The Gods were hungry. Malik could feel it in his chest, a faint tugging at his heart in the direction of the Blade he carried across his back.

He could not see nor hear nor touch the Gods, but he knew they buzzed around him like flies, invisible, ravenous, eager to be nourished on the blood of mortals. So great were They that men and mutant were little more than Their cattle. And he, Malik, Swordarm and wielder of Huntsman, he was pleased to be Their instrument. Their chosen butcher.

No greater honor existed than to spend one's life satiating Them, and by keeping Them fed and content, sustaining all Azoth in being.

The Swordarm was walking alone, barefoot, clad in a simple white tunic. He carried nothing save the Blade slung across his back. He did not need to eat. He did not require water. If he nourished the Gods, They would nourish him in turn. Devotion, said the scriptures of the Forge, is food enough for the Perfect. Always hungry, always parched, a true servant of the gods would never starve nor die of thirst- so long as he kept the Gods fed.

All around him rose pale, fleshy stalks of fungus tall and thick as any tree, swarming with glittering beetles and strung with tangles of grey moss. The underbrush was rampant with mushrooms of every color, interspersed with faintly waving tendrils that clung feebly at Malik's legs as he walked by.

The Squalid Vale was an unlovely place.

Nestled between the low, jagged mountains of the Claws and the Western branch of the mighty Godsfangs, the Vale had been tamed, Malik knew, in times now gone. Settled by Ashlanders fleeing the wars of aelgmen and Dratha, then civilized by the Sashuls who had conquered the displaced nomads in their place of exile. The fungus-jungles had been burned back, the land cultivated and turned to fitting use. Towns and even cities had risen up here under the stern order imposed by Nyssos. The provincial capital of Xusa, never a metropolis, had nonetheless been famed for its intricate stonework and its magnificent Forge.

But those times were over. While the Empire fractured, bandits, rebels and-inevitably- mutants, took the Vale for their own as the imperial armies fell back to protect more prosperous lands. Chaos and misrule allowed the jungle to return, and the Squalid Vale lived up to its name once more.

Malik could not help but feel a twinge of sadness as he passed by the broken stone of ancient salszi buildings, now mottled with lichen and grown over with fungal vines. Mourning what had become of his Empire.

The Order, he knew, would endure, even if the Empire it had helped conquer the known world failed. Privately, in that part of his mind he hoped even the Gods could not reach, he wondered why his superiors seemed so indifferent to the fate of the young Sashul. He wondered if the power of the Blade he was honored to carry might not be put to better use than hunting renegades at this time of unsurpassed peril. Could not a squadron of Swordarms be sent to defend threatened Zar Salis? To infiltrate the Ashlands and kill the heathen Khalul or his dread lieutenants? Could not the power of the Order be used to make the Empire great again?

Malik pushed such questions from his mind, bordering as they did on disobedience and doubt. It was not the role of a Swordarm to question, merely to obey, to feed the Gods, and to kill Their enemies.

The heathen Olms, he knew from the subconscious urgings of his Blade, lay somewhere many leagues ahead, on the other side of the Claws. Olms and the stolen weapon was Malik's business. Not questioning.

And besides, there were more immediate tasks at hand- They were hungry. If he was to continue his hunt for Olms, the Gods would need appeasing.

Malik came upon a clearing, filled with the slender, waving stalks of immature fungus-trees. He drew Huntsman from its scabbard, admiring how it caught the dim light along its fine edge.

"COME BEASTS AND FEED THE GODS," shouted Malik at the top of his lungs. His voice echoed into the depths of the pale forest.

He stood there, weapon drawn, waiting. His eyes were closed; his expression serene.

It took them the better part of an hour to appear, emerging into the clearing from the shadowed woods in all directions. Beastkin. Disgusting mutants with the bodies of men but the fanged, horned, slit-eyed heads of monsters. Hands twisted into claws. Skin mottled with fur and scales. Some had chitin mandibles where their mouths belonged. Many had more than two arms.

It was also clear that some had been infested by the forest in which they dwelt, with fungal protrusions and the fruiting bodies of mushrooms sprouting from eye sockets, mouths, ears, armpits and joints.

Their weapons were varied and poor- some sported rusted axes of saliszi make, others crude hatchets and clubs of stone and wood.

All in all, Malik was disappointed. A poor meal for the Gods, and a lackluster challenge for him. Despite the fact that there were well over thirty of the creatures all around him.

The beastkin snarled at each other in their barbarous tongue. Then they charged.

The Grand Council of the Singing Hive was in session and, as usual, Chyn'Ter'Vakin was not enjoying her job in the slightest. The chamber itself was impressive, unlike most the roof rose to dizzying heights above them and in the center was a massive dais upon which images and figures of myth had been carved. But it made an incessant echo and it was like having to listen to the same arguments over and over again. Like the other Grand Councillors, Vakin was sitting on an ornate rug lying on the floor, amid the small group of other Nyr'kiin who all also bore the light blue markings of the warriors' Grand Councillors. None of them were speaking at the moment, but Vakin could tell from the slight body movements and pheromones coming from them that they were feeling the same way as her.

"They argue over war without a single thought as to what it truly means," said one whose entire left side of his face was a deformed mass of chitin from where it had been mangled and healed improperly, "They would not be so quick to war if it were their Caste who would die."

"I honestly think some of them would, and that worries me more than anything," Vakin replied.

"I wish the idiots trying to get us to go east would shut their damn mouths," another added, "The Dratha are the real enemy; they're the ones who deserve to die."

Vakin was about to say something, when she was interrupted by a yell from one of the arguing Grand Councillors. One that was directed at the warriors. The pure white markings on her face and body identified her as one of the Priestly caste, but she was sitting noticeable apart from the Priests' other Grand Councillors. "Why do the Warriors not say their piece?" she asked, "Could it be they are frightened of war? Frightened to do their job?"

"You already know exactly what we think, Achk'Ter'Ichyn. We shall join the discussion you stop shouting and squabbling like nymphs," Vakin said, with the rest of the Warriors nodding their agreement.

"How dare yo-" began Ichyn, before she was interrupted by another of the Priests. She was obviously much, much older than anyone else present, and when she stood she required a sturdy stick to steady herself on. "Chyn'Ter'Vakin is right. You all shout and yell at one another as though the rightness of your words will translate into volume," she said, her words coming slowly, "It was not long ago that the Grand Council chamber was a place for civil discussion, at civil volumes. But thanks to this nonsensical talk of war..."

"It is not nonsense and you know it, Szyk!" Ichyn said, yelling once more, "If we do not prove to the Great Mother tha-"

"That is enough!" The elderly Szyk said sternly, but at a respectable volume, "This sacred chamber is not the place to preach your blasphemies, nor is this meeting the time."

"But you must admit that the Salished are weak, and that we are still but small," Ichyn said, having lowered her voice, "Do you not fear that if we do not grow in strength, that eventually the Dratha will overrun us?"

"We have defeated the Dratha before! We butchered their city and slew those who could not escape," came the voice of one of the other Warrriors.

"But we were stopped, and how many died for so little?" added the heavily scarred Warrior.

"Little? Zar Nyr has helped the Hive immensely!" said one of the other Grand Councillors, the deep blue of his markings showing him to be of the Sailors, "Far more trade and information comes in from the sea."

"Another reason this war is stupid," said one of the other Sailors, "The Dratha would no doubt blockade us. And what then? We would lose all of that trade for however long the stupid war would last."

"Which is why we go after the Salished! They have no ports nearby!" Said another voice, this time somewhat louder. And then came more and more voices, each one louder than the last until the Grand Council was once again a sea of squabbling children. Vakin sighed in irritation, "At least if they're arguing like this they won't ever come to a decision."

Then one of the Grand Councillors cleared his throat. It could barely be heard amidst the din of the Grand Councillors, but those few who did hear it ceased their talking, and stared at the one who had made the noise. Then, slowly but surely, the entire Grand Council room fell quiet and all eyes fell upon the Councillor. He was not an impressive man by any means, and Vakin couldn't help but think that if she passed him by she would never think twice about it. But she knew that was exactly what he desired, for the only things memorable about him were the pitch black markings applied to his carapace. Markings he would only wear to the Grand Council meeting, for they were what identified his Caste. And his Caste was that of the Hive's spies and assassins.

Slowly the man stood, looking around the room at the rest of the Grand Council before he spoke, "The Dratha march to war."

The entire room was silent once more as the information sank in, before he added, "Against the Salished."

It was but a moment before the Council was in an uproar again, and to Vakin's dismay they were mostly calls for blood and war. Even those who had wished for war against the Salished were calling for war against the Dratha now. She knew this day would come eventually, but she didn't expect it to come so suddenly and without warning.

Then she stood up, looking directly at the black-marked Grand Councillor, "Are you certain?"

The room went quiet again before he answered. He cocked his head, and there was a long moment before he answered her, "Do you doubt me?"

"You cannot blame me for wanting to make certain; it is our Caste who will march off to war."

"True enough, Chyn'Ter'Vakin. I do not blame you," he said, "But yes, I am certain. The Archmagister has levied the slave armies of the Drathan cities to march into the Rainlands. But only the Drathan cities."

"What exactly does that mean?" Ichyn asked, irritation clear in her voice, "Speak plainly."

"There is no need to be so rude, Achk'Ter'Ichyn. And I mean exactly what I said; only the Drathan cities have sent their armies. Archaeos is a different matter altogether."

"And how are they not just another Drathan city?"

"I will not bore you with the political status of Archaeos in the Drathan Union, but suffice it to say the Silent King is no mere Drathan Magister."

"Bah, what of it? Even if they have the armies of but a single city, they shall fall before our might," said one of the Warriors, and there were cries of agreement from all across the room.

"I simply deemed it prudent to share all I knew with the Grand Council," the black-marked Councillor said, before finally sitting down once more.

"Well, I feel it is clear where the desires of the Grand Council lies," Ichyn said, "And so I feel it appropriate to finally put this to a vote. Does anyone have any objections?"

"No!" Vakin said, nearly shouting, causing all eyes to turn to her. Her thoughts raced for a moment as the entire Grand Council room stared at her, and then finally something came to her. "Fellow Grand Councillors, would you not consider this vote one of considerable importance?" she asked, to which almost all murmured their assent.

"Achk'Ter'Szyk, is it not tradition that the Grand Council is given a night to think over their decisions when presented with a decision of such importance?"

The elderly woman chuckled before answering, "Why yes, yes it is Chyn'Ter'Vakin. The Grand Councillor shall vote on this tomorrow."

"What? No!" Ichyn complained.

"What, are you frightened that if they are given a chance to think it over the rest of the Grand Council will side against this war?"

"I-, no, I..." Ichyn said, attempting to think of something to say but failing.

"Good, then it shall be that tomorrow the Grand Council shall meet and it will be then that we shall make our decision," Szyk said, "Whether or not the Singing Hive shall march to against the Dratha once again."

Remun lounged upon a wicker chaise in one of the numerous parlors of the Sashul's Palace, observing the servants as they attended to the girl he had rescued from the Soul Forge. A plate of rice flour pastries, fried to a golden crisp, were placed before the despondent girl. Her face was void of any expression, but those brown Rainlander eyes were cast down to the lyestone tiles in utter dejection. She gave no reaction to the maids as they poured for her a steaming cup of cardamom tea. With a tacit nod, Remun dismissed the servants from the parlor.

"Forgive my breach of etiquette," Remun began as the last of the servants had departed the chamber. "I have not properly introduced myself. I am Remun, son of Davorgada. Sashul of the Salished Dominion."

The girl continued to stare blankly at the floor, ignoring the Sashul entirely. Rainlander peasants were expected to kneel at the very sight of their Sashul. For this serf girl to ignore Remun was a grievous faux pas. Indeed, Sashuls past had subjected peasants who misstated their titles to horse-whippings. But Remun could not help but excuse this beautiful creature, especially after the torturous experience she had only escaped hours ago.

"What is your name?" Remun asked with a behumored sigh.

"Magali," the girl whispered, uttering her first word since she had left that wicked place.

"Magali," the boy Sashul repeated. "I welcome you as my cherished guest of this palace. Please, make yourself at ease and walk these halls as if they are your home as well."

The girl's only response was an audible exhalation.

Remun studied the girl slouched upon the chaise across from him. One of the servants had given her a robe to wear, but Remun wished he could gaze upon her nakedness just once more. Magali was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon. The Sashul had become a man locked within a claustrophobic cell, and until a fortnight ago, had not seen a woman since he was locked away as a boy. Remun's only knowledge of feminine beauty came from the books he read in his imprisonment. He knew what the feminine form looked like from detailed illustrations of human dissections by Drathan scholars. Remun knew how women were to be interacted with, as he had read tales of courtly love as well as the nigh-pornographic biography of one exceptionally-promiscuous Drathan Master. But for all his reading, nothing could have prepared Remun for Magali's exceptional beauty.

"You are safe here, Magali," Remun added. "You are under my protection now, and no one in all the Dominion would ever dare to do so much as touch you."

"But you sent us there," Magali said, failing to look up from the floor as she recalled what those depraved priests said. "They said the Sashul wanted soulsteel."

"Not like this," Remun shook his head solemnly. "Not from the souls of innocent maidens. Believe me when I say I could not fathom what monstrous things those priests were carrying out in their forge until today. I will not abide such evil deeds to be carried out within my city. I will send the Sashul's Guard against the Soul Priests and put the lot of those monsters to the sword."

"If you do such a thing, then you are a dead man."

Remun and Magali immediately turned to the entrance of the parlor to find Irssun striding toward them.

"If Amon has not already commanded your death, that is," Irssun added. "After today, it would not surprise me."

"Guards! Remove this man from my presence at once!"

The clinking of lamellar armor and the heavy bootfalls resounded through the parlor as the two Sashul's Guard posted outside followed Irssun into the chamber. Irssun gestured for them to stop as they approached to seize his arms. The stoic-faced Saliszi warriors stopped in their tracks, exchanged confused glances, and tacitly agreed to resume their post outside. Remun fumed as Irssun approached him unabated.

"It is fortunate that some of the guards recognize a foolish request when they hear one. If the guards on the barge had recognized your foolishness earlier, we might have avoided the current disaster."

"Leave me, Irssun," Remun snarled. "I will not hear the counsel of a man who would see innocent maidens slaughtered to appease a clique of perverse cultists."

"The Cult of the Forge Gods is powerful; the Dominion is weak. Perhaps a day will come when the opposite is true and we can dispense with this barbaric cult. But today is not that day, especially if the Dratha indeed have hostile designs against you."

"You mean to return me to the forge, don't you?" Magali whimpered.

"He will do no such thing," Remun assured.

"The Sashul is correct," Irssun affirmed. "Returning you to the Priests would accomplish nothing, the damage is already done. I will not see you killed in vain."

"No, only when her death is expedient."

"You do not understand the gravity of this matter, Sashul."

"I must not, Irssun. Remind me, what do I have to fear from a clique of geriatric degenerates?"

"It is not the Forge Priests you must fear, Sashul. The Forge Priests are but a single facet of the Cult of the Forge Gods, and by far the least menacing at that. Amon Rael and his Swordarms, it is them that you must fear. Four Swordarms with soulsteel blades from the House of Sharp Edges could best the entire Sashul's Guard. The Cult of the Forge Gods is a dangerous enemy indeed."

"You think that they would kill a Sashul over a single girl?" Remun asked, visibly sobered. "Why do they sacrifice maidens to the forge to begin with? I read that captive enemies - warrior souls - are the source of soulsteel souls. Is that not true?"

"It was once true." Irssun corrected. "During the reign of Tiomad IV, your father's father's father, when that tome was written, that was true. But as the Salished Empire's wave of conquests ended, so too did the interminable supply of captive enemies. Few enemies are captured, and so the Forge Priests sought a more readily-available supply of souls. According to the Priests, the warrior souls are the most powerful. But in lieu of the most powerful souls, the Priests now seek the purest souls: virgin maidens."

"I will not accept that," Remun declared. "If innocent souls are the cost of soulsteel, then the cost is too steep to forge such weapons. Khalul and his invasion be damned."

Before Irssun could retort, a flare of horns resounded from outside the palace. Their sound was deep and unearthly, causing the air to quiver even after the horn blasts had ended.

"Shogol horns," Irssun recognized. He left Remun and Magali for the patio outside of the parlor. Remun and Magali followed Irssun outside, craning their necks to look over the lush foliage of the tiered gardens beyond the banisters. A caravan of big, old gaan lumbered into the opened gates of the palace courtyard, growling at the small army of Sashul's Guard forming around them. Banners affixed on rods of ivory rose from their saddles up to the fronds of the palm trees planted within the courtyard. As the gaan waddled amongst the cadre of palace guards surrounding them, the banners waved through the air, revealing the wicked Moon and Star of the Drathan Union.

"The Drathan emmissaries," Remun concluded.

"They're early... curses!" Irssun hissed, glancing to Magali. "They could not have come at worse time."

"Sashul, have the servants attend to the girl. She is not to be seen by the emissaries. After that, meet me in the Great Hall and assume your seat upon the throne. Let us hear what the Congress wishes to say."

At the ring of the dawn gong, 105 men, most of whom were very old, shuffled into the meeting hall of Elweir Yokin. Silently, they all walked to their assigned seats and made themselves as comfortable as they possibly could, which isn't much. They all sat in silence for another 5 minutes, all uncomfortably eyeing the one empty seat.

"Should we start without her?" one of them eventually squeaks out.

"Those filthy bugmen. Can't trust them with anything! I say we send this exemption law to the Infernal Swamps where it belongs and go back to eradicating the infidel filth!" another from the back shouts. The room is suddenly uproarious conversation, with some rallying behind the voice in the back and some shouting oppositions.

" . . . Silence," croaked Archduke Emol Tagd, but none heard him except the man to his immediate right. He nodded, stood up, and repeated his archduke's command in a deafening roar. The room fell immediately silent. "We will wait until our last representative attends," Emol whispered. Ten minutes passed, and eventually, just as quiet dissent was spreading across the room, a Nyr'kiin envoy threw open the door and heralded the newcomer.

"Presenting the New Queen of all the Nyr'kiin people, Heir to the Grand Wisdom of the Ancient Hive Mothers, and Lady of our Minds, the Queen See'iama!" Two large Nyr'kiin stomped in, a small female clutching one of their legs. He shook her off, and she nervously took her seat.

"Now that we're all present, we may discuss matters of the day," came the whisper at the front. The various dukes all returned to their bustling arguments.

"Now is our chance. The Drathan filth are moving against our heinous oppressors, the Salished Dominion. This cannot be misinterpreted as anything but a sure sign of Our God. I motion for a transfer of funds from our theology branch to our military, and begin assembling the necessary militia. God wills it!" shouted Duke Qilen Wurt. The men around him cheered.

"That cannot be done," said Duke Rerot Vill from the other end. "Theology is our life. If our children, the people who will be sitting in our place within a century, don't receive the proper education on our holy and wise God, how shall we expect to receive his blessings? I motion for a transfer from our sanitation branch to theology. As is in the best interests of our Blessed and Mighty. Those crowded around him let off slow applause.

"That is impossible as well. One in ten are dying of Lice Curse in Medqi," retorts yet another voice in the back. "Sanitation is the only thing keeping it from going further."

See'iama looked on in confusion. The constant conflict of the council was getting to her, and she needed to prove herself a capable ruler. How could she get through to these bickering disagreeable dukes? Motioning for the man next to her to silence the room, she nervously stood up and croaked out a suggestion.

"Perhaps there is another way. You humans have been fighting your battles alone since your creation, but now it's time to put that aside. The transfer of funds shall go to sanitation, and in exchange I will rally all able-bodied kinsmen to your cause." A few men far away from her tried to discourage this notion, but they were drowned out by the overwhelming support.

"Very well then. We shall raise the tax for sanitation, and induct the Nyr'kiin into regiments. This meeting is adjourned for the day. In the next moon, we shall rise up against the Salished. May God be with you all."

A cadre of Sashul's guard lined out in formation along the peripheries of the throne room as Remun watched on from atop his throne on the far side of the cavernous chamber. It was clear that the palace guard was taking no chances with the Drathan visitors making their way through the palace at this very moment. Irssun too seemed guarded, standing beside the throne with his arms folded thoughtfully behind his back. A handful of his viziers, including Vizier Dimaza, were gathered on the right side of the throne. Remun read glowering consternation on the viziers, with Dimaza's face showing borderline fury - as if it was taking every ounce of his strength to contain himself.

"How can you let these beasts into our city? Into your very home?" Dimaza growled. "The words of the Dratha are nothing but lies. Your majesty, let us be rid of whatever treachery they wish to speak; let me sink my blade through their throats that they may never be used to utter another falsehood."

"Be calm, Vizier," Remun said with a shake of the head. "The past treachery of the Dratha is not lost upon me. I fear you will soon have the opportunity to slay many of their kind, but we may have an opportunity today to stave off war with the Drathan Union. Conflict with the Congress would be catastrophic, and we must all be committed to securing lasting peace. I will hear what these emissaries have to say, that we may avoid war with the Drathan Union."

"I must confess that Vizier Dimaza's concerns have some measure of merit," Irssun said, taking a step closer to Remun's side. "There is no telling what sort of falsehoods the Congress intends to spin before us today. Treat every word uttered by these emissaries as a masterfully-crafted lie." But Remun gave no form of acknowledgement to his advisor, sitting in regal silence upon the Sashul's Throne.

The gatelike doors on the opposite end of the throne room were pushed open, allowing a vanguard of Sashul's Guard to escort the palace herald halfway down the colonnaded aisle running through the center of the chamber.

"Your majesty," the herald began, "I come to request an audience on behalf of Masters Kaliban, Qaztul, and Melak das Jaagal, esteemed representatives of the Drathan Union. Shall I permit them entry into your presence?" Irssun, Dimaza, and the viziers looked expectantly toward the Sashul as he paused for several moments.

"You shall," Remun responded at last.

Upon hearing the command of their Sashul, the palace guards parted in unison toward the columns, clearing the portal and the aisle in front of the doors. Taking their cue to enter, the three emissaries entered the throne room.

Remun had never seen Dratha before, and his first impression of the beings striding gracefully toward him now was that of superiority - a curious thing indeed for the Sashul of all men to feel about anyone. These Dratha had a superhuman air about them. They were slender and gracile specimens: unnaturally tall to the point of dwarfing everyone else in the chamber, be they Saliszi nobles or Rainlander servants. Their skin was ghostly white and of a pallid complexion that the swarthy men of the Rainlands only encountered in corpses. Their vestments were unlike anything Remun had even seen worn on another person. The three Drathan emissaries wore glossy cuirasses and greaves fashioned from some sort of leather or insect carapace - Remun couldn't be sure which. The one in the center of the triad - the one Remun presumed to be the leader of this delegation - wore spiny epaulets carved from the jagged claws of what had to have been a mighty wolf scorpion. A chain of black metal joined the two shoulderguards, from whence a flowing cape of some exotic fabric was draped. The material seemed to be spun from the night itself, and so abhorred the light of day that it reflected the line shone upon it in iridescent glimmers.

The presumed leader of the delegation met the gaze of the Sashul, and Remun looked into the empty eyes of the Dratha for the first time. Their eyes were completely black, and drew the attention of all the Salished gathered around them. One could never tell where the emissaries were looking. But there was no doubt that the Dratha could see that all the Salished were transfixed upon them; their collective attention drawn into their eyes like light and nebulae consumed by the great swallowing voids described by Drathan astrologists.

"Sashul Remun, son of Davorgada, I am Master Kaliban of Zar Mythrad. My companions and I come on behalf of the Congress of Masters and the Archmagister Khalul the Magnificent. We come today to establish a dialogue between our two realms. We are appreciative of your cooperation thus far, and I am optimistic that our meetings shall be fruitful," the cape-clad emissary began.

"Indeed," Remun responded. "My father was unwilling to treat with your Congress, and I fear that his recalcitrance may have needlessly cost our realms a great number of lives. Know that I am not my father, and that I will at the very least hear what your Congress has to say."

"To be sure, the relation between our realms has doubtlessly been strained during the past twenty-five years. While the Congress was saddened to hear of the loss of your father, we welcome the coronation of a new Sashul that we might once again build a dialogue with the Salished Empire."

"Saddened to hear of Sashul Davorgada's death?" Vizier Dimaza snarled incredulously. "It was the actions of Khalul that sent Remun's father to an early grave. Nothing could have pleased your Congress more than news of his death. Do not come into the house of the Sashul if you mean to fill its halls with lies." Remun gave Dimaza an irritated glare, though Master Kaliban responded with a bemused smirk.

"Will you silence this imbecile already?" Irssun whispered into Remun's ear.

"His anger is justified, I am not offended, Sashul," Master Kaliban said before Dimaza could be dismissed. "The Archmagister wisely recognized that resentment might remain within your court. To this end, I have been instructed to present you with gifts from the Archmagister himself. Consider them to be tokens of commiseration." With that, Kaliban gave two crisp claps which prompted the rest of his delegation to enter the throne room.

A score of men marched into the room, each one clad in roughspun linen robes with their heads completely shorn. Whiplash scars and bruise-mottled skin gave proof that these wretched beings were slaves. They carried ornately-carved boxes fashioned from black crespice wood in their arms, their white eyes cast down to the floor in submission. As the gift-bearers filed past the three Dratha and approached the throne, the Sashul's Guard mobilized. They drew swords and immediately spread out in front of the throne dais to prevent the gift-bearers from getting any closer to the Sashul.

"Your guards are wary, which is to be expected," a sympathetic Kaliban concluded. "The guards may inspect the gifts at a later time, but I ask that the Sashul see one in particular."

One slave, carrying the smallest of the boxes, stepped forward toward the guards. The Sashul's guard looked to Remun, who gave a nod of approval. The guards stepped aside, allowing the lone gift-bearer up to the throne. The slave bowed at the foot of the throne and held the box toward Remun. Upon taking the box from his hands, the slave immediately turned away and returned to join with his fellow gift-bearers.

Remun lifted the top from the box, and gingerly pulled the contents from the silk-padded interior. In the palm of the Sashul's hand was an armillary sphere, a brass machine built of concentric rings that spun about inside one another. Violet crystals were embedded into the outer joints of the contraption, galvanizing the machine with arcane energy and setting the myriad graduation marks and Drathan glyphs etched into the brass rings aglow with a bluish-purple aura. The rings inside the globe were spinning about wildly, turning about on every possible axis. Inside four layers of spinning rings, Remun could see a needle-like piece of metal whose color would change from bluish-green, to orange, and then to purple, based upon where the light shone upon it. This arrow-shaped needle of exotic metal would flit about wildly, shivering toward Remun for a second or two before shooting away to point at the Drathan emissaries for another moment.

"Azt'jalum..." Remun recognized, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Correct, Sashul," affirmed Master Kaliban. "Azt'jalum does not occur in this world. All the azt'jalum that exists on Azoth was either brought to this world from the beyond, or synthesized by alchemical means. It is exceedingly rare, but as a scholar, I suspect you already knew that."

Remun tore his gaze from the device in his palm and glanced at Irssun, who seemed to be nervously eyeing the gyrating sphere.

"You may also be aware, young Sashul, that azt'jalum orients itself toward fonts of arcane power," Kaliban continued. "Just as reliably as a fragment of lodestone within a mundane compass orients itself with the northern reaches of Azoth, azt'jalum points toward sources of arcane energy. The device you hold in your hand is what is known as an arcanometer. It is an invaluable tool for practitioners of the Art."

"The Art?" Remun asked. A wide grin drew across Master Kaliban's face.

"I see now that Irssun omitted a few subjects from your curriculum during your imprisonment."

"What are you talking about?" Remun demanded, setting the arcanometer down onto his lap. "What is he referring to, Irssun?"

"Pay him no mind, your majesty. He is attempting to deceive you, now dismiss them from your presence."

"We know that Irssun educated you when your father imprisoned you," said Master Kaliban. "This is common knowledge among the Congress. But I can see now that Irssun's studies were not complete, for you know nothing of the Art."

"What is this Art of which you speak?"

"Magic," he declared. "Our people, the Dratha, are not simply born with the ability to harness supernatural energies. Our kind is predisposed toward it, but we Dratha are not born sorcerers. This is why it is called the Art, not the Gift. One must be gifted to practice the Art, but the Art itself - like any craft - must be perfected through diligence and study. The same diligent and rigorous study we know you have been accustomed to during your imprisonment."

"I will admit, young Sashul, that Irssun is in part correct. Our stated intention of meeting with you has not been entirely true. The Archmagister has no interest in treating with the Salished Empire. Instead, we come to deliver a proposition unto you. The Archmagister desires that this be expressed directly to your ears, that Irssun and your other advisers are denied the opportunity to intercept it."

"Enough of this!" Irssun cried out. "Guards, remove these men from the throne chamber!" Irssun's command galvanized the guards into action. The shiver of a hundred swords being unsheathed rang out through the chamber, and the guards made their way toward the Dratha standing before Remun.

"You do not take orders from him!" Remun bellowed, scooping the arcanometer into his hand and bolting up from his throne. "You answer to me! Now stand down!"

The guards exchanged glances with one another and froze. Qaztul and Melak das Jaagal exchanged behumored smiles, and Kaliban could not help but chuckle, exposing his sharp Drathan teeth.

"This is precisely why the Archmagister tasked us with delivering this proposition unto you, Remun. The Salished Empire is in shambles. You know it, your lords know it, and the Congress of Masters knows it. Your father, in his obsession for complete control over the Salished Empire, decimated the loyalty of his client lords. And now that his reign of tyranny has ended, your dominion is erupting in rebellion. Disloyalty is so ingrained in this society that even your advisors attempt to rule in your stead. Insofar as I can see, Irssun sees himself as the true ruler of the Salished Dominion and you as his puppet of a Sashul."

"What does your Archmagister propose, Master Kaliban?" Remun asked, paying no mind as Irssun and the viziers fretted.

"The Archmagister envisions two options for us. The first, and most satisfactory option to all parties involved. Abdication of the Salished throne, and dissolving the borders of the Dominion into a number of districts to be governed by appointees of the Archmagister's choosing. In return for your cooperation, the Archmagister has made arrangements for you to learn the Art under the tutelage of Master Qaztul at Zar Thryznur."

"Young Sashul, you are known throughout the Ashlands as a great scholar, especially given your age," added Master Qaztul. He was gaunt-faced Drathan whose silver hair had been woven into dozens of matted dreadlocks all bunched together in a twisted bun on the back of his neck. "I would be honored to accept you as my apprentice. I have trained four apprentices in the Art, and so I have come to recognize potential in prospective apprentices. I sense that you could become a powerful sorcerer indeed under my instruction."

"You are a scholar, Remun," the third Drathan chimed in, "not a Sashul. Politics is such a tiresome game. The Congress of Masters is a society of scholars. You will be in better company with fellow scholars. Leave this moribund empire to its fate."

"Sashul!" Irssun exclaimed, "do not think for a moment that they would hold to any agreement you make. Once the Archmagister has what he wants, he will simply kill you! You are nothing but an obstacle to them!"

"And the second option?" Remun asked Master Kaliban.

"Die with your empire as it collapses into chaos."

"You cannot seriously be considering this!" Irssun called out.

"The Sashul is under some sort of mind-spell!" Dimaza bellowed, unsheathing his soulsteel blade. "Enough Drathan trickery, Khalul will know the Sashul's response when we send their heads back to Zar Dratha!"

As Dimaza made his way down the dais toward the Dratha, Melak das Jaagal cupped his fingers around orbs of arcane energy forming in his palms.

"Take one more step, and I shall leave nothing of you but a scorchmark on the tiles." Melak threatened as raw magical energy pulsed with a malicious orange light between his fingers.

As tensions rose, the guards began drawing in around the Dratha. Qatzul and Kaliban remained more calm than their companion, but a quick glance at the arcanometer showed the machine's azt'jalum needle was quivering wildly toward Kaliban, indicating that he was quietly gathering enough energy to massacre several guards in an instant.

"What of the common people in the Dominion?" Remun asked as tensions built toward a terrible crescendo. "What will become of them?"

"Nothing will change for them. The rulers appointed by the Archmagister will assume the leadership of these lands in the stead of the Sashul's vassal lords. New lords will take the place of the old and their lives will go on as they always have. Nothing will change for the peasantry."

In the midst of the chaos building on the floor below him - the Dratha surrounded by a sea of blades - Remun noticed the Drathan slaves, pressed into a corner on the far side of the throne room by a contingent of Sashul's Guard. Even from this distance, Remun could see them cowering in the corner, their bald heads scarred and bruised by all manner of Drathan abuse. These had likely hailed from the Ashlands, but Remun could recognize that if he acquiesced with Khalul's ultimatum, the people of the Rainlands would join the ranks of the peoples enslaved by the Dratha. Master Kaliban was correct in recognizing that Remun had no desire to be the Sashul, but watching those slaves cower in the corner reminded him that Remun was not Sashul for himself, but for the people that knew him as Sashul.

"Guards!" Remun called out at last. "This delegation is no longer welcome in my presence. Seize them, and take them to the undercroft. I will keep them there until I know how best to deal with them."

With that, the guards sheathed their swords and pressed in to grab the Dratha by the arms. Melak das Jagaal seemed ready to unleash his energy upon a few of the Salished guards, but a single shake of Kaliban's head instructed him not to resist. Without any disturbance, the Dratha allowed themselves to be escorted out of the throne room. A handful of guards remained to mind the Drathan slaves after the doors to the throne room were shut. As Remun slumped back down into his throne, Irssun gave an audible sigh of relief with the potential for disaster over.

"I am very proud of you, your majesty." A relieved Irssun. "The war with the Congress of Masters could have begun within your own palace. But you've handled a delicate situation as best you could. However, war with the Congress now seems inevitable."

"It has always been inevitable, spymaster," Dimaza added. "Did you not hear the Dratha? Khalul means to take the Rainlands. We must react accordingly, and mobilize our forces to protect the Vorghul Shelf."

"You are truly an imbecile, Dimaza! You very nearly instigated a fight with no less than three Drathan sorcerers. Do you have any concept of how powerful just one wizard is? They would have killed us all, the Sashul included."

"But... you are right. There is no longer any doubt, Khalul means to invade. We must look to our defenses. The time has come to mobilize the armies and hold back the forces of the Dratha."

But Remun offered no response. He didn't even bother to look up to his vizier or spymaster. His eyes were fixed on the gyrating rings of the arcanometer in his lap. His eyes followed the quivering azt'jalum needle, which now pointed directly at Remun now that the Dratha were gone.

Nyssos was a massive city to be sure. The capital of the Salished Empire, built at the confluence of the Tashgad and Nabal Rivers, was perhaps the largest city in all of Azoth. Zar Dratha or one of the other great cities on the Bay of Teeth were possibly more populous than Nyssos, but the Salished capital was certainly larger in terms of the sheer size of the city. Nyssos proper, with its spires and ziggurats built upon floating plazas on and sometimes in the rivers, was condensed along the rivers and did not cover a particularly large area. But the outlying slums where the vast majority of the city's populace lived stretched on for many leagues up and down the banks of both the Nabal and the Tashgad. Those slums gave way to a vast patchwork of rice paddies.

From atop his steed, Irssun was afforded a commanding view of the surrounding countryside as he rode along. To the east, the mighty Nabal River flowed gently southward to the ocean and the quarter league or so between the riverbank and the road was comprised of shanty villages surrounded by several acres of rice paddy. And to the west, the paddies stretched on for many leagues, all the way to the hills and bluffs on the horizon that marked the interface of the Shadar Highlands and the floodplains.

The paddies on either side of the road teemed with serfs. The peasants wallowed through thick mud with curved blades in one hand and bundles of half-desiccated rice stalks in the other. Irssun knew enough about the rice harvest to know that they were harvesting too early. The hot dry season had only begun a moon ago, and the rice was not due to be harvested for another two or three moons. Rice harvested now would not have sufficient time to mature, the grains were bound to end up shriveled and small. But Irssun knew that this premature harvest was not being performed out of ignorance, for these Rainlander serfs had been cultivating rice here for a thousand years before the Saliszi warlords ever descended from the Godfangs. Irssun knew that these peasants were harvesting out of fear.

Irssun had heard the rumors spreading through the peasantry: word of warlock armies gathering in the west was spreading among the serfs as quickly as any pox or plague. The peasants feared a war was coming and that this time their Salished lords would not be able to protect them. These peasants meant to harvest what they could before finding refuge from the coming conflict.

The very first refugees were already on the road; a creaking cart drawn by a crippled ass rumbled down the road in the opposite direction of Irssun, Dimaza, and their retinue of mounted Sashul's Guard. A sun-bronzed rainlander paused from whipping his nigh-lame donkey to watch as the braid-beards rode past. His spouse and three young children sat in the back beside with a few of their possessions and enough rice to sustain them on their exodus. Irssun suspected they were on their way to the great causeways in Nyssos that spanned the great river, and from there they would probably venture on into the hill country on the eastern fringe of the Salished Dominion - somewhere far removed from anything that might interest any invader from the Ashlands.

"Miserable wretches," Dimaza snarled as the peasants' cart rolled past. "Truly, these Rainlanders take no shame in cowardice. Our Saliszi ancestors did this lot a favor by conquering them. Were it not for Salished strength, they would have been made thralls by the Dratha long ago. But they do not stand and fight, but flee into the hills like sheep. A lesser race of men, without question."

Before yesterday, Irssun would have been inclined to contest the feisty young vizier, to assure him that the Congress of Masters had no intention of open warfare against the Salished Dominion. But when the Congress' envoy to the Dominion openly requested Remun's abdication and fealty to the Archmagister, the Congress' intentions were made abundantly clear. The Salished Dominion and the Congress of Masters were going to war.

To make matters worse, the Sashul was anything but decisive during this critical hour. Following the meeting with Master Kaliban and his Drathan envoys, Remun had been sullen and aloof. Irssun and Dimaza had spent the better part of the morning trying unsuccessfully to get the young Sashul engaged in mobilization against the Dratha. A half-hearted 'I suppose,' in response to Dimaza's request to fortify key ascents up the Vorghul Shelf was the most decisive thing that Irssun or Dimaza were able to coax from Remun. By lunch, Irssun had had enough of Remun's sour attitude and set out for another errand. The old spymaster had no time to babysit the foul-tempered boy; not when there was a war to prepare for.

"Remind me, Irssun, why exactly I must join you on this errand of yours?" Dimaza asked, turning in his saddle to face Irssun. "I doubt you brought me along because you enjoy my company. My time would be better spent facilitating the defense of the Vorghul Shelf. Can't you do this on your own?"

"Lord Varrod has answered our call to arms, and has sent a contingent of his warriors to our aid against the Dratha. Early this morning, a ship from Vertskhilis landed at the fortress at Mador Tul bringing warriors from the Varrod League. They wish to demonstrate their capabilities to us, and I feel it would be best for you to know what these men are capable of, that you may best incorporate them into your plan to defend the Vorghul Shelf."

"Thankfully, we are nearly there," Dimaza sighed, looking upon the great hill of Mador Tul rising above the floodplain before them. It was a hill from the nearby Shadar Highlands, misplaced by geological happenstance to be located right along the bank of the great Nabal River. Situated just two and half leagues to the south of Nyssos, Mador Tul had obvious strategic value. Some Rainlander king built his keep atop Mador Tul centuries before the Saliszi descended from the Godfangs. During the zenith of the Salished Empire, the fort was fortified and expanded into an imposing citadel armed with catapults able to sink unauthorized vessels attempting to sail toward Nyssos. But over the past two generations, Mador Tul had fallen into disrepair. It was so neglected that bandits occupied the fort up until five years ago, demanding payment from ships going up and down the river and successfully resisting attacks from the anemic Salished Dominion. Though the bandits occupying the fort had been dispatched, it was apparent that little had been done in rebuilding the fort. The burned-out remains of watchtowers stood above the crumbling ramparts, whose neglect was accentuated by tufts of brushy grass and Quabir saplings sprouting from between the stone blocks of the fortress walls.

Irssun, Dimaza, and their guards rode up the switchback trail up to the gate of Mador Tul, or rather, what remained of it. The actual gate of the citadel had long since been destroyed. All that remained now was a gap in the wall, where the rubble from the ruined gatehouse had been cleared wide enough for two men standing abreast to pass through. Flanking the aperture into the fortress were two Salished men-at-arms, armed only with crude wooden bucklers and spears. The Salished garrison at Mador Tul was a pitiful affair; a dozen men drawn up from the local peasantry to keep bandits and pirates from taking up residence in the fort again.

"What do you lot want?" One of the guards asked as the horsemen cantered up to the entrance.

"We represent the Sashul," Dimaza snarled, bristling at the militiaman's insolence. "Show some respect to your betters."

"We have come to meet with the Vertskhili forces that arrived here this morning," Irssun declared.

"Right, Varrod's folk. They mentioned someone might be coming to see them today. They're right inside, follow me."

The man-at-arms led Irssun and Dimaza through into the parade ground of the dilapidated fortress. Dozens of crude tents had been pitched upon the courtyard of the fortress. A hundred soldiers milled about around them, pausing from their chores to watch the Sashul's men ride through their encampment. These men were a cut above the armed levies that comprised the bulk of the Salished hosts; they were professional soldiers, well trained with expensive armor and weapons. These were the soldiers of Lord Varrod's men, the master of Vertskhilis. Vertskhilis, while nominally part of the Salished Dominion was in truth ruled by Lord Varrod alone. Decades past, the Salished had attempted to oust Lord Varrod and reassert control over the Arm of Azoth, but were repulsed in a disastrous battle in the mountains. Ever since, Lord Varrod answered to the Sashul's will only when it served his interests. Knowing this, Irssun was unsettled by the fact that Varrod's forces had effectively commandeered a fortification so close to Nyssos. But during this dark hour, Irssun could ill afford to deny any assistance against the Congress.

The Salished militiaman stopped at the entrance of one Mador Tul's two surviving watchtowers, directing the Sashul's men inside. Irssun and Dimaza descended from their horses and went inside, ascending a staircase up to the the tower's crenellated top. There, Irssun and Dimaza encounter number of Vertskhili soldiers accompanying a man who wore the vestments of a noble underneath a scalemail curiass.

"Irssun of Tehre, Vizier Dimaza," the Vertskhili nobleman recognized. "I am gladdened that you were able to visit us. I am Faresa of Hamalsarak, commander of this regiment. Lord Varrod supports his Sashul in this difficult time, and has therefore sent this force and ten others like it to preserve the Salished Dominion and repulse the Congress of Masters."

"The Sashul is grateful for your assistance," said Irssun, knowing that Remun didn't know - and perhaps, didn't care - that Varrod's League was supporting him.

"I am glad to hear it, though I confess I wish the Sashul could have joined us," said Faresa.

"His majesty, as you can surely imagine, is totally preoccupied with war preparations," Irssun lied. Having anyone outside the palace seeing the Sashul in his current depressive state would be bad for morale. Even if Remun had wanted to go, Irssun would not have permitted it.

"As I suspected. It is a shame, this demonstration would not have been possible without Remun's counsel."

Irssun cocked his eyebrows with that. "What do you mean by that?"

"Let me show you," Faresa said, turning to his soldiers gathered near the tower's battlements. He took one of the curious-looking weapons out of the arms of one of the soldiers and presented it to Irssun and Dimaza. It was a long, slender tube of hammered brass, with a long, sharp spearpoint affixed to the front and a string fuse running out from its back end, where feather halves had been affixed to make fletched fins for the device. "Certainly, you recognize this device."

Irssun and Dimaza indeed knew what this weapon was, and what it was capable of. It was a rocket powered by firedust: coarse black powder that, when brought to spark, ignited with terrible force. Originally an invention of the Dratha, the noblemen of the Arm of Azoth somehow managed to acquire the recipe for firedust. Whereas the Dratha had seen as firedust as only an interesting curiosity, the southern city-states sought to utilize the material's deadly power. Jealously guarding the formula, the rulers of the Arm of Azoth developed fire arrows and rockets to wield against their adversaries. When their Salished masters came to put the Arm to heel, they turned their firedust weapons against the Sashul's hosts with terrible effect.

"Now, firedust on its own is potent enough. But, your Sashul, in his studies, discovered a way to further amplify its destructive potential." Faresa led Irssun and Dimaza out to the parapets, giving the three view over the Nabal River. Out in the middle of the river was a crude raft made from woven dumur reeds. The boat had no occupants and carried only two large ceramic vessels.

"Warriors," Faresa said to his soldiers. "Make ready to loose a volley, aim for the raft."

Irssun and Dimaza watched as the Vertskhili warriors reached for their torches - stationed well away from the rockets - and carefully lowered the flame to the very tip of five of the rockets' fuses. The wicks ignited with a burning hiss, prompting the warriors to quickly move their rockets into position with long poles mounted on the bellies of the rockets, pointing them off of the parapets directly toward the floating raft. A seemingly-interminable period of a few seconds passed as the fuses burned down into rear of the rocket before a roaring jet of fire erupted from the rear of the rockets. With trained precision, the rocket-wielders knew to release the guiding pole as soon as the rocket ignited, allowing them to careen off into the horizon. Irssun and Dimaza watched as the rockets flew away at terrible speed, their smoky contrails snaking around and spinning wildly toward the Nabal River. One of the rockets settled into a screaming cartwheel, circling up and down a hundred feet above the water before exploding in the air with a percussive bang. Another rocket flew straight across to the opposite bank of the Nabal where it exploded and set fire to some riverside bushes. Two other rockets arced down into the waters of the Nabal River. The rockets shot into the water with a sizzling splash before exploding a few feet underwater, creating a frothy geyser that erupted high into the air. One of the rockets had true aim, and hit squarely in the middle of the raft. Perhaps, in the fraction of a second before the rocket exploded, Irssun or Dimaza could have seen one of the urns shatter from the impact of the rocket and spill its black, viscous contents all around. But as soon as the rocket exploded, the tiny boat was consumed in a bright flash of white light that was followed by a deafening bang a nearby clap of lightning. Irssun and Dimaza could do naught but recoil from the sheer power unleashed before them. The explosion generated a shockwave that could be seen rippling across the water at tremendous speed.

It took several seconds for the echoes of the blast to carry across the land. The rolling booms gave way to the cawing of terrified seagulls scattered from their nests in between the fortress' weathered stones, and a bloodhawk could be heard screeching from its perch in a ruined watchtower. Irssun looked back to the river in silent awe, seeing only a column of steam and frothy water falling back to Azoth where the little boat had floated only moments before. Dimaza, however, could not contain his disbelief.

"How did you accomplish such a feat?" The young vizier demanded.

"Ichor," Faresa revealed with a wide grin. "In that boat were a pair of vases filled with about an amphora each of ichor, hardly an inexpensive demonstration, but what power. When the ichor in those vases came into contact with the spark of firedust, it burned with a tremendous force."

"Ichor does not burn," Irssun said. "It is basic alchemical knowledge that ichor is not combustible."

"Not with mundane fire, no. Neither flame from a torch nor spark from iron and flint will ever ignite ichor. However, our genius of a Sashul happened to have read Drathan alchemical texts during his... confinement. He recalled that Drathan alchemists had discovered that when brought to the spark of burning magnesia, ichor will in fact ignite. Even a cupful of burned ichor was noted to be deadly enough that pupils were advised never to attempt it. The Sashul, suspecting that the spark of firedust might be hot enough to ignite ichor, sent word to Lord Varrod to see if ichor could amplify the power of firedust to be used as a weapon to even the odds against the Congreess. As you have witnessed, the technique certainly works. How fitting that the knowledge of the Drathan masters shall be used against them."

"Remarkable to be sure," replied Irssun, making every attempt to conceal his dismay. In attempting to find a means of evening the field of battle against the Congress, Remun had foolishly given a terrible weapon to Lord Varrod. Lord Varrod, while nothing compared to the threat posed by the Archmagister, was no friend of the Sashul by Irssun's reckoning. So long as the Congress of Masters threatened to destroy the Salished Dominion, Lord Varrod was an ally. But once the Congress was repelled, what then? Lord Varrod, seeking ever more power and autonomy, could just as easily turn such a weapon against the Sashul. Remun had been Sashul for scarcely a month and had already managed to alienate one of the Dominion's allies while empowering a rival. And just how had Remun managed to get a missive to Lord Varrod without his knowledge?

The spymaster had little time to ponder over Faresa's revelations, for the sound of hooves falling upon the cobblestones of Mador Tul's parade ground announced the arrival of another group of riders. Irssun, Dimaza, and Faresa peered over the watchtower's parapets to see who had just rode up to Mador Tul. They were mounted Sashul's Guard, adorned in the standard lamellar armor of the palace. Their horses were matted in sweat from a fast and hard ride.

"Spymaster, Vizier!" One of the riders cried from the parade ground when he caught glimpse of Irssun and Dimaza. "The Sashul is missing!"

That declaration stole the attention of everyone in earshot.

"Are you certain?" Irssun replied.

"Of course they're certain!" Dimaza screamed.

"We have looked throughout the palace!" The new arrival affirmed. "We cannot find him anywhere."

"This is the work of those Dratha emissaries," the vizier snarled, shoving his finger into Irssun's breast. "I told you we should have put them to the sword like the beasts they are."

"The emissaries," Irssun mumbled to himself. "By the Gods, of course."

"You doddering imbecile, what are you going on about?"

"Come with me, vizier." Irssun demanded, descending the stairs of the watchtower as quickly as his legs could carry him. "I think I know where we can find Remun."