean to declare war, I believe that we must secure allies." Remun declared. "I have read extensively on Archmagister Khalul, and my understanding is that he is an opportunist. He capitalizes upon perceived weakness. Therefore, we must show the the Archmagister strength and resolve in order to erode his willingness to act, and there is strength in numbers. Who can we count upon as allies against the Dratha?"

"Varrod's League would much prefer that the Salished Empire remains intact and relatively stable," said Lord Ilbad of Kul Nabal. "They will join forces with the Dominion in this fight."

"Other than them," Irssun chimed in, "we have few friends. The Sunken Hive had long been our ally on the Sullied Coast, but after your father's armies laid waste to the pirate fortress of Sirtu, the corsairs sailed west and captured the hive and have claimed it as their new stronghold. Liandor was once our ally too, but given their proximity to the Ashlands, they are likely to remain neutral in any conflict for fear of antagonizing their Drathan holdings nearby."

"What of the Singing Hive?" Remun suggested. "Are they not in open warfare with the Dratha? Surely they will support us."

"They are also utterly surrounded by Drathan holdings." Irssun reminded. "How would we even inform the Nyr'kiin that we wish to join forces? Any vessel bound for Zar Onctes will be intercepted by Drathan ships, and I will remind you that the Drathan masters regularly train eagles to hunt bloodhawks and disrupt the communication of their rival lords. We could not even reach the Singing Hive by bloodhawk."

"Riders," Remun decided. "I will send our fastest rider across the Ashlands to bring word of our intention to the Nyr'kiin of the Singing Hive. With the favor of the gods, he will outrun anything the Dratha send against him."

"But Vizier Dimaza has the right of it. I believe it is better that we show Khalul that we are ready for whatever he may attempt. I shall hear what these emissaries have to say, but we must mobilize our armies and make haste to defend the Shelf."

They were at the Gates of Paradise.

Just now it was hard to see why the Ashlanders had given this place so grand a name. Nothin but swirlin steam over a flat ashen plain, pockmarked with boiling pools and vents. Capillaries of scalding water crisscrossed the grey earth everywhere like scars, forcing Olms' gaan to choose its footing slow and careful.

The steam, heavy with the bad-egg reek of sulfur, was so white and thick you could hardly see ten paces in any way you cared to look.

A four day slog north from Zar Yiin, through trackless boulder fields and forests of thin, blue-needled pikepines had brought them here. Olms rode in front, slumped relaxed in the saddle, Sword across his back, pale eyes alive beneath the low brim of his hat, lookin for shadows in the swirling white mists.

Behind him Gabul and Aiva- for that was her name, the barkeep turned wizard's pupil- shared a gaan, and muttered quietly to each other. After a few days roughin it with them in the emptiness of the Ashlands, Olms knew they weren't sharin lovers' whispers back there.

No, the Drathan was teachin her the mysteries of his kind. Explainin tenets of sorcery, or the history of his strange race, or the movements of the stars.

To Olms' untrained eye, at least, the girl seemed a gifted student.

The night previous, the three of them sittin quiet around the low campfire, Gabul looks at her with those black eyes, nods to the fire. She sits up straight, jaw clenches but she doesn't otherwise move.

Olms feels the hairs on his neck rise, feels the Sword give a little hungry shudder.

The fire explodes in a burst of sparks, then dies.

Aiva opens her eyes, frownin and studyin the smoldering remains of the wood. Olms throws her a wink.

"Nice work," he says. Puttin a fire out just by willin it so- that ain't nothing to scoff at, the way he sees things.

Gabul's face remains impassive, and it's to him that she is lookin. He shrugs and says, "The embers still burn."

Still, thinks Olms, not bad for less than a week of lessons.

Now, a small breeze blows in from the east, and the steam from the boiling pond to their left is blown out of their path somewhat. Some leagues ahead, low, crooked mountains are visible, black against the grey horizon.

"That's them," said Olms, "Where we're headed, the Claws. Once we get through the Gates, it's just the Smoking Forest between us and the uplands."

"I know where we are," said Gabul in his soft, low voice.

Olms smiled and turned in his saddle to face the wizard and his student, "That was for the benefit of the lady."

Aiva smirked.

"Thank you, Delavan," she said. She tended to call Olms by his first name, like no one else had done for a long time. "I 'preciate not being kept completely in the dark."

Her eyes and her smile turned toward Gabul, sitting behind her. His face remained expressionless as ever.

"You will learn of our errand as we complete it," he said, "as I have told you."

"Strange to take someone along on a journey when you don't them trust enough to explain your purposes," said Aiva. Olms raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," said Gabul, "It is. Strange also for you to join a mercenary and a wizard on a trip into the wilds without knowing their destination. Perhaps we are headed to some hidden altar to the nameless gods, and are bringing you as a sacrifice?"

"Thought had crossed my mind. But then I remembered that devils tend to eat virgins. 'sides, you both haven't spent your whole lives in Zar Yiin," she said with a bitter laugh, "puts the risk of getting killed in perspective."

She was quiet a moment. "Why do they call this place the 'Gates of Paradise' anyway?"

"The Dratha do not, nor do the Nyr'kiin," answered Gabul, "What bugfolk call this place in their clicking tongue translates to 'Bittersoup', for the poisoned water. Dratha call it the Land-of-Bright-Shadows."

He fell silent, as though he had answered her question. She opened her mouth to ask a new one, but Olms shook his head.

"The aelgmen named this land, they think it close-by to God," he said, "You'll see why."

They rode on among the seething lakes and belching springs. As afternoon wore on to evening, the rays of the sinking sun caught the swirling eddies of steam and filled them with light, painting the mist in hues of gold and scarlet. The once-dreary thermal plain was transfigured around them, the waters and steam bright with all the colors of sunset.

The trio stopped in the middle of it. None of them spoke. Driven by the light breeze, a pillar of steam washed over them and they found themselves lost in a glowing cloud.

"I..." said Aiva.

"This is least of the wonders I will show you," said Gabul quietly.

To say nothing of the horrors, thought Olms. But he did not speak.

The gurgling of churning water and the shouting of the deckhands woke Magali from a fitful and unsatisfying sleep. She bolted upright, startled momentarily from waking up in such an unfamiliar place. For nearly all her life, Magali woke up at the bedroll next to the hearth in her mother's hut in the village. But this afternoon, Magali awoke inside a tent-like canopy upon a raft of rope-lashed logs. She felt her bindings of raspy dumir rope bite against her wrists and ankles, and immediately remembered where she was and how she had come to arrive here.

Those riders who had taken her from mother took Magali to another nameless village on the banks of the Tashgad River. There, she was taken aboard this raft and set off down the river. Magali was not alone on this journey either, for six other girls joined her in the raft's galley. Four of the six were asleep, another girl laid upon the lashed qaubir beams and sobbed, and the other simply stared ahead in a dejected torpor. Looking at them now through the dappled sunlight filtering through the pinholes in the leather canopy, Magali could see they were all dressed in the rude garb of the peasantry, and they were all remarkably beautiful. While she could safely assume their backgrounds, Magali had never really spoke with her fellow captives during the past day or so they had spent in the galley together. Their captors had dissuaded conversation between the girls with leather clubs; a handful of whacks against the first few girls to cry out had been enough to instill silence for the rest of the journey. But now their captors were outside speaking to the vessel's pilots and deckhands, and the girl sitting upright spoke up for the first time.

"What is your name, skhila?" The girl asked, addressing her with the old Rainlander word for sister.

"Magali," was her hushed reply. "And what is yours?"

"Kadira."

"Do you know why they have taken us?" Magali asked. "Where they are going?"

"I do not know, Magali. I think that they believe we will make good brides and wish to sell us to unmarried noblemen. That is what I think they have taken us for."

Magali was silent for a time. Her mother knew she did not wish to stay in that village, that she wanted to experience the wonders of foreign lands that passing caravaneers told stories of. Perhaps her mother felt this was the best way to get Magali out of that nameless village on the Tashgad. A soft, uneventful life making the home of a wealthy man was not the life she desired, but Magali knew there were worse fates.

"I suppose that is not so bad," Magali decided.

The hushed conversation was punctuated when the girls felt the raft bump softly against something solid. The raft shuddered with the footfalls of deckhands clambering around outside, tossing bundles of mooring rope with a meaty thud. The other girls were waking up now upon hearing this new wave of commotion, their eyes widening with anxiety as they realized their journey was now ending.

Their captors burst into the galley, throwing the leather flap wide open. The younger man with the short braided beard held a shortsword in his hands, and the huge captor carried a length of dumir rope coiled around his wrist.

"Hold still and be silent," the short-bearded captor commanded as he descended upon Kadira with the knife clutched firmly in his hand. "Did I not say hold still?" He growled as Kadira instinctively squirmed away from the knife. Without further resistance, he cut the bindings off Kadira's ankles before doing the same to Magali and the other girls. The huge man then pulled the length of rope through each of their wrist bindings so that all of the girls were tied together. They were all commanded to get up and follow them and that attempting to escape would be a futile effort. With no other recourse, the captive girls complied, following the short-bearded man out of the galley.

As the girls marched out onto the deck of the raft, the deckhands ceased their labors and watched the girls. Magali could almost feel the hungry eyes of the swarthy, sun-baked raft-tenders crawling along every inch of her profile like a swarm of unwelcome insects. Their oogling was cut thankfully short by their captors; the short-bearded man placed a hand on the pommel of his sword, threatening to draw it at the slightest provocation.

"Avert your eyes," he commanded. "If one of you so much as touches these maidens, I will strike you down. Their purity must be maintained for they are not yours to have."

As the captors chastised the deckhands, Magali gazed up to the structure the raft had docked alongside. It was a towering Saliszi ziggurat built upon an artificial island in the channel of the river that dwarfed the floating plazas around it. Atop the highest level of the edifice minaret-like chimneys rose high above the surrounding city belching thick black smoke into the hazy blue sky above. Gazing upon this structure, Magali could not help but wonder for whom she and her fellow captives had been summoned.
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Remun opened his eyes at long last, returning to the world after perhaps an hour of meditation. He found himself sitting crosslegged atop a cushion beneath an awning of purple silk upon the opulent Sashul's barge. He allowed the sounds of the world to enter his ears once more. The babble of waves falling below the twin hulls of the barge, the cawing of overhead seagulls, and the crashing of oars through the water all gradually returned to Remun after willing silence upon himself.

The young Sashul found himself performing the B'zuri meditation rituals many times per day now. Allowing himself an hour or so of complete peace every day was the only way Remun could maintain sanity through the tribulations of being Sashul. To a low-born man, being Sashul must have seemed a decadent, carefree existence. But the luxuries and spoils, Remun had come to learn, were nothing but an opulent veneer to impress the Salished lords and vassals. Being fanned by servants or fed decadent foods were scarcely worth the myriad anxieties and woes that beset the Sashul. Constant fretting over this flailing empire, the dwindling imperial coffers, and the looming threat of a Drathan invasion. Under such pressures, Remun wished he could trade lives with one of the oarman pulling this barge up the river.

"I trust you are now fully refreshed, your majesty?" Irssun asked, watching over the various servants milling about on the barge with all the focus and diligence of a hawk.

"Somewhat refreshed," Remun admitted, turning his attention to a servant woman approaching with a wide dish of plump figs.

"Then that will have to suffice, your majesty. For today, we have an important appointment with the Priests of the Forge," Irssun said as he watched the servant approach the Sashul and present him with the platter. Remun went to pluck a fig from the bunch, but before he could pop the succulent bulb in his mouth, Irssun snatched it from his fingers. The servant was taken aback, but Remun merely sighed in annoyance as Irssun carefully examined the fruit, twirling it about in his long, wrinkled fingers. He sniffed it, and then nibbled gingerly upon the fig's purple skin. Finally, Irssun popped the whole fig into his mouth and chewed it for the longest time, pressing the seedy pulp up against his palate. Detecting no hint of poison, Irssun at last gave a nod of approval to the servant girl, who presented the plate to Remun once again. Remun took a handful of choice figs from the plate before dismissing the servant.

"Regrettable though it may be, the soul priests are a powerful clique and we must take care to show them our respect," Irssun continued. "Their barbaric cult goes back to the days when the Saliszi still lived high in the Godsfang Mountains, when our forebears forged pig iron in mud kilns. Arms fashioned from such crude metal were brittle and weak, and so those ancient smiths beseeched the Red Gods for a means to make a better weapon. Their gods answered the requests, offering a rich, pure steel. But the Forge Gods are a deviant and malicious sort, and they demanded sacrifice in return for each blade forged: a soul."

"Soulsteel." Remun recognized.

"And as you are so hellbent on listening to the counsel of that idiot Dimaza, we must have soulsteel blades prepared and so they must be finished today."

"Why today?" Irssun asked in between figs. "My understanding was that it would take a fortnight for the viziers to mobilize the armies. Can we not wait until the armies are marching to the Shelf to forge these blades?"

"Normally, yes. But I have been informed that our friends from the Congress are fast approaching the capital. The Masters' emissaries will arrive tomorrow, and it would hardly be diplomatic of us to be forging weapons of war at full capacity while the Dratha are in the city. It is vital that we have all diplomatic options available to us."

Irssun gestured to the approaching destination, a floating plaza dominated by a tiered structure covered in a thin patina of black-gray soot. The spirelike chimneys of the Soul Forge spewed roiling clouds of sooty smoke that could likely be seen ten leagues away from Nyssos.

"There will be no hiding that from the emissaries," Irssun declared, pointing to the smoke clouds rising high above the city. "The forges must be cold when the Dratha arrive."
_____________________________________________________________________________

Magali and her fellow captives ascended the hundreds of steps up the tiers of this structure, her bare feet covered in soot from the dusting of fine ash that filtered down from the chimneys above as she climbed ever upward to the top. From this height, one had a gull's-eye view of the capital of the Salished Empire. On islands built directly in the channels of the intersecting Nabal and Tashgad Rivers, plazas and gardens had been built amongst a network of canals and domed spires rose up from these plaster-built islands. Across the skyline of the city, a sprawling palace surrounded by teeming gardens was built upon a peninsula carved out by the intersecting rivers - without doubt the home of the Sashul himself. On the outer banks of the river channels, however, the splendor of the floating city gave way to a teeming slum rickety jetties and huts built on stilts. The slums radiated inland from the rivers for miles up and downstream, gradually giving way to thousands of acres of rice paddies whose flat, watery surfaces reflected the midday sun like a thousand shards of glassy mirror.

But Magali could scarcely pay any mind to her surroundings. Her attention was devoted to the footfalls of the girls in front of her - that she would not trip and fall down the hundred feet she had already climbed - and their destination above. One girl up in front stumbled and fell upon the steep steps before her, halting Magali and the other captives dead in their soot-sullied tracks. The captors quickly descended upon her, yanking her up by her shoulders and pulling her back onto her feet, threatening to cudgel her with their leather clubs if she did not keep moving at once. Wherever these men were taking them, it seemed there was no time to waste in getting there.

Upon reaching the uppermost tier of the structure, the girls were presented with a boxy structure of arched walls with vaulted alcoves inset within. Each of these alcoves housed a statue carved out of red marble depicting some sort of monstrous being. There was a four-armed humanoid with the fanged visage of a hooded cobra, with hammers and balls of fire in each hand; another alcove housed a braid-bearded demon, with tusklike fangs and intricate swirls of smoke streaming from the corners of his mouth and nostrils; and most unsettling to Magali was a naked man, stroking an enormous phallus with a fire-breathing panther's head on the end. The captors paid no attention to the garish statues that so startled the girls, and directed them through a vaulted portal with a curtain of red and gold beads.

Magali and the others found a themselves within an antechamber illuminated by a score of flickering torches. It was a spartan space, and excluding the torches the only thing of note within this space were a series of stelae carved upon the walls. Magali could not read and so had no idea what the lengthy inscriptions carved upon them said, but the top of each stone slab was decorated with carvings that depicted an event that presumably illustrated whatever the inscriptions said below. There were images of battles, skulls, demons, and fire. That seemed to be a recurring theme in the images: tongues of fire in every carving.

Out of the dark corners of the chamber, the captors and the girls were joined by a number of ancient, withered men. They wore billowing crimson robes: long, flowing, and sashless unlike the sort of robe fashionable among Saliszi nobles. Their heads were utterly bald, and their faces were wrinkled and sunken. Magali and the other girls recoiled as the men in red approached.

"You stand now within the Narthex of Ashtobal, portal to the font of all Salished strength." One of the men declared with a raspy, quivering voice.

"Noble priests of Ashtobal, Ignosalob, Ghirnaad, Zimol, and all the Gods of the Forge," the short-braided captor began, "we come bearing virgin souls to quench the thirsts of your Gods, that they may impart their power into the blades forged here today."

"Yes, yes," the chief priest replied. "The Sashul prepares for war, and what is a war without blades? Our Gods of the Forge will acquiesce in this request, but they do not grant their power freely. Sacrifice must be meted out, thirsts must be quenched. The Gods of the Forge thirst for souls - virgin souls."

Sacrifice? Souls? Magali could not understand what monstrous place had these men taken had delivered her unto.

"Of course, noble priest." The short-bearded captor replied. "These maidens are all choice virgins. The Gods will surely be pleased with such a sacrifice."

"We shall ensure that is true." The chief priest turned to his associates, some drawing daggers from within folds in their robes. "Ascertain their womanhood."

Some of the girls screamed as the priests drew in close, but none were allowed to escape before wrinkled handles seized them. Two priests tried to hold Magali still, but the spry young girl was putting up too much of a fight for the elderly priests. Another priest came to hold her down while a fourth arrived with a knife and proceeded to cut the clothing from Magali's body. Her linen shirt and roughspun pants fell in a heap at the floor, exposing her nubile body in its entirety. She howled and struggled as two of the priests pulled her legs open. A shiver went up her spine as she felt cold, clammy hands feel about between her legs.

Satisfied, the priest withdrew his fingers and the others released her. Magali could do naught but coil into a ball on the floor while the other girls were examined.

"Their womanhood is intact," the chief priest said at last. "Take them to the Soul Forge."

Magali was still too dazed to resist when several priests pulled her onto her feet and dragged her along through a second set of curtains on the far side of the chamber. Down a series of stairs, and through a third set of curtains.

There, in the orange glow of a mighty fire, Magali bore witness to the Soul Forge in all its infernal glory.

This structure encompassed the whole interior space of the second tier. Mounds of black ore and char were piled up along the outer walls of this space. Soot-covered smiths operated bellows the size of a fully-grown gaan, which pumped air through a copper tube into the structure in the center of the chamber. The space was dominated by the forge itself. It was dome-like structure that dwarfed even the largest house in Magali's village. It was carved into the shape of a demon's head with three fanged, yawning mouths, which served as separate apertures for the ore and charcoal. Hot gas vented through the six eyes of the forge, giving each face a truly demonic visage. And with every pump of the bellows, the fire within those three open mouths roiled up, giving the forge the impression that it was actually breathing fire. The coals within the fanged mouths glowed white-hot, and a giant plume of fire burst forth from the mouths with each pump of the bellows. The smithhands bellowed with increasing intensity as Magali and the other girls were brought down, and it seemed as though the very forge were breathing faster, as if in anticipation of what was to come.

In front of the largest mouth, a robed priest hammered upon a glowing rod of incandescent steel at a table-sized anvil - seemingly unfazed by the hellish heat of the hot metal and the forge directly behind him. Yellow-orange sparks burst forth from the rod as he hammered. A glowing sword - masterfully crafted - was taking shape upon that anvil.

Without a word, the priests holding down Kadira dragged her forward to the forge. She screamed hysterically as the priests dragged her past the anvil and held her beside the largest mouth of the forge. They waited for the smithhands to below a few more times, and they cast Kadira into the coals, eliciting horrified wails from all the girls. Magali turned her head away, unable to watch.

A terrible howling came from the fire, but was quickly silenced by a few pumps of the bellows. Kadira's remains were quickly reduced to a crumbling, incandescent skeleton laying upon the glowing coals. The priest hammering the sword upon the anvil turned from his work and thrust the glowing sword into the crackling skeleton and the coals beneath it. The tongue of fire springing forth from the surrounding coals began to swirl about the blade, and the sword quickly set about glowing a furious yellow-white as the metal began to absorb the flames. Kadira's remains instantly crumbled into burning ash as the priest drew the sword out of the fire and held it in the air. Slag and impurities in the steel fell away from the sword as burning bits of debris. As the sword sloughed impurities away, the glowing metal gave off a high-pitched ring, building to a crescendo that sounded hauntingly similar to a screaming woman. At the critical moment, the priest plunged the glowing sword into a small vat of oil. The oil burned and bubbled and frothed until the intense heat stored within the blade had all dissipated. And from the vat, a blade of soulsteel emerged.

Magali was next. She could feel the priests dragging her toward the infernal mouth. But another robed priest stepped in front of them, halting his associates with a wave of his hand. He gestured for another girl to be carried over to the forge while inspecting Magali. In his bony, shriveled fingers, he held Magali's chin and inspected her face, caressed the tears streaming down her face, squeezed her breasts. Magali could feel the priest's breath increase in pace.

"I question her womanhood," the elder priest said to his associates. "I wish to inspect her again, to ensure no tainted soul poisons the forge."

The other priests agreed, and began to drag her away.

"In privacy," he added.

The lower priests surrendered Magali, and the high priest dragged her away. Stunned by the horrors she had witnessed, Magali offered no resistance when this priest took her away. So long as he took her away from here.

The high priest dragged Magali through the curtains leading to the stairwell and immediately set about pressing her against the wall once out of sight. He held her binding-fastened wrists behind her back and began licking her her chin and neck. She cried out in disgust as this wretched, wizened priest moved down to her breasts.

"You are much too beautiful for the fire," the priest whispered as he buried his wart-pocked face in her emergent breasts. "It would be such a waste, be still... be still," He cooed as Magali squirmed.

"The Sashul will not miss a single soulsteel blade... no, no. No one will miss a single virgin." The priest was pressing firmly against her, and Magali could feel his throbbing member pressing against her thigh through the silk of his robe. He hiked his robes up and began licking Magali's face. She squirmed and fought against the priest, but could not push him back. This priest was determined to have her.

But Magali refused to be taken by a geriatric monster in this hellish place. She had fought off such depraved attempts before, and she knew she could resist them again. She resolved to fight back.

The priest slobbered against Magali's cheeks, and at this moment, Magali seized an opening. She opened her mouth and threw her teeth down upon the priest's warty neck, biting down as hard as she could as soon as her teeth found purchase against the saggy flesh of his neck. The priest cried out in pain and tried to shove Magali away, but she sank her teeth into the priest's neck with the same determination as a dog biting down on a hock of lamb. The taste of blood filled her mouth as the priest struggled. With one loud wail, the priest finally released himself from Magali with a deft slap to her face. The priest collapsed to the floor, trying to press against his bleeding neck.

"You ignorant bitch," the priest croaked. "I would have saved you from the fire."

A number of priests burst through the bead curtain and discovered their high priest bleeding out on the floor, and Magali standing above him with bloody saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth.

"Throw her into the forge!" The wounded priest growled, throwing a trembling finger at the girl backing away from the scene. "Seize her! I will see her burn!"

With that, Magali bolted up to the Narthex, eliciting a cadre of Forge Priests to chase after her.
_____________________________________________________________________________

The oarmen of the Sashul's barge had disembarked from the vessel and swam over to secure mooring ropes over to the wharf at the base of the great flight of stairs leading up to the summit of the Soul Forge. With the Sashul's barge pulled up to the wharf, a handful of servants lowered a gangplank over the side to allow the Sashul an effortless means of disembarking. Remun took another handful of figs from the servant before standing up from his seat and making his way to the gangplank.

"It is possible that the Priests of the Forge did not expect us until later," said Irssun. "But it is possible that they know we are arriving, and care not. The politics between the Priests and the wider Dominion is somewhat delicate, especially following the reign of your father. I would advise you to follow my lead and allow me to handle most of the discussion."

Remun gazed up to the summit of the great ziggurat before him, recognizing the power of those who inhabited this place. During his imprisonment, Remun had read on the history of the Forge Priests. The success of the early waves of conquest of the ancient Saliszi conquerors was tied to the impeccable craftsmanship of the blades fashioned by the smith-priests. Soulsteel, for all the barbarism involved in its manufacture, allowed the Saliszi to triumph against the Rainlander Kingdoms. Soulsteel arms held off pirates from the Sullied Coast, Aelg-men marauders, and Ergfolk raiders pouring through the Gap of Zuag, guaranteeing the special relationship the forge cult held with the Sashul. But in the past two centuries, warfare had started to evolve rapidly. After a Salished army was routed at the Battle of Laqadar, firedust had to be regarded as a potent weapon, not just a curiosity of the wizards. A gradual political consolidation of the Drathan Masters and the magic they wield threatened the Salished hosts. Crossbows, rockets, and cannon rose in importance, diminishing the prestige of sword-armed infantry. Exquisite swords could only do so much to maintain military primacy, and the Forge Priests saw their power wane. But even so, the priests remained a potent political force within the Salished Empire.

Something caught Remun's eye as he stared up at the summit of the edifice before him. A party was running - not walking - down the hundreds of steps toward the barge.

"Irssun, do you see that?"

"I've been watching them for several moments now," the ever-attentive Irssun replied, his eyes fixed upon the ziggurat stairs. A young woman - completely disrobed - was bounding down the steps two or three at a time. A number of priests, clad in robes of bright red, were following close behind her.

"What is the meaning of this, Irssun?"

"I must confess, your majesty, that I do not know."

The girl reached the wharf at the base of the steps, pushing her way through the crowd of oarsmen milling about and charging up the gangplank of the Sashul's barge. The Sashul's Guard encircled Remun and Irssun as the young woman boarded the vessel and, within ten paces of the Remun, drew their swords and presented the girl with a ring of blades.

"Halt! Come no closer!" One of the guards commanded. The girl threw herself upon the deck of the barge.

"Please, help me!" She wailed. "They are going to kill me!"

"Irssun, tell me: what is the meaning of this?" Remun demanded. Irssun remained mum, watching as the robe-clad priests stormed aboard the vessel.

"Come no closer!" A guard called to the priests. The priests stepped forward, making their way to the girl. She backed away from the priests, only to be held back by the swordtips of the Sashul's guard.

"She belongs to the Gods of the Forge," one of the priests declared.

"Don't let them take me!"

Remun strode forward, gesturing for the Sashul's guard to part away as he approached the girl. Remun could not help but gaze on the girl's naked beauty, her sooty, bloody mess notwithstanding.

"Give her to us, she belongs to the gods," the priest reiterated.

"I will do no such thing," defied Remun.

"Remun!" Irssun made his way over to the Sashul's side, worry written all over his face. "This is extremely unwise of you to do," he whispered. "The last thing we need at this moment is confrontation with the Priests of the Forge."

"They sacrifice girls to the forge?! Is that how Soulsteel is made?!" Remun declared, careless as to whether or not the priests could hear him.

"Listen to me, Remun," Irssun whispered in the Sashul's ear once again while glancing nervously to the entourage of priests descending the stairs toward them now. "There are certain political realities that we must abide if we are to-"

"I will not abide the wholesale slaughter of innocent maidens, Irssun!"

"Give her to us, Sashul." A priest repeated. "This matter does not concern you."

"We will end this practice at a more opportune time, Remun," Irssun whispered once again. "Please, just relinquish the girl and let us wash our hands of this affair."

"You will call me by my rightful title, Irssun!" Remun snarled. "Sashul! That is who I am, Irssun. Have you forgetten? Because I suspect that you believe you command me! No, I command you!"

"I am not a servant, you ignorant boy!" Irssun blurted, abandoning his attempts at trying to keep his voice down. "My duty is to keep you from doing foolish things. And, right now, I can scarcely think of a more foolish thing one can possibly do."

"Guards," Remun called out, having had his fill of Irssun's berating, "clear the vessel of these depraved monsters."

The Sashul's guard stepped around the girl laying upon the deck and approached the priests in formation with swords drawn. In spite of their anger, the priests were in no position to engage in combat with the Sashul's guard, and reluctantly backed off the gangplank.

"Have us unmoored and retrieve our oarmen from this wretched place. We are leaving at once." Remun commanded.

"What of the girl?" One of the guards asked once the priests had been forced off the ship.

"Give her something to wear, she comes with us."

"Oh Remun," Irssun sighed. "You have made a terrible mistake today."

Remun shot a furious glance at Irssun, "And remove him from my sight."