The desert is the country of madness....it is the refuge of the devil, thrown out to 'wander in dry places.' Thirst drives man mad, and the devil himself is mad with a kind of thirst for his own lost excellence- lost because he has immured himself in it and closed out everything else. So the man who wanders into the desert must take care that he does not go mad and become the servant of the one who dwells there in a sterile paradise of emptiness and rage.
- Thomas Merton







He stood alone on a bare, high ridge where the mountains ended, the crimson expanse of the Avanagashan spread out beneath him, immense and silent, baking under the angry sun. The desert was a sea of red rock and sand, broken in places by spines of sandstone rising from the earth like the fins of immense chthonic beasts.

In the far distance, the dark silhouette of Zar Vorgul interrupted the wasteland's magnificent monotony. He watched the metropolis' jagged crown of spires and domes dance crookedly in the heat shimmer.

He remained there, looking out towards the city, as the cool gears of his mind turned deliberately over bloodshed looming like a storm.

Word from the Empire was unanimous and clear: His Dread Immanence Giomaht III, Shadow of the Gods Upon Azoth, Shashul and Emperor, was determined to succeed where his many predecessors had for so long failed: to finally crush the Dratha and destroy the Union, adding the cities of the Ashlands to the Salished dominion. The Shashul had called his lords and generals to him, his Forge Priests were offering redoubled sacrifice to their voracious gods, begging for victory in the war to come. Soon all the great power of the Rainlands would fall upon the Union- and, first, upon the Red Desert. Union spies throughout the Empire even spoke of new weapons among the Salished ranks, capable of killing from a great distance and of shattering walls with ease.

Lying distant from its sister cities, right at the doorstep to the Empire, Zar Vorgul would be the first target of the Shashul, and the first opportunity for Union forces to frustrate His Dread Immanence's plans. If Zar Vorgul could not be saved, it would at least be a city for which the Salished would pay an outrageous price. If all went to plan, it would be a price too high for their conquest to continue.

The City of Zar Vorgul, a massive walled fortress in an otherwise empty wasteland. Massive walls, some of the largest in the world, towered two hundred feet into the air and boasted nearly a hundred feet of solid infill in their width. The walls encompassed nearly sixteen square kilometres of houses, wells, shops and of course the mages tower in the centre. For generations it had stood against the Salished Empire, a bastion of Drathan Power that could strike into the Salish homeland if left unwatched.

The sheer size of the walls prevented the sun from even reaching the cobblestoned streets until mid-morning. As the sunshine spread slowly through the city it touched on the narrow streets sheltered from the heat by multi-coloured awnings that made the city appear as though rainbows flowed between the rooftops. Those same rooftops were rich in colour themselves as laundry was set to dry, the many colours of the desert peoples flapping in the hot breeze that occasionally made its way into the depths of the city.

That wind, so harsh, barely stirred at street level. Indeed the whole city seemed to hold a stale breath unless all four of the great gates were open, allowing a cleansing breeze to curl through the city. Today was one of those days and streets filled with residents who basked in the fresh air that at last touched their faces. Many suspected it might be a rare occurrence in the coming days if rumours of the Salished invasion were true.

Among those filling the streets was a pretty dark haired woman, her orange turban and veil no different than any of the other hundreds of others. She moved through the crowd with an effortless ease, almost like a cat on a fireplace mantel between jars of spice and the urns holding deceased ancestors.

Corina stepped carefully around a clay jar that held a families daily waste. Each day the pots were placed outside and carts would come around, replace the jar and take the full ones to a mixing vat where the waste would be turned into fertilizer for vegetable plots that were scattered about the city.

Other carts, guarded by slave soldiers, would follow behind with large tanks of water on their back. The water, drawn from cisterns deep beneath the desert, was rationed out daily. So much per adult, so much per child. It was always a generous amount, for the cisterns of Zar Vorgul were deep and cool, fed perhaps by an underground river or aquifer. It had been discovered many years before by the same Mage who had built the city.

For Corina this was a city whose streets she had walked many times before. Long ago she had learned the art of sailing on the desert in the small skiffs prized by the tribes beyond the walls and she moved far faster than any horse or army could ever hope to match. Still, here in this oppressive heat, she always missed the cool misty air of Zar Zirak and its massive waterfalls.

Ahead of her, it's great dome towering above even the walls, as the Mage tower. It was there, within its depths that her target lived and worked. Not the great Mage himself, for that she would need a small party of Assassins. Her target was a woman who worked in the archives, a woman who knew the secret passages beneath the city. She was to die, but only after Corina had learned her secrets.

Corina licked her lips and smiled slightly. She loved a challenge.

Glory walked idly across the hot sands of the desert, a bundle of ropes gripped tightly within her inhuman arm. Behind her dragged an immense bundle that was stained with blood in several places. The city of Zar Vorgul had come under threat by a rather large beast as of recent times, and they had put out a message for someone to slay the beast. The pay was decent, and it gave Glory an excuse to hunt monsters and be away from people for a bit. Fine work for someone with her... Problem.

Glory didn't see her arm as a problem anymore. At first it had felt alien. Malicious and corrupting. As time had gone on and Glory became more and more used to having such an arm attached to her she stopped hating it. It was a part of her now, even if she didn't like it. The other option at the time would've been to die, so Glory supposed that such a trade off was only fair. The changes to her body weren't unwelcome with her field of work, either. Being able to see in all directions at any time and move at speeds faster than anyone else she had seen were welcome in preventing the occurrence of more replacement limbs.

Another bonus was the reduction in needs that she had to meet. The hot desert sun was like a warm morning after a cool night, and though many would find themselves parched in this heat Glory wasn't even sweating. Being able to sustain herself off of a small amount of food was also a bonus. Though the stares her arm drew and the suspicion she was treated with kept calling her gifts into question. These thoughts faded from her mind as Glory drew closer to the gates. The guards stiffened slightly as she approached, and Glory tugged the bundle closer.

Dropping the bundle of ropes and folding her arms, Glory spoke clearly. "Summon the sergeant. I have finished the hunt and I am here for my payment." Glory gave the bundle a kick, causing a black and twisted limb to fall from it. Much like the limb she had now, though somehow more evil in nature. The tough exterior of her arm was still an unnatural feeling against her skin, though now it didn't cause Glory to flinch or recoil every time. It still caught her by surprise from time to time, which was quite annoying.

Glory waited for the guard to perform as he had been asked. She could do nothing else. To threaten or intimidate a guard in a city like this was to incite the wrath of the other guards, and to be barred from one of the few cities in the region was almost like being marked for death. To have to travel all the way southwest to Zar Yim, Ashfall, or Zar Dratha would be a long and exhausting journey, even with her ability to sustain herself from almost nothing.

Thus, Glory waited. It was all she could do.

The blazing sun overhead bathed Zar Vogul in its bleaching white light, painting all below it in its sanctifying rays. However, an anomaly marched through the streets of the desert bastion, a revenant of black and grey, its very existence humming with the lost power of a forgotten age. Gost, as he preferred to be known, stamped through the city streets, his black robes trailing behind him like a spectre of grim death. His presence was startling and ominous among the commoners in the streets, who scrambled over themselves to clear from his path. A tech-cultist of the Necrodomii was seen as cursed figure among many, and even the less superstitious found their ways alien and their existence heretical.

Gost paid the fearful masses no heed; they were like worms to be trod beneath his boots. Ignorant and powerless creatures that would do nothing but die as blindly and pitifully as they had lived. He had business with a more interesting sort of creature. Peering up past the glare of sunlight, Gost eyed the mage-tower that loomed over the city. Visible from all corners of the settlement, a true monument to Drathan vanity. He continued on, shaking his head disapprovingly. Even with the sorcerous power they wielded, they were still blind to the true power and glory of the Old Ones.

Arriving at the tower's gate soon enough, Gost presented himself to one of the attendant guards. The two men stood eye to eye, though Gost's gaze was replaced by the unblinking glow of his survival masque, burning from within the shadows of his dark hood. "I have come to parlay with your master." He said, his voice modulated into a metallic growl by his masque. "I am Therion of Clan Domitian, he should be expecting me." He had sent a missive some weeks ago, though he had been assured by the messenger that hit was delivered, he had not received a reply. Regardless, he had come to bargain all the same.

-removed-

Five Days after Origin

In the pale light of cold dawn, Cerys moved among her people, touching hands and exchanging the occasional encouraging word. They were hungry, many of them sick or wounded, the women violated, the children still wide-eyed with shock. The vicious attack by Drathan slavers had taken them all by surprise, had shaken even her strongest. Where she walked, eyes deep set in pale faces turned up to look at her, hungry for hope and reassurance, and her steps were trailed by prayers.

They had been struck just after dawn, after most of the tribe’s hunters gone on their daily quest to provide food for their kin. Many of these had been ambushed by parties far outnumbering their own so that even when the great war drums sounded the call to return home, few but the wise men and women were left to protect the old, the young, and the expectant mothers. Scores of her people had been taken as slaves and those left were in no condition to pursue the attackers.

Worst of all, Cerys, reborn in shadow, Chosen of the Wanderer, could do nothing for them. She had not the skill to mend their wounds, the medicines to cure their fevers, the food to warm their gaunt bellies. She was as hopeless as the weakest of her followers, and the realization shook her burgeoning belief in her own power. It seemed that the priestess’s first lesson as Voice of the Wanderer would be one of humility.

And so, Cerys roused her people for the last leg of a journey that had begun four days prior, an easy trek made long and arduous by the failing strength of her people. They climbed carefully down the western slope of one of the great Godsfang Mountains, following an ancient path to the largest tribe of the Arakkai. Cerys’s acolytes, Ilys and Ariadne each assisted the wounded and in her own arms, the priestess held a child, a small girl who had tucked her soft face against Cerys’s neck to sleep. In this fashion, Cerys and her followers entered the tribe of Eranor Blackwater to seek shelter and a place among his people.

In the center of their village, the chief himself awaited their parlay, having had several hours notice of the party’s slow descent into his territory. He was garbed as if for a feast, his shoulders adorned by a heavy bearskin that hung over the dark iron of his breastplate, his fingers gilded with rings of silver. The Blackwater tribe was the most prosperous of the Arakkai people, and its lord did not mean to let the desperate newcomers forget it.

Fighting to control her fury, the priestess handed her sleeping burden to the child’s mother, the girl too drained to make a protest, and fell to one knee before Chief Eranor. Behind her, Ilys clenched her teeth and looked away, but made no protest.

“Before you stand the remnants of the tribe of Manon the Swordsinger,” Cerys began, keeping her voice low and differential. “Of these, there are fifty warriors, many wounded, three servants of The Wanderer, a tanner, a blacksmith and his apprentice, and a number of children, elders, and expectant mothers. We humbly ask a place in your clan as fallen allies, to lay down our own clan name in exchange for a place here.”

The priestess watched Eranor Blackwater calculate the addition of resources to his people, saw the glaze of ambition cloud his eyes. He would take their land, their sacred places, their strength. He would name himself Uniter and march on the other clans of the Arakkai. It was as Cerys had hoped, but still, she despised the eager blindness with which he invited unknown danger into his midst.

“I don't know your face,” he said, no doubt thinking himself clever for not answering her request right away.

Cerys swallowed but answered with no pride. “I am but a servant, Chief Blackwater, a simple priestess to the Wanderer.”

The big man nodded and spread his hands wide. “Welcome, people of the Blackwater,” he said, the feral gleam never leaving his eye.

With a silent affirmation from their priestess-leader, the Unbroken dissolved into the bigger tribe.

The Beastlords' camp was never quiet. At all hours, the flat section of desert inside the city walls of Zar Vogul that had been cleared of slums and given to the mercenaries to set up in was buzzing with shouts, bellowed orders, the roars and hisses of beasts, drinking songs and the clanking of chains. Today, however, was a particularly noisy day.

A monster was squatting in the ruins of a shredded barracks tent. It resembled a massive cat, as tall as two grown men and as long as three, with thin brown hair well-suited to the desert sun and a row of jagged spines all across its back. Its mouth was filled with teeth like daggers, and wicked blades sprouted from its joints and claws. It was an Arthak Cat, one of the great predators of the Red Desert - on the battlefield, they made for brutally effective instruments of war, blindingly fast and vicious with jaws that could crush through even the toughest armor, capable of carrying three warriors on their backs - one to direct it, two to throw javelins or fire bows. The Beastlords had six of them in their possession, and this specimen was by far the largest and the most ornery. It had been kept in an iron cage until the night before, when some drunken idiot had tried to let it out for a joyride.

Twelve Aelg beasthandlers surrounded it, pulling with all their might on four ropes that had been lassoed around it, while another waved a torch in its face, attempting to herd it into the cage that had been brought up behind it. The cat snarled and snapped at him, pulling the others off their feet or causing them to skid on the barren ground.

"Come on now, keep it steady!" Har-dok shouted, pulling a warrior away from the ropes and taking his position. "We've almost got it back in!" Gradually, the cat stepped backwards away from the fire, and the beasthandlers allowed the ropes to slack. That was an important step - not only so that the beast could move, but so it would know that compliance meant that the pain would stop. Two more steps, and it was inside, still hissing and roaring. "Now, shut it now!"

The handler closest to the cage dropped the rope and bolted over to the lever at the side of the cast-iron behemoth, causing the door to slam shut with a heavy thud, tearing the ropes and causing all the other handlers to stagger back from their own force. The cat roared in defiance, once again trapped.

Panting slightly, Har-dok stepped over to the torchbearer, whose dark Aelgish skin was slightly blanched from fear. "Well done," he said, patting the lad on the back, "Very well done. What's your name?"

"Pratu, sir," the youth stammered, remembering to salute a moment later.

"Pratu. Strong name. I've got my eye on you." The Beast King gave his soldier a quick grin. "Everyone, dismissed."

The other handlers nodded and stalked off back to their barracks - about half of them remembered they were supposed to salute, which was better than they usually did. Har-dok sighed and turned to see his second-in-command, a slight Varynese man by the name of Garian approaching. "Sir, damage report ready."

Har-dok brought a palm up to his forehead, his eyes closed. "Let's hear it."

"Six injured, three dead. Among the injured are two of the Aboriginal Auxillaries and a northlander, though they're all expected to recover within two weeks. In addition, three tents were destroyed and the cat got into the pen the Aboriginals use for their wasps. It ate two of them."

Har-dok sighed again; it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the loss of any of the 'wasp cavalry' - the flying insects that the Aboriginals he'd integrated into the company two years ago used as mounts - stung rather sorely. "See to it that the dead are buried and the injured are given medical attention. Whoever was supposed to be standing guard duty when that idiot broke the cat out, I want them flogged." Fortunately, the drunken fool who'd done the breaking out had gotten himself eaten quite promplty, so that discipline problem at least had been its own example. For his part, Garian saluted smartly and scurried off.

These kinds of discipline problems would only get more frequent as they waited for the attack on Zar Vogul. For all he'd done to try and civilize them, the Beastlords were still a savage and bloodthirsty group, and just like the beasts they kept, they got harder to control the longer they stayed cooped up. The Drathans who had hired them were desperate, that was obvious just from the fact that they let the Beastlords inside their walls. One had to hope there'd still be a city left to protect by the time the kings of monsters were finished.

"The Rainlanders have tried before," said Lord Qazr, "My Art is more than equal to their petty oven-gods. My servitors superior to their conscripted peasants."

The sorcerer's shrill voice echoed throughout the audience hall, a truly exquisite vaulted chamber of polished sandstone, swirling with reds and oranges. Flowering vines and iridescent fungus climbed columns in elegant curls, and the fossil of an ancient, fanged sea-beast made a clear impression in the smooth stone of the floor leading up to the throne. A semi-circle of Drathan courtiers in vibrant silks, faces painted garishly, clustered around Qazr's throne, all eyes on the black-clad mercenary standing before them.

"With respect," said Daigon. His low voice quivered slightly, as though he were holding back tears, but there was no trace of sadness on his wolfish, weather-worn face. His grey eyes traced the bones of the monster embedded in the floor beneath him as he spoke, "This time will be different. Zar Vorgul is well fortified, but this is not some Salished governor with dreams of glory. The Shashul has assembled all his considerable power: the Steel Legions, the fanatics of the Forge Cult. Your magic and your guardsmen will not be sufficient."

"This," spat Qazr, pale lips peeling back to reveal crooked, yellowed teeth nestled in black gums, "is more meddling in my affairs by the Archmagister and his lickspittles in the Congress. Under my very nose is my city turned into a camp for sellswords and cutthroats owing their allegiance not to Vorgul, not to Lord Qazr, but to Zar Dratha and its upjumped conjurer-king. Now I hear that even the masked freak in Zar Endal dares to send his ragged hordes, to 'reinforce' me. Without so much as a Salished outrider appearing on my horizons! A takeover! An infringement on a Drathan lord's rightful sovereignty! And I am sent a mere hireling, of untutored blood, to give me direction. A spell-less exile with no knowledge of the Art nor-"

"No knowledge?" asked Daigon, the barest trace of a smirk passing over his gaunt features.

Qazr's pale, withered skin reddened with rage and he made a choking sound as his rant died in his throat.

"You dare?" asked the wizard in a furious whisper. He leapt to his feet, his voluminous yellowed silks swirling around him, like a fetid flower springing suddenly to bloom. The assembled courtiers shuffled nervously backwards, some muttering incantations of self-protection. The air shimmered slightly and the sour stink of spent magic became faintly noticeable.

Qazr himself lurched directly at Daigon, who stood relaxed and unmoving as the wizard-lord barreled towards him.

"Lowbred northern pig!" screamed the wizard. Qazr made a slashing gesture with his fists as he closed on Daigon, who muttered something just as the wizard did so. There was a loud, sharp splintering sound and the stone at Daigon's feet cracked slightly. A trickle of blood leaked from the mercenary's nose.

Qazr stumbled to a halt, his wrinkled brow furrowed. Whatever had been supposed to happen clearly had not.

"So," he snarled, "the Archmagister taught his pet some-"

He did not finish the sentence because Daigon beheaded him. Drew his sword and cut through Qazr's neck in a single smooth motion. The wizard dissolved more than fell, flesh liquefying into blackened ooze as the magic that had suspended his life far beyond natural limits dissipated.

The mercenary stood over a pile of silks and sludge that had previously been the lord of Zar Vorgul. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

Courtiers murmured in surprised tones, but the atmosphere in the room was more curious than alarmed. Murder was an acceptable way of settling disputes among the Dratha, and anyway Qazr's tenure had lately been marked by paranoia and indecision.

No one had bothered to depose him because few wanted to rule a doomed city.

"Well!" said one of the Drathans- a tremendously fat man dressed in fabulous vermillion silks, his face caked in white makeup. He approached Daigon, offering the sellsword commander an amused smile, "The Archmagister really means to defend this place?"

"He does," said Daigon, "I rode ahead of my company-the Coward's Men are encamped a few days march down the Dust Way. Lord Alkhazar's forces are expected within the week."

"Hmmm," said the courtier, "Perhaps I shall stay after all- a battle would be very interesting, and you seem to know what you're about. If none object, I shall assume Qazr's throne?"

He turned to his murmuring comrades, who offered a collective shrug.

"My lords," a slave entered the audience hall and bowed deeply, eyeing the puddle of ooze and pile of silks in the middle of the floor, "Ah...there is a...one of the Necrodomii here to see...Lord Qazr. He says he is expected?"

"Lord Qazr's long and celebrated tenure has ended," said the fat Drathan as he settled himself upon the empty throne, "I am Master Odrosyan, the new Lord of Zar Vorgul. My friend general Daigon and I will receive the Necrodomius presently. Oh, and send in someone to clean up that mess."

Shishran woke with a start, staring about as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. She was seated on the tiled floor of her family home, a broken vase lying nearby, a strange red cut on her forearm, from the shards perhaps? Blood had leaked down her arm, staining the corner of her Adept Robes and she cursed quietly as she hurried to the kitchen were a small measure of water had been dolled out for washing. She quickly scrubbed at the stain, wincing slightly as a strange ache persisted in her head.

The blood came away freely enough, it was still wet enough. She drank a separate mug of water in an effort to quell her headache before moving to the door. "I will be back after work mother!"

A shouted affirmative came from the upstairs where her mother, an invalid and drooling idiot, was confined to bed. Shishran glanced at the broken vase and then brushed it from her mind. She would clean it up when she got home, she already late for her evening at the library.

She hurried through the streets of Zar Vorgul, her adept robes serving to allow her passage through the various gates that led into the heart of the mage tower. The headache persisted the whole while, though it did not appear to be getting any worse. She wove her way through the long passages, past more guards, and down a final flight of stairs and in to the archives.

Several streets away, and well outside the walls of the Mage Tower, Corina sat perfectly still on a rooftop, shadowed by he great dome itself. Her lips were still flecked with blood from where she had tasted Shishran after knocking her unconscious. Everything Shishran could see or feel was now felt by Corina and she took careful mental note of what she was seeing as the girl hurried into the archive.

It was no great stretch for Corina to maintain this link as a Blood Mage. She drew her power from the blood of other, though not in the traditional sense of a Vampire as many thought of them. Sampling a person, or creatures, blood allowed her to maintain a link with them and make their vision her own. Larger doses could allow her to perform more powerful spells, but those would surely not go unnoticed by the Drathan Mages of the city.

Shishran meanwhile had made her way into the archive and into the scribe room where she quickly took up her post and began to laboriously translate a scroll of desert symbol into the common-tongue. It was tedious work but it paid well enough. She paused to massage her temples and, abruptly, her headache vanished.

Streets away Corina blinked to clear her vision and then stood, stretching, uncurling like a cat. She flexed her fingers, cracked a knuckle and then made her way toward the Mage Tower. She would need to find a suitable skin to wear.

The environmental change within the mage-tower compared with the atmosphere outside was significant, Gost noted as soon as he was led within by one of the mage-lord's demure slaves. The auto-senses of his survival masque were precise, and fed him information about the ambient temperature, radioactivity levels, and the chemical composition of the air through his augmentics and directly into the background of his consciousness. Despite it being markedly cleaner and cooler indoors, a difference that could only be the result of magic, he chose to keep his robes and masque in place. Relying on the goodwill of outsiders, even for the shortest moment or smallest triviality, was viewed as a terrible folly among his people.

He continued to take micro-samples of the local environment and material construction of the mage-tower as he ascended to meet the mage-lord. The technology of the Old Ones had a curious relationship with magic; it could be measured, quantified, or even interacted with in some capacity, but could not be sufficiently analyzed nor its source explained. They behaved as two men that spoke the same language, but could not read what the either wrote in their shared tongue. One reason among many to keep magic and mages alike at arms-length, but at that moment Gost had little choice.

Stepping into the mage-lord's chamber, Gost paid no heed to heraldry or introductions, and marched directly across the room to the corpulent waste of flesh sat on the throne. The gawking onlookers and courtiers he paid as much mind as the bands of terrified Wasters that had filled the streets below the tower: exactly none. However, he stepped by what seemed to be a large chemical spill of some kind, being hurriedly cleaned up by slaves that choked on the smell. The compound was organic, according to analysis of its fumes, but after a passing glance Gost ignored it.

Once face to face with the tower's lord, Gost wasted no time on pleasantry or formality: "I am Therion of Clan Domitian." The inhuman growl produced by his mask echoed in alien tones throughout the chamber. "Our auguries have detected the force amassing to attack this settlement. Clan Domitian is willing to commit forces to aid in your settlement's defense, if our conditions are met." It was not unheard of for Drathans to forge uneasy alliances with the tech-cults, as each typically possessed something the other desired, and agreements could be met. However, neither party ever granted the other any trust beyond the barest modicum, and lasting alliances were the realm of fantasy.

The Master's eyes flashed open with a start, beholding the blue-dyed drapes around him and the wooden bowl of a thick black liquid before him through the slits of his carnival mask which now bore a slight frown marring it's features. Confusion reigned for a second as the mage-lord regained his senses and recalled where he was. Ignoring the insolent cramp afflicting his legs the Master sought that which had wakened him from a most vivid and wondrous dream.

And what a wondrous dream it had been! Fueled by ingested ichor, Alkhazar had delved into another realm where he had born witness to a vision which even now painted itself across the halls of his mind. He had stood upon the precipice and beheld the sight of two great birds, their claws interlocked in a fierce struggle for superiority atop a high tower. One had been as black as pitch and the other of the purest white, their feathers slick with blood as ashen raindrops fell all around them from a swirling vortex in a magenta sky. Their cries had challenged the raging winds and that was all Alkhazar had seen before the tower and the birds had fallen away like wet paint and the waking world reclaimed him.

I wish to return. The Master resolved as his senses focused, seeking out that which had awoken him. An irritated thrust of his hand clawed aside the blue drapes to reveal the wide expanse of desert beyond. The Master's eyes danced over the scarred slaves bearing the poles of his palanquin and the slave-drivers with their barbed-whips to settle on the rider leading their camel alongside his grand palanquin. Alkhazar recognized the rider as one of his Faceless, a member of his personal entourage of guards and lieutenants who garbed themselves in a vast array of colours and a carnival mask in imitation of their Master. The Faceless stared at him, awaiting permission.

"Speak." The Master uttered, his voice silky yet suffused with a barely restrained irritation.

"My Master, may the deserts take me for troubling you. We near Zar Vorgul."

And just like that the rider and their insolence lay forgotten as the Master's mask turned to regard the grand walled city of Zar Vorgul ahead of them. A pang of jealousy shot through Alkhazar as he compared the sprawling city-state with his own Zar Endal, drinking in the city's size, it's high walls and the tower sitting at it's heart.

Slinking from one sight to another, Alkhazar's gaze returned to the army marching around him. They were a black jagged line against the red desert, a legion of ragtag slave-soldiers and mercenaries on the march as an inhuman cackle echoed above them on dusty winds.

The Many-Faced Master in all his splendor had arrived!

"I shall lay my head down, strike it off he that can," the knight offered, removing her great helm, and solemnly bowing her head.

"Are you mad?" the guardsman asked, forcing a fearful laugh from his throat as he cast his eyes desperately towards his companions who appeared much too amused to bother moving from their comfortable and very safe spot in the shade of the Great Northern Gate. A crowd of passerby had gathered, mostly street urchins and cutthroat merchants plying their wares nearby, a mixture of curiosity and impatience, of youth and greed, awaiting what promised to be a bloody but entertaining spectacle, exactly the sort of thing that was held in great esteem in Zar Vorgul.

"Where is your courage? You challenged me, you called me a coward, you threatened to kill me, and worst of all, you suggested that I was some sort of assassin sent to murder your king," Meg said, bristling with anger, "I will permit you to strike me once and then I will return the blow."

"His lordship doesn't take kindly to armed strangers wandering unquestioned through his gates," the guardsman said, taking a step closer, resting a hand demonstratively on the hilt of his sword. "Not when the Salished are massing on our borders and especially not when those uninvited guests decide to mouth back, there's seven of us and one of you, do you really want to continue making trouble?"

"Not one of you can match me, not even in great numbers, but draw that ugly blade if you have the courage."

"Meg! Old friend! What business have you with the most honorable men of the city guard?" Came the desperate greeting, the half-shouted words of a robed craftsman, full of panic and possessing a face and skin marked by fire, edging his way through the gathered crowd. "I sent my apprentice to find you, but it seems he was too slow..."

"Do you know this woman, artificer?"

"Of course, good sir, she is-"

"Do not interrupt, Samald."

"Wait! Just wait, Meg! This man made a mistake, he is young, surely it would be a great wrong to slay a man that has through no fault of his own made a mistake?"

Meg sighed.

"Perhaps, we could resolve this matter with words rather than swords," Samald said, approaching the guardsman with a bag of coin held out in his hand. "My friend is weary from her travels and it is clear to me that you did not mean to offend her. In fact, I will be sure to tell your commander what a fine job it is you are doing here."

Smiling, the guardsman nodded, clearly having finally arrived at familiar territory, pocketing the small coin purse with a well-practice motion. "Sorry for the trouble, miss, now move along before I change my mind."

"You are children with swords, not warriors," Meg said to the guardsman, making no effort to hide the heavy disappointment in her voice as she allowed the scared artificer to shepherd her away, ignoring the ignoble jeers they shouted after her.

"Did you find it?" Samald asked once they out of earshot of the guardsman, casting a careful eye to make sure they had not been followed, hope and impatience for once taking hold of his placid voice.

"By the grace of the Old Ones, I have retrieved the lost tome of Em'kel."

One Month after Origin

On the eve of the longest day of the year, an old woman stood trembling in the center of the Blackwater Tribe’s gathering place. She gazed unseeing over the mass of people gathered before her, her watery eyes milky with cataracts, her shriveled hands held out as if to gather in all who watched in respectful silence. Despite her frail, stooped appearance, the woman’s quavering voice projected well over her audience, the tone rising and falling with all the art of an experienced storyteller.

“Today, there are four tribes of the Arakkai,” the old wise woman began, “For one bastion of our great people was lost only a moon before now. The sixth clan, as recorded by the wise women of that time, fell centuries ago, but not to any invading force.

“In that ancient time, Arianwen the Farsighted, a wise woman of this very tribe, was granted a prophecy of days to come. She stood before her clan and told of a day when one among us would be chosen by the god above all others to lead the Arakkai down from these harsh mountains, to raise this people above our enemies.

“After learning of the prophecy, which was shared by wise women in every tribe, it is said that Chieftain Meilir Serpentsbane scoffed in the face of his council. He claimed to need no Chosen leader. His people, he said, were strong enough on their own…”

Cerys, seated near the front of the crowd, let her eyes slide over to Eranor Blackwater where he sat watching the wise woman, his chin resting comfortably on one hand. The last several weeks had been ones of increasing tension as Cerys’s followers spread the tale of her rebirth among the Blackwater tribe and both she and Chief Blackwater had waited for her warriors to heal. The priestess had seen the preparations for war all through the camp, expecting Blackwater to rise up and lead his warriors to battle, to unite the clans and secure himself in the eyes of his people. Now, however, the eve of the summer solstice had finally arrived. Would the Blackwater Chief head the warning in the old wise woman’s story? Or would there be bloodshed tonight?

“…and so, Meilir Serpentsbane turned away from the wisdom of his spiritual council and lead his people in human sacrifice to prove their savagery to the Red Gods. At first these were enemies and outsiders caught within our lands, but soon Meilir’s thirst for blood ran out of easy victims and he turned instead to offerings from other clans. It was then that the first Great Convocation was held, the wise women from the five other tribes meeting to remove this heretic. Together, they conjured Tribe Serpentbane’s banishment from the Gradsfang Mountains. Today these people are the Saliszi, dark creatures enthralled by the bloody worship of their demonic weapons.”

The old woman let her hands fall to her sides, her face pensive while the crowd waited quietly for her blessing, wrapping up the evening of feasting, singing, and storytelling. Instead, however, she went on.

“This old story is full of great warnings and truths,” she started, “no less potent because of its great age. Perhaps the most important to us now, however, is the prophecy.

“I lift my old, useless eyes to the stars and see that future coming rapidly upon us. The Chosen, once so far away, is now close at hand. I may not live to see the coming glory, but many of you will so prepare yourselves to rise with your people.”

At the beginning of this benediction, Cerys had risen to her feet to the surprised looks and murmurs of those surrounding her. She did not interrupt, of course, but instead kneeled before the old woman deferentially. When the storyteller finished, Cerys raised those frail, trembling hands to her marked face and pressed them there.

The old woman froze, shocked with some knowledge only her blind eyes could see. She dragged dry, papery fingers over the priestess’s lips, cheeks, eyes, and soon tears coated the ancient one’s craggy face. She cupped her hands around Cerys’s face and leaned down to kiss her own each cheek.

“Let joy fill your hearts, my people! The Voice of the Wanderer lives!”

All was pandemonium. Tribesmen jumped to their feet, shouting in joy, in fear, in disbelief, those close to Eranor Blackwater protesting the loudest. The Chosen of the Wanderer was a leader, and Cerys did not fault their loyalty to their Chief in the circumstances, but something would need to be done.

Chief Blackwater himself soon made it to the raised platform and wrenched the old wise woman from where she still stood with Cerys. Shouts of shock and protest rose at once from all quarters. All wise women were revered and this old mother had likely blessed these people in their cradles, had stood over their coming of age ceremonies, had performed their marriage rites.

Cerys touched her left hand to her throat, projecting her voice across the noisy gathering. “Eranor Blackwater!” she yelled. “I name you a traitor in the likes of Meilir Serpentsbane for so mistreating a member of your council, on the summer solstice no less. Such a heretic has no place as the leader of one of the greatest tribes of the Arakkai. I, Cerys Shadowborne, Voice of the Wanderer, Defender of the Arakkai, challenge you for the right to rule this tribe!”

Where all had been clamor, silence now reined, the gathered people holding their breath in the face of this brazen challenge. Their leader only sneered.

“I invited you and your people, shivering and broken into my home. I have fed you and clothed you and given you a place, and this is how you repay me? With false accusations of heresy? Fine, you will have your challenge and have it now before you can scurry off to more womanish plotting. I will put you down like the two-faced bitch you are.”

Eranor flung off his bear pelt, revealing the impressive dark steel armor beneath, and drew the massive sword at his waist. Cerys gestured with a single hand over her simple leather clothing and sighed as the cool sensation of writhing black armor wrapped itself around her torso and limbs, its surface shifting with the indecipherable runes of some lost language.

“May the Wanderer judge my actions before the Pantheon,” she called. “And may all the Arakkai stand by his choice in this challenge.”

With a savage roar, Eranor charged, his massive longsword held out like a joust. Cerys eyed him calmly, waiting before dodging out of the way, her right hand closing around a sword of sinuous shadow.

Eranor whirled, quick and agile for so large a man, and brought up his sword to bring it cleaving down upon Cerys’s head. This time she did not move, but widened her stance and brought her own sword up to parry.

It seemed to take an age for the two blades to meet, the second stretching into years. Eranor kept his bowling down with all the strength of a man born in raised in the mountains, a man who had fought off constant attacks by the Saliszi, the Dratha, the wilds of the Greyfangs themselves. He meant to slice through the sword and the priestess alike.

When the two blades finally did meet, one solid steel, the other writhing magic, the dark blade melted through Eranor’s fine steel longsword like it was nothing, an entire foot of beautifully tempered metal thunking down on the wooden platform heavily.

The big mountain Chieftain seemed stunned, but Cerys was unfazed. Like a viper, she lunged forward and sank her flickering sword into the throat of the man before her, sending streams of black-red blood spurting into the clean mountain air.

Something small and white darted from the shadows and fell upon a rat that was skulking about. It shrieked and squirmed as a clawed fist closed around it. A moment later, it gave a last feeble jerk then fell limp in the clutches of the tiny creature with leathery white skin. It popped the rat in its mouth and began crunching with teeth like needles, the tail still dangling from its mouth. Satisfied, it turned it obsidian eyes to its master. The Hermit shifted from the shadows, trailing them after him. He patted the shadowling on the head as he passed it, holding his charred staff and tapping it on the stone floor as he walked. They were interesting little creatures, given to him by the Wisdoms. Maybe not the most intelligent, but they were loyal and obedient to a fault. The one with a rat tail drooping from its mouth followed after him.

He stopped at the end of the hall, an opening that looked down into an enormous cavern dominated by a massive glass tube filled with ichor. The liquid sloshed around in the bottom of the tube, bubbling every so often. Once, it would have been pulled up and directed elsewhere to power machines the Old Ones used for who knows what, but that was why he came to this labyrinth. He desired the answers hidden here under the red sands of the desert above, the secrets the Old Ones took to their graves. That was why the Wisdoms gave him the shadowlings and the power he now held, tools to find his answers.

The Hermit turned his head downward as he felt a tug on his robes. The shadowling was holding its hand up to him, the rail tail laying on its palm. Odd creatures, indeed.

“Thank you, little one,” his voice was low and soft, like a whisper on the winds but chillingly close to the ear of whomever he was speaking to.

The little creature gave what he assumed by now to be a smile, showing off the rows of teeth like blackened needles, then scampered off to rejoin the others. It stepped into the nearby shadows of a corner and then reappeared far below on a stone walkway with the others of its kind. It fell into the crowd of tiny white bodies as they went about searching the area around the tube for anything of interest to their master, who watched from above in his alcove wreathed in shadow.

Previously

Less Previously

Even Less Previously Still

-



Once face to face with the tower's lord, Gost wasted no time on pleasantry or formality: "I am Therion of Clan Domitian." The inhuman growl produced by his mask echoed in alien tones throughout the chamber. "Our auguries have detected the force amassing to attack this settlement. Clan Domitian is willing to commit forces to aid in your settlement's defense, if our conditions are met." It was not unheard of for Drathans to forge uneasy alliances with the tech-cults, as each typically possessed something the other desired, and agreements could be made. However, neither party ever granted the other any trust beyond the barest modicum, and lasting alliances were the realm of fantasy.

"Ah, splendid. More eager recruits, anxious for the fray! I must say I've always found your kind rather diverting!" said Lord Odrosyan, black eyes gleaming in his painted face. He leaned forward excitedly as he spoke, his great bulk and incarnadine vestments overflowing Qazr's too-narrow throne, "I'm already glad I'm staying. Dangerous, yes- but Necrodomii relics against Salished steel- what a fascinating spectacle! Makes one almost forget the enormous risk of death we all face."

"What are your conditions?" asked Daigon in his low, quivering voice. He was standing to the left of the throne, and looked rather out of place amidst the decadent magnificence of the courtiers clustered around him, clad as he was in dusty black lamellar and travel stained leathers. He was wiping black goo from the blade of a sword, and his eyes were on the weapon he was cleaning, not the new comer.

Gost immediately turned to face Daigon, assessing him with the soulless gaze of his masque. After a few moments of pregnant silence, he replied, "In your archives, there is a relic of particular value to Clan Domitian. That is our primary condition. Further compensation in the form of additional relics, supplies, or slaves may be discussed after our primary condition is met." Through speaking, he did not bother to glance at the man on the throne, as he was now precisely aware of who wielded the true power in the room.

"The Mirror of Nitocris," said Daigon, "will be destroyed with the rest of Zar Vorgul should this city fall to the Shashul. As you know, the Forge Priests have a particular fondness for melting down Old One relics. If the city survives, you may have it."

The courtiers murmured and Odrosyan frowned, his chins multiplying, but said nothing. The Dratha had long tried, and failed, to break open the secrets of Lord Qazr's most treasured bauble. Even with war pending, their insatiable curiosity strove against the logic of immediate self-interest.

Gost's posture changed at the direct mention of the Mirror- subtly, almost imperceptible, but still a visible reaction of surprise. He hadn't expected this man that was clearly not a Drathan to know the object of his desire so easily. Gost had planned to obfuscate the issue as a bargaining strategy. Still, the casual mention and disregard for the relic itself revealed his lack of understanding of it.

"As an additional sign of friendship," continued Daigon, "the Archmagister and the Congress offers your Clan access to the Arcanums and Libraries of Zar Dratha and Zar Mythrad- in exchange for your continued allegiance in this conflict."

"You misunderstand my position," Gost said, not aggressively but still stoic and confident, "I do not speak for the whole of Clan Domitian; this a venture of my own ambition. Furthermore, your valuation of the Drathans' libraries of lies and misunderstandings is overestimated. My people cannot be fed with books, and we cannot defend ourselves with the exaggerated biographies of your feculent kings. As it stands, I estimate that the odds of my acquisition the Mirror remain equal whether I stand to defend this city, or I turn my services over to the Shashul and raid your archives before the barbarians burn them."

Gost crossed his arms over his chest. "It is up to you whether I am an ally or an enemy. Make this worth my while."

"Apologies," said Daigon, sheathing his sword and walking towards Gost, "I must have been unclear. If you want the Mirror, this city will not fall. The Shashul will not accept your offer: his priests feed tech-cultists as well as archeotech to the fires, which you know as well as I. More to the point, should you reject our terms, I will have the Mirror destroyed well before their armies arrive here."

At the mercenary's mention of destroying the Mirror, the augmentics in Gost's fingers clicked as his hands tensed. It took a deliberate effort at that moment to not lash out and kill the man where he stood. There was no greater heresy possible to the Necrodomii than the destruction of a Deus Machina, or one of its components. It was increasingly evident that no one present had any idea what they had on their hands.

"Now," continued Daigon, "it is well known your kind have ways of communication that defy the logic of distance and sound. I would advise you to summon whomever from your Clan will come to aid in the defense of Zar Vorgul. They will be recompensed by the Congress in slaves, money, baubles of the Old Ones. But you alone will get the Mirror- when the city is no longer under threat."

Gost leveled his gaze, alight with the fires of the old world, to meet with the mercenary's. "I will not play chance with the lies and tricks of the Dratha. The Mirror of Nitocris will be surrendered to me now, that is the price for your city to be deigned worthy of protection. For every Necrodomius I commit this task, myself included, I will have their weight in water, grain, and fuel, and as many slaves as it takes to carry it all. I would warn you that steel weighs greatly more than flesh. Regardless a bargain for the life of any Necrodomius."

Finished, he removed the glove from his hand, revealing the completely mechanical apparatus beneath. He stuck out the whirring metal appendage toward the mercenary in an obvious gesture to evoke a handshake. "Do you find my conditions acceptable?"

"They are," said Daigon, taking Gost's appendage in his calloused hand. There was a bright, blue spark, and the mercenary withdrew his hand sharply. Gost lifted his own hand to show the still-glowing brand in his robotic palm, its mirror image seared into Daigon's flesh. A roughly symbolic impression of a skull, interspersed with heraldry possibly meant to represent machinery.

"This is the mark of our agreement. Should you renege, it will be the mark of your death as well."

Daigon grunted with a rueful smile, "Should've known better than touch one of you."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Odrosyan, clapping his be-ringed hands, "splendid, splendid. Comrades in arms, all. To use the old blessing of the Ashlands, may our self-interests align always! And I'm very sure they will, at least until the Shashul is fed to his own forges."

Glory walked with purpose after her dealings with the guards. Their safety ensured from monsters and Glory's coin pouch filled with fresh spoils, Glory had a minor amount of shopping to do before moving on from the city. She had been lurking around the city for a while now, but it was time to pack up and go home. Walking through to an inn, Glory nodded to the innkeeper and went to the room she had been staying in. Packing a few things together and straightening the room as needed, Glory wrapped up her belongings and tied knots tightly around the bundle. Slinging it over her shoulder Glory pulled on a light traveling cloak to protect her skin from the blowing sand and left the room behind.

Stopping by the market on her way out, Glory purchased another small bundle of supplies for the journey. It would be a while to walk back to the guild, so Glory decided to pick up something simple for the road. Some hunks of jerky and a couple of waterskins would do just fine. Sliding a few coins to the merchant she nodded at him and went on her way.

Walking southwest, Glory left the city behind and began her several day journey towards The Hunters Guild. During this time she would be unaware to the happenings of the world. It was a rather peaceful journey, truth be told. It was rare to encounter people along the pathway that she took, and most of them were hunters. In a rather good twist of fortune, Glory had left Zar Vorgul behind in just the nick of time. Though she wouldn't realize this until she reached The Hunters Guild.

Days had passed, and Glory was actually running out of supplies. This didn't matter to her, however, as her destination was actually in sight. Most people would've been crazy to travel the desert without a caravan and guides, but Glory was rather fortunate. With the loss of her sight and the gaining of her clairvoyance Glory's sense of direction had yet to be confused. She knew the way home, as they would say.

Glory's steps quickened slightly as she neared The Hunter's Guild. The thought of being home, or at least what she considered it, was appealing to her. Entering into the shadow of the spire that made up the surface of The Hunter's Guild, Glory drew comfort in seeing that it was unharmed. The Hunter's Guild was a neutral place, but not everyone respected neutrality. Though what was respected was a well stocked ring of ballistae repeated along the outer rims of the tower. They were mostly there for the risk of monster attacks due to the proximity of Ichor Canyon, but they could be turned on humans all the same.

Approaching the large doors to the guild, Glory raised her ichor arm and pounded firmly upon the door. A shout came from inside, and the doors were pulled open, a breeze pulling at Glory's traveling cloak and beckoning her inside. Lowering her arm, Glory walked into the guild hall and nearly breathed a sigh of relief when the thick doors were closed behind her.

Home.

The smell of various alcohols assaulted her nose, and laughter rose all around her. Meats of various kinds were being served and consumed, and the place hadn't really changed. This was good news to Glory, who would hate to try and find somewhere else to live. A head was raised in her direction, and a large man jumped up from his stool when he remembered who he was looking at. "Hah! Glory makes her return! Successful in your hunt, I hope?"

Glory nodded to him, producing the flier that she had taken to accept the job. "Zar Vorgul. The hunt was more annoying than difficult, but it payed well enough." The look of shock on the man's face was something that surprised Glory. Tilting her head, Glory spoke again. "You're being silent, Ceril. What is holding your tongue?"

Ceril shook his head, he looked up from the flier and spoke gravely. "Zar Vorgul was attacked, Glory. Must've happened right after you left. We only got word of it recently. Somebody's making a move. They're sending messengers to recall the rest of the hunters to the nest. We've been told to hold up here and wait and see how the situation develops."

If Glory still used her eyes, what Ceril told her would've caused them to widen. Lowering her head in thought, Glory gave a sigh. "I suppose that is the traditional course of action, then. We are a strong fighting force when all of us are together. There are hundreds of us here at any given point, and if we had everyone here that might even take us up over a thousand in hunters alone. More if we include those who only operate the ballistae. But still, I hope that they respect the old traditions and pass us by like they have before. I can never be sure, though."

Shaking her head, Glory began to walk again. "I'm heading to my room to rest while I have the time. I'll be staying here, as is expected." Ceril nodded, waving at her. "Rest well Glory. All of us should. We might just need that strength."

As Glory walked, Ceril looked back down at the flier in his hands before mumbling to himself as he sat back down. "I hope we don't, though..."

---

The greatflutes sounded over the wide red expanse as the Vitruvian walkers lumbered into view, the notes piercing the horizon even before the heavy drumbeat of their footsteps, the procession dragging itself across the sand step by inevitable step. They marched under long canopies of colored silk, seeming to glow from beneath as the blinding sun cast colored shadows through the fabric, painted with glyphs and heraldry, draped in lanterns and baskets and walls of ragged tapestry. Clan banners flapped noisily in the burning breeze, robed, armored figures moving to and fro across the hot metal of their bodies. Many with weapons at the ready, helms scanning the horizon to the east. A few children scampered from rope ladders, shouting at one another, oblivious to the growing unease.

And ahead lay the monolith-city of Zar Vorgul, the heat-shimmer veil rippling over the sands beneath the city, its dark spires glinting in the light like obsidian teeth. Fate, knew the sorcerer, weighed the city in its many hands. Coveting. Calculating. Its shadow fell like a physical weight across the sands. Everyone knew it was so, in some dark and dreaded place in their hearts.

But only Sothis-Sa, deep in his meditative sleep, truly understood what it meant.

---

“Are you szo czertain the czity will fall?”

Ysod-El sat nestled in his cushions, in his antechamber at the rear of his clan’s husk; unarmored but still swathed in the concealing brown rags he had come to favor. His voice was deep and heavy, thickly accented with the old speech of his blood, and his eyes were serpentine above the scarves that concealed his features, deep amber jewels that glittered against cracked sinew and burned, scarred flesh.

“Many dezire to retain the Union,” he continued, “They will bargain for itz defenze.”

The Envenomer, sat opposite him, was a study in contrast. She was impeccable, her face painted expertly, dark leather tight against her cheeks and throat. Her distorted helm sat taking up most of her lap, a delicate glass cup clinking in one hand where it met the glass claws at the tips of her gloves. A painted iron teapot sat on a low, elaborate wooden table between them, spice-scented steam curling gently from its spout.

Though each had their cup, neither had taken so much as a sip.

“The Shashul wouldn’t dare move on Zar Vorgul so openly if he wasn’t sure he could take it.” said Malkut, flatly, “And you can be well assured the Saliszi aren’t bickering like children like the Drathan’s sellsword rabble undoubtedly are. We need to stay one step ahead of them, and we need to be ready to bleed them, Ysod.” The matriarch’s voice fell to a crooning whisper. “We need to bleed them when they come.”

The Collector spread his hands, evenly, noncommittal. “The Szalish will rezpect our neutrality,” he rumbled, “They have no cauze to do otherwize. If the Immanent takez the czity from the Dratha, then when the sztarz come round again, we will trade with him inztead. They know thisz.”

Malkut-Ba narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking like a merchant,” she hissed, softly, “This is war, Ysod. Not one of your pitiful marketplace assasinations. War.”

“War iz tranzaction.” He shrugged, unnerving eyes not leaving hers. ”Cities. Livez. One iz bartered for another. It iz no different.”

“Then you don’t know them like I do.” The woman leaned forward over the table, thickening the air with perfume and the fever-thick smell of hate. “Whatever you may think of Salished pragmatism, trader, once an army like that begins moving, it takes on a life of its own. It stops thinking and becomes a swarm of locusts with the taste of blood in its mouth, and I tell you now that once they have battered down the walls of that city and torn it to pieces it will not be enough. They will loot anything that isn’t nailed down and burn anything that is, and when they are done they will turn here, and they will butcher your sons and rape your daughters and they will salt the f***ing earth--"

There was a musical jingle of crystal and brass from behind her. The Collector lifted his hand, gently, turning his head to the opened curtain where his daughter now hung silhouetted from one arm. Malkut ground her teeth, forcing down a sip of tea as the cup shook in her hands, glass tinkling dangerously. Binah glanced between them.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked, hoarsely.

Ysod-El beckoned her on, two-fingered. The girl lifted her helm, oiled braids and sand spilling from beneath the shell, and drew a breath.

“It all looks normal so far,” she cleared her throat, unsuccessfully, “business as usual, yes? But the boys have been asking if we’re setting up or moving on. Yes?”

The trader paused, unreadable under the eyes of the dancer and the murderess. At length, he nodded, once -- but lifted his hand again abruptly as the girl moved to withdraw. She paused, hanging back.

“...Szmall.” He said. He steepled his fingers, thoughtfully, eyes flicking from Malkut to his daughter. “Nothing we cannot pack quickly, Binah.”

“Yes, father. Weapons?”

“Weaponz. Yesz. And food.” He settled back down into his meditative position. “For thisz, I think, the Dratha will pay much.”

---

The great instruments sounded again as the hulks slowed, dragging themselves to a halt a distance outside the gates. Already people were running to them, shouting offers, the brewing war hanging over their heads like a thundercloud, like an hourglass running dry. Binah leant over the rim of her rusting palanquin, shouting back, a score of armored figures unfurling banners and carpetry, lighting colored lanters and tossing down bundles of staves. A trio of war-insects trampled past, their riders clearing a perimeter for the marketplace as the sun sank lower in the sky.

And the Ichor-Mage slept.

Olm Sadha.

"You threatened my soldiers."

"I did no such thing."

"We have witnesses, about a half a market's worth. You're not exactly hard to miss."

"I defended my honor."

"Honor?"

"Your man said I was an assassin."

The lieutenant rubbed his temples, exasperated, "You challenged one of my guardsman to a duel over an insult?"

"I did what was right."

An incredulous look took hold of the stoic officers features and for a moment he seemed to forget how to close his mouth, which was left agape.

"Stories aside, Samald here says you can fight."

"I can."

"Good, well as it so happens we're about to get hit with everything the Rainlands can throw at us. The Drathans pay well for good fighters."

"I don't serve."

"Yes, well, I figured you'd say that, but here's the thing, you threatened one of my men, by rights, I could have you killed."

"You could try."

"I could, but I suspect it'd cost me more than a few good men."

"It would."

"Well, then I propose we make a deal. You fight for us and we'll forget this whole threatening to gut a most honorable and esteemed officer of the law bit."

"No."

The guardsman growled and slammed a mailed fist onto the table, spilling the tankard of water that had been generously given to him and sending the artificer jumping back in fear, "Pardon, I didn't quite hear what you said, it must be my hearing but it didn't sound like a yes."

"No, I will not."

Rising to his feet, the lieutenant pointed a massive hand at the still seated knight-errant,"I've had just about enough of your impudence!"

"I will swear no oaths but to the lord of this city."

"Well, for all purposes Daigon Shadow-Caller commands in this city now. The wizard lords sent him to organize the defenses."

"I've heard him called the Coward."

The lieutenant snorted, "Call him that to his face and see what happens."

The knight's lips curled into a feral smile, a burned and inhuman thing born on the dunes of the Great White Erg, eyes glittering with madness, "I just might."

The sun crept toward the horizon, and the winding streets and alleys of Zar Vorgul fell into a premature twilight, shadowed by the city's massive walls.

Daigon stood on a parapet above the southerly Dreamer's Gate. Now that the wrathful sun was setting, a stream of Zar Vorgul's denizens flowed out of the city below him, headed west along the broad, sandy depression known as the Dust Way, fleeing the wrath of the Shashul.

Drathan magnates, magnificently adorned and mounted on their hulking gaan-lizards, plodded alongside commoners clutching desperately to water skins. Slaves and merchants and sorcerers, whoever was brave or foolish enough to risk the long, dry road to Ashfall risked it. Better the desert than the Rainlander's Forges.

But the emigrants were not the only traffic along the road. Soldiers in dark lamellar and light desert cloaks marched against the tide of fleeing civilians: Coward's Men, Beast Kings, Red Fangs, Goblin-Eaters. The sellswords of these and a half dozen other companies flooded into the emptying city.

The Archmagister had decreed that Zar Vorgul hold at all costs. The coffers of the Union were deep indeed, and the Ashlands and Red Desert had no shortage of men and mutants desperate or crazy enough to risk death for coin or titles or land in the fertile Drathan Delta. Or, in the case of Daigon himself, for the secrets of the Art.

The mercenary general was not watching the lines of refugees and soldiers flowing through the gate below him. His eyes were on the sand-blasted metal hulks settled in the desert just off the main road, a short ride from a lesser gate nearby. The Vitruvians had emerged from the wastes to set up camp earlier in the afternoon, meaning to milk every last coin from the city before the Shashul swept down on it.

Daigon doubted very much that there were such things as benevolent gods. But the arrival of the trader-clans made him open to reconsidering his skepticism. Their unique weapons, honed from the fossils of ancient horrors, would be vital against Saliszi steel.

But Daigon was not content with buying their swords.

---

Even before the last stall was erected and the first stars had begun to appear in the empty blue sky, the night market had filled. The distant shouts and the babble of voices mingling like river water with the faint strains of music, the sizzle of cooking food and the clink and clatter of goods changing hands. The canopies were well stocked, but fewer in number. Most notably, the glass furnaces were absent this year -- what little custom pieces were being wrought were being wrought high above in the bellies and work-baskets of the crafter’s homes.

He found the tent he sought nestled between two of the metal behemoth’s weathered, sand-caked legs. The elder thing loomed above them, its shadow spanning the desert, its long neck wrapped with climbing-ropes and thick red ribbon. Its enormous head lay half-lowered, the contents long ago shattered, replaced with misshapen layers of copper, glass and silk. The things were ancient, even by the lights of the Old Ones.

But that wasn’t why he was here.

At length, the robed nomad that had preceded him emerged from behind the veil. They inclined their helm once, and withdrew, face invisible beneath the scallop-shaped mask. The curtain flapped gently, marked with the scorpion-tail rune of Viitru-Ba, a coil of smoke unfurling from within.

---

Inside, the scene was half boudoir, half arsenal. Piles of luxurious cushions heaped around racks of cruel and intimate weapons.

The Intoxicatrix sat cross-legged with her back to him, before a low table facing an elaborate tapestry. Miniature braziers, cut through with old Vitruvian runes, flanked the makeshift altar, packed with glowing coals, and a dark stone idol, small but intricate, sat between them, wrought perversely into some impossible, half-human shape. Something dark glistened on its claws, and Daigon didn’t feel the need to guess what it was.

As the curtain fell behind him, the enclosure was cast in hazy twilight, the air a dizzying soup of incense and perfumed oils. The red glow of the braziers gave an unearthly feel to the scene, casting the woman’s dancing shadow far larger than its twin, burning deep red runes into the tent’s silken walls.

There was a thin, songlike keen as the Envenomer dragged a white-glass dagger along a length of cuttlebone, sharpening it beyond a razor’s edge. Firelight flickered at its edge, glinted from the tips of carved glass nails. She did not turn around.

“I know you,” the words trickled slowly from her lips, like poisoned nectar, “The Coward. Why do they call you that, Coward?”

"I fled a battle. A long time ago in a place far from here," said Daigon in his quiet, shaking voice, "but a thing like that, there's no leaving it behind."

He ran a hand through his black, sweat-soaked hair, pushing it away from his brow. His pale eyes glittered in the gloom.

"I've wanted to meet you for a long time. You have an unsettling reputation," he said, only the hint of a smile creasing his gaunt and weathered face, "I knew the father of your son, when I was young. A reckless man."

There was an ear-perforating krak as the glass blade snapped off in Malkut's hand. The aftersong rang in the ears like a musical hangover, a few stray shards pealing as they struck metal or wood. A dark trickle of blood glistened at her closed fist.

"Yes," she said, mildly, her voice betraying nothing more than its first, soft introduction, “He was.”

She twisted her neck to look him in the eyes for the first time, painted and beautiful, regarding him a moment in silence before sliding her body to follow suit. She drew one of her silk scarves from her throat, winding it around her hand, slowly and deliberately, as though doing nothing more than painting her nails. The weapons in the tent still throbbed with the sub-aural hum of split glass, setting teeth on edge. There was no question he was playing a very dangerous game.

“The Viitru have no word for cowardice,” she continued after a heartbeat. “Interesting. Don’t you think?”

She gestured fluidly to the reptile skins laid opposite her own, in unspoken invitation to sit.

"No cowards when there's no place to run. Even a frightened man chooses death over the desert," said Daigon. He eased himself to the ground, knees cracking quietly, "except for me I guess."

"Yes. Here you are," she said, lowly, "In the desert....and facing death again."

It was unclear whether she was referring to the invasion or herself. She tied off the makeshift bandage, slowly flexing her hand. "Perhaps it follows you."

"Perhaps I seek it out," he said, "and take pleasure in denying it victory, again and again. Pleasure, sadly, does not bring me here."

“A child could figure out why you’re here.” She watched him a moment longer, her eyes moving over his face, emotions leashed. She leaned over, tossing something into the brazier, where it flared with vibrant orange light. “Talk.”

"The Salished, if they do not feed you to their fires, will subject you," said Daigon, "You do not love much, I think, but you love your people. Your people depend on the Union."

“Oh, you‘ll have to do better than love. How desperate is your master?"

"As desperate as the circumstances require," said Daigon, "I would heed his example."

"If the Shashul sees us taking sides in this war, the caravans would be marked for death. You ask a very great deal of blood, and I can’t imagine what you might have to offer us that would outweigh it. "

"To the Viitru I can offer that which the Rainlanders will take from you, your ancestral freedoms," said Daigon, "to you, Malkut the Envenomer, I have a different offer..."

“So you've made up your mind, then?”

Barsabbas Ahaz, 'Phantom General' and 'traitor of his people,' if you believed what the Salished had to say about him, stood alone in his quarters. No natural light penetrated this far into the caverns that he had carved from the Claws into the Firebrands' center of operations. The only illumination came from the glow of the unsheathed blade that lay on the table before him. It set the center of the room ablaze in a swirling orange light, making Barsabbas look like a burning fire elemental. The light laid bare the crags of his face, his solid and well-defined musculature, and the knot of hair that topped his head - the signature hairstyle of the Saliszi elite.

A faint hum throbbed throughout the room, reverberating from the center where the blade was laid. Barsabbas could feel it in his bones and a distinct scent of ozone lingered in his nose.

“Yes,” the renegade answered, a smooth voice belying the ruggedness of his features. “It won't be long until the Salished march on Zar Vorgul, if our reports are accurate. Alkhazar has already left Zar Endal to fortify the city's defenses.”

“Brave of him to trust you,” the voice said with traces of amusement. “You could sack Zar Endal while it's separated from its army.”

“The thought crossed my mind. As tempting as it sounds, we can't run the risk of drawing the ire of the Drathans. A conventional city would be too difficult to hold against both them and the Salished, if we were to seize it.”

“Uhn. And we would miss the opportunity to capture the Salished's soulsteel.”

“That's the aim,” Barsabbas said, leaning over the table. “I'm hoping they commit enough to Zar Vorgul's siege to be worth the risks.”

“Zar Vorgul has been a thorn in their sides for ages. The Shahshul dearly wants it razed and will do whatever it takes to do so.”

“That's what concerns me. I plan to withdraw well before Zar Vogul's doom is imminent. The Drathans only have to hold out for as long as it takes to secure adequate quantities of soulsteel and arms, then we depart.”

“It's a sound plan,” the voice decided, “though we'll have to deal with the fallout from the Drathans once we abandon their city to its fate.”

“We'll deal with it when the time comes. I'm more concerned with saving your kin from their fates.”

A silent moment passed as the light dimmed and the humming paused. Barsabbas looked away sympathetically.

“And we shall,” the voice finally said, the light flaring brighter. “Let us prepare.”

Barsabbas nodded, reverently lifting the blade and returning it to its scabbard. As he did so, the light flickered out and the humming faded, leaving the room a silent void.