[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXVIII

[C. Matthias]

Finally a new Chapter!!!  Took me forever and a 
day to get this written.  Kudos to Ryx who wrote 
the first scene, and to Chris Hoekstra for 
looking over the last scene and giving me feedback on it.

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXVIII

The Chateau Marzac

         Malger looked about at the emptiness 
with startled wonderment and no little 
unease.  Not in many years had he come into 
Nocturna’s realm to find himself upon the Plain 
of Shadows.  Since accepting his gifts and 
Nocturna as his goddess he had always come into 
the Dream Realms in Nocturna’s temple.  The gray 
plain unnerved him considerably.
         Short, twisted gorse hugged the pebble 
strewn gray earth and thin wisps of low mist hung 
in the still air.  The only feature upon the 
wasted expanse was a circular construct of carven 
marble pillars topped by heavy capstones of the 
same material a short distance away. A flickering 
tongue of impenetrable darkness moved with 
frenetically within the center of the small 
amphitheatre, a column of black flame that 
towered several lengths above the height of the 
capstones.  The entire image filled Malger with a 
heavy weight of expectant doom yet, with nothing 
else breaking the gorse-speckled wasteland, he felt himself drawn toward it.
         As he neared Malger saw that he was not 
the only thing drawn toward the edifice and its 
writhing pillar of ink black flame.  The thin 
streamers of long hanging mist bowed toward the 
circle of stone columns, thinning into 
insubstantiality at the rim of the 
structure.  Twigs of gnarled gorse rattled 
against one another as they reached toward the 
darkness as well making a dry, whispering and 
clicking like a chorus of the yearning 
damned.  The towering lance of writhing black 
flame made not a sound and shed no heat.  A low, 
sorrowful moan of air drawn into the darkness 
caught the lowest range of Malger’s acute hearing.
         He paused upon the rim of the small 
amphitheatre between two of the twenty-seven 
polished marble pillars that defined its 
perimeter.  At the center, recessed into the gray 
earth of the plane by tiers of stone risers that 
served as seats for spectators, was a single 
broad, shallow brazier upon a frail looking 
marble plinth.  That tower of black flame stood 
from, and dwarfed, the wide bronze bowl.  Malger 
saw no wood or coals or oil within to provide the 
dreadful black fire with fuel.  Around the sunken 
floor and lone brazier the many tiers of carved 
stone risers and flat diazoma were empty of spectators; but for one.
           Clad in gossamer black mourning veils 
Nocturna sat alone within the amphitheatre and 
watched the fire.  Knees drawn up upon which she 
rested her chin Nocturna was uncharacteristically 
human.  After Malger’s transformation from man to 
marten she had adopted similarly animalistic 
forms.  Seeing her eschew that habit gripped at 
Malger’s heart with another fist of 
dread.  Quickly he crossed over to her and 
tentatively laid his fingers upon her tense shoulders.
         “Love?” He asked gently, tearing his 
gaze away from the silent flames to look to his 
goddess.  “What is this doomful thing that so vexes you?”
         Nocturna reached up one hand to her 
shoulder and laid her fingertips upon 
Malger’s.  Once he had only thought of her as the 
spirit of a dead mortal girl, Mosha.  In that 
guise she had helped him understand his gift of 
walking the dream realms while his body 
slept.  She taught him of the strength and power 
a mortal could exert upon the realms, and from 
within the dreams of others.  As she had done 
these things Malger had, in turn, unknowingly 
exerted other gifts he had upon that supposed 
long-deceased spirit.  Gifts of mind, body, and 
most importantly the rare gift of healing the 
spirit of the traumas it suffered as keenly as 
any injury to the flesh.  Through their sharing 
an acquaintance became friendship and that 
friendship had in due course become love.
         In time other events had brought 
Nocturna to reveal that Mosha, the lie that 
Malger had come to embrace as the only true love 
of his heart, was only a veil hiding the 
Goddess.  The revelation had strained their 
emotions for a time and those wounds were still healing.
         “A fulcrum of fate.” She replied with a quiet sigh.
         “Fate?”  Malger worked the pads of his 
fingers gently at the tense muscles of her 
shoulders and did not look up at the black 
flames.  Nocturna rolled one had to her right, palm up.
         “On one side, nothing changes, the world 
goes on.” She raised her left hand as well, 
holding it palm up.  “On the other, darkness 
continues to spread its touch and the world falls into chaos.”
         Malger let out a slow chuff, his tail 
and whiskers drooping, and chewed the inside of 
his lower lip.  “That burning
 void is the 
representation of this weight, this balance 
between one fate and another?”  As with anything 
on the dream realms what Malger saw could be a 
true vision, or merely a manifestation that his 
mind could grasp without shattering.  He did not 
look upon it, however, focusing instead on his 
thumbs as he rubbed them gently along the nape of 
Nocturna’s neck.  He kept his gaze upon the dark 
brown fur of his thumbs and the stout black 
hardness of his claws against the smooth pale flesh.
         “That,” Nocturna flicked her fingertips 
toward the writhing flames, “is entropy, a rent 
in creation through which the taint of un-creation bleeds.”
         “What created this evil?  Why?”
         Nocturna shrugged under Malger’s gentle 
hands.  “Mortals.” She hissed with a shake of her 
head, “The pride and fury of mortals from days 
before our own ascendancy.  This vile rupture has 
suppurated its darkness through the millennia of 
man’s slow rise and the retreat of the Aelfs, a 
time longer even than the span of a Dragon’s 
existence.”  She rested one hand upon Malger’s 
own without ever looking away from the dreadful 
pillar of darkness.  “All brought about by those 
who pass beyond never grasping that their touch lingers.”
         “Why not mend this tear?” Malger leaned 
down close to her ear and ask, his hands failing 
to ease the uneasy tension in her shoulders.  He 
let the tips of his whiskers touch her ear and 
cheek.  Nocturna’s only reaction was to lean her 
head slightly and rest her cheek against his muzzle.
         “Mortals tore this rent in creation, and 
thus only mortals can seal it.”  She stroked the 
other side of his muzzle with her 
fingertips.  Malger gave her fingertips a brush 
with his lips and stood to turn his gaze angrily 
upon the flames.  Reaching to his hip he 
unsheathed the sword that had not hung there a 
heartbeat before, summoned by his will.  The hilt 
was the haft of a flute, its slightly curved 
single-edged blade carven with an intricate 
orchestral score.  The polished silver and steel 
flashed against the gray and black and white of 
the amphitheatre and plane like a shard of fallen star.
         “If then a mortal’s touch must destroy 
this abomination, so be it.” He took only one 
stride before Nocturna’s hand seized his wrist 
with a grasp as yielding as iron.
         “Stay your hand my pretty, pretty moth.” 
She cautioned, drawing him back.  His sword 
became a flute that he lowered to his 
side.  “That touch would be your undoing, my 
love.  Others already bring their efforts upon 
the source of this corruption in the mortal 
realm.  Their victory or defeat is the balance 
resting upon this fulcrum, their actions decide 
the path of fate beyond which even I cannot 
see.”  Gently she pulled Malger back to his side 
and he sank down upon the marble riser.  “Nay, my 
love, sit and watch and know that your very 
existence angers the Aedra and Daedra alike at 
this crux.” She offered a wan smile.
         “Why?” Malger blinked and looked about 
the amphitheatre but saw no others watching the dark flames.
         “This rent transects all realms, mortal 
and immortal alike, beyond even the edge of 
Oblivion.  Other than those mortals who cast 
themselves like moths against this all-consuming 
flame in the waking world you are the only other 
mortal, in all of creation, who witnesses this 
tipping of the balance.”  She leaned against his 
shoulder and held his near hand with both of her 
own.  “Only you can step from the mortal realm 
into the Hells to stand at the side of your goddess and live.”
         “Others can walk the dream realms.”
         “None are my chosen.”
         Malger did not argue that point as he 
turned his gaze upon the dreadful darkness.  “Who 
are those who face this, in the waking world?”
         Nocturna shrugged one 
shoulder.  “Mortals, like yourself.” She said 
softly turning her head to catch his gaze as he 
brought his eyes back to her.  “One may ask 
something of you, in due course of time.” She 
intoned gently, her deep black gaze holding his 
unwaveringly, “What was once done cannot be done again, my love.”
         Malger’s brow furrowed, his dark brown 
eyes shifting focus from one of her star touched 
dark eyes to the other.  “Riddles, my love?  Riddles and omens for me?”
         Nocturna laughed once, a brief 
chortle.  “As the future is nebulous with many 
potentials so too, then, must the warnings of fate be.”
         Malger hemmed deep within his throat at 
the evade knowing that his questions would only 
engender more riddles.  Freeing his arm from her 
grasp he raised his flute to his lips and let his 
breath cross the mouth.  Nocturna looked to him 
but did not forestall his musical urge.  He began 
with a soft, gentle melody, a rise and fall of 
notes that chased the sonorous moan of the wind 
and deathrattle of gorse twigs into the 
background.  As he played he stared at the 
dreadful inferno, watching the black flames that 
danced with furious intensity along the rim of the bronze bowl.
         He imagined he saw shapes within the 
flames, dashing about in tumultuous 
engagement.  Shadowy forms with ink black weapons 
locked in deadly struggles.  Some seemed to have 
tails or wings, demons or angels dashed against 
foes enwrapped in shadows and black flame.  The 
low moan of air drawn into the rippling void 
seemed to moan in the slow oscillations of a 
doomful chant while the whispering dry rattle of 
gorse twigs yammered with strange syncopation.
         Frowning, his face drawn into a rictus 
of stern anger, Malger cast his music against the 
eerie, subtle orchestra, countering the slow 
movement of the wordless chant with a light, 
swift waltz.  One of the shadows detached itself 
with a broad flapping shift of dark flames like 
wings and ascended into the pillar to circle the 
heights above, darting too and fro.  Below it 
others of no distinguishable type cast themselves 
against an implacable barrier that took the form 
of a dark, unmoving wall that Malger could not 
bring his eyes to focus upon.  Among the flames 
another three forms writhed back and forth in 
confused congress, flinging weapons against one 
another while a fourth fled into the depths, lost 
and then seen again as the flame-shape wandered alone and lost.
         No matter how he focused none of the 
strange animated forms became so distinguished 
that Malger could say whom was friend and whom 
foe in the strange macabre spectacle.  The wind 
and death-rattle chatter seemed ever more 
distinct as he focused upon the flickering black 
flames.  He shifted forward and rose to his paws, 
transitioning from waltz to a faster strathspey, 
his breath chuffing each meter of the dance with 
furious intensity.  Malger’s feet found the 
rhythm of his rapid tune and he stepped into the 
dance, twirling and leaping as the song drove 
him, like a dervish around a spring festival fire.
         “Malger?” Nocturna stood as well but did 
not move to stop flute or dance.  She knew well 
the strange power of his music, in itself purely mundane, within her realm.
         Malger brought the weight of his focus 
upon the forms most distinct within the flames, a 
quartet of shadows in a group of three and that 
lone wanderer running lost in the darkness.  The 
others were far less distinct, mere vague shapes 
pushed to the very edges of the broad bronze 
bowl.  Even those that Malger could focus on were 
hints of form within the fire, clashing and 
merging and separating again as they engaged in 
whatever battle moved them.  While Malger’s music 
transitioned from strathspey to reel to jig and 
then dirge, each slipping smoothly in discord 
with the thrumming chant of wind and wordless 
rattling voices of gorse branches he watched as 
the three became two, one hazy entity joining the lost one.
         Reaching the crescendo of a powerful 
dirge, a simple cascade of powerful notes that 
rose to the heights of his flute’s range, the 
pillar shuddered and heaved.  The two forms 
closed and from the heights of the black column 
shadows crashed down upon the second of the pair, 
bringing Malger’s tune down its musical range 
swiftly and powerfully to a sudden breathless 
halt.  Silence claimed the center of the atrium 
once more with the force of a landslide and 
Malger pitched to one knee where he stood at the 
upper rim of the amphitheatre, panting for breath 
and watching the flames, but the forms were gone.

----------

         For seven dusks they perceived the blue 
star in the North.  On the dark side of twilight 
it emerged to shine with a wary light, like some 
great eye peering down on them from the 
heavens.  For a minute it would gaze with limpid 
indifference before fading into the violet gleam 
of the northern skies.  In another day the 
western sky would brighten with the setting of a 
waxing crescent moon.  Until then, that blue star 
whose name the Magyars feared to utter ruled the sun’s goodbye.
         Nemgas watched that star, that sign of 
Cenziga each night, hoping for some sign that 
they neared the mysterious mount.  But it 
appeared no closer to him than it had when they’d 
first glimpsed it a week ago.  And now there 
would be no hope of seeing it tonight.  Shortly 
after the dawn clouds rolled in from the west and 
it had snowed ever since.  It was a thick wet 
snow and it clung to the horses and every bit of 
clothing they had.  It was nearly impossible to 
see ahead of them, but the carriage continued its merciless journey northward.
         The reason for risking the brutal Steppe 
winter like this lay bound inside the 
carriage.  In the last seven days Chamag’s skin 
had grown pale and his face withdrawn.  His cheek 
bones protruded and if possible, his nose seemed 
more hawk-like than before.  What had once been a 
broad, swarthy countenance was now narrowed and 
pinched.  Even as his flesh whitened his lips 
reddened like a rose blossoming with fresh 
dew.  His eyes were now sunken and dark like a 
man who’d lived in shadows all his life.  And his 
teeth, when they could pry back his lips through 
his hissing and struggling, protruded like a 
beast’s and were as sharp as a viper’s.  Already 
he had tried to bite each of them.  The moments 
of lucidity when they could be sure they spoke to 
Chamag and not a monster inexorably reshaping his 
flesh were more and more confined to the hours of 
twilight.  And even then there were moments when 
the monster that had taken Berkon and killed Kaspel struggled to break free.
         If they didn’t reach Cenziga in another 
few days, Nemgas knew that they would have to do 
something to kill the monster.  It had already 
broken one set of ropes.  They had only a few 
left now and Nemgas could see Chamag testing them 
from time to time.  His strength was prodigious 
to begin with; how much more would the night-time 
monster be?  With only one arm, Nemgas knew he 
couldn’t stop Chamag if he was wholly 
corrupted.  Would Pelgan, Gamran or Amile do any 
better?  Poor Gelel would only be a mild repast for Chamag’s bloodlost.
         Nemgas glanced at the youth sitting next 
to him.  He held the reins tightly in his 
mittens, face narrowed as he gazed forward into 
the wintry expanse.  All around them stood fields 
of endless white, no part different from any 
other.  The snow lay only a handspan deep which 
wasn’t enough to snag the carriage, but if the 
snow continued to fall into the night, they would 
have trouble moving anywhere in the morning.
         Gelel seemed to understand his 
responsibilities and paid close attention to the 
horses.  The animals received frequent rests and 
he took his turn rubbing them down with warmed 
cloths from inside.  There was also a hardness in 
his face that hadn’t been there before.  In the 
six months since they had left the other Magyars 
to journey to Yesulam Gelel had gone from a boy 
barely into his teens to a young man who had 
faced death and evil and triumphed over it.  He 
wasn’t afraid anymore.  When they finally 
reunited with Hanaman and the others, Nemgas knew 
it would be time for Gelel to join them in the bachelor’s wagon.
         “What dost that be?” Gelel asked as he peered over the pair of horses.
         Nemgas lifted his eyes and brushed the 
snowflakes from his forehead.  The horses plodded 
into a greyish white landscape that was white 
above and below.  They cast no shadows for there 
was no sun to shine on them.  But as the Magyar 
stared he began to notice a subtly darker shade 
in the mist of flakes.  His heart leapt in his 
chest.  Moment by moment the image took on 
greater definition.  The air stilled with a 
familiar pungency.  The snowfall ebbed.  As did the snow.
         Gelel shivered as the horses passed out 
of the storm and onto ground dry and 
parched.  The was still cool, but more akin to a 
summer night than a winter day.  But it was not 
the cold that made Gelel tremble so.  Rising up 
before them was a hauntingly familiar column of 
grey fog.  The storm of snow circled the colossal 
fog on every side but did not touch it.  Nemgas 
tightened his one hand into a fist.  For the 
first time in a month he didn’t feel fear grip his heart.
         “‘Tis Cenziga!” Nemgas crowed. “We hath 
found it!  Alert the others.  We must bring 
Chamag to yonder mount.” Gelel’s lips moved as if 
he were trying to object, but nothing came 
forth.  Nemgas took his by the shoulder and 
gently shook him. “Gelel!  Tell the others.  I shalt take the reins.”
         He pried them loose from Gelel’s 
mittens, and setting them aside, drew the young 
man to his feet and turned him from the fog.  As 
it was stricken from his sight, the Magyar came 
back to life.  He shuddered again and shook the 
chill from his bones. “I wilt tell them,” he said 
in a hoarse whisper.  He made a sign against evil 
and then hurried inside the wagon.
         Nemgas kept his eyes on the fog.  Faint 
flashes of light permeated its otherwise grey and 
unmoving surface.  The horses shook themselves as 
they plodded along the ground covered only in 
splotches by dry grasses and hard earth.  It was 
easier going than through the snow but still he 
didn’t press them.  Along either side he noted 
the snowstorm continuing.  It was as if the very 
presence of Cenziga repelled it.
         Nemgas rubbed the stump of his arm.  He 
could feel a strange energy there.  For a moment 
his right stump throbbed and he could swear the 
sleeve began to stretch as if his arm were 
growing back.  But the sensation faded as soon as 
it struck.  Nemgas sighed and pulled on the 
reins.  The horses slowed to a meandering 
trot.  They alone did not seem bothered by the 
tower of fog.  All they showed was relief to be out of the snow.
         Amile screamed as something crashed 
inside the carriage.  Nemgas bolted up, the reins 
forgotten as he charged in through the door 
behind the seat.  Gelel was crouched on the floor 
holding his hand to his head.  Blood dribbled 
down his forehead and across his tunic.  The gash 
didn’t look serious, so Nemgas stepped past him.
         Chamag was half off the bed, legs still 
wrapped in quilts and tightly bound with 
rope.  He’d freed his arms and was even now 
trying to pull Gamran’s neck to his face.  The 
little thief dug his feet against the wood 
panelling beneath the bed with his hands 
scrambling against Chamag’s chest and 
arms.  Pelgan had one arm around Chamag’s neck 
and was struggling to drag him back, while Amile 
fought to pull the burly Magyar’s arms off the little thief.
         Chamag’s mouth was open wide and the 
fangs seemed to reach out eager to dig into 
Gamran’s flesh.  His eyes were dark and 
ravenous.  They seemed to assure him that he 
would be next.  Nemgas snatched Chamag’s axe from 
the floor, and then smacked the burly Magyar on 
top of the head with the flat of the blade.  And 
then he did it again but harder.
         It took four blows before Chamag 
collapsed, black blood oozing from a wound hidden 
in his hair.  Gamran fell to the floor gasping 
and crawled away.  Amile burst into tears and 
Pelgan put his hand on her arm to try and comfort 
her.  Nemgas turned the axe in his one hand and 
tried to smile. “‘Tis fortunate he hath lasted so 
long.  We hath reached Cenziga.  We shalt bind 
him with whate’er we can and carry him there.”
         “A moment!” Gamran said between gasps as 
he levered himself into a crouch. “We hath... no more rope.”
         Nemgas pointed to the sheets still 
tangled about the man’s legs. “We couldst use these.”
         “I wilt grab another set,” Pelgan 
said.  He put one hand on Amile’s shoulder to 
steady her.  She rubbed the tears from her eyes and nodded to him.
         “Ja.  I must tend his wound.”
         Nemgas kept the axe in hand just in case 
the monster in Chamag’s skin wasn’t really 
unconscious.  But Amile tended his wound without 
incident.  The black blood carried a foul scent 
that wrinkled their noses in disgust.  Even after 
three months, first bleeding doomed Berkon 
several times a day, then Kaspel, and now Chamag, 
they had not become accustomed to the miasma.
         “By the gods!” Gamran swore in 
awe.  Nemgas glanced out of the corner of his 
eye, not daring to take his gaze from 
Chamag.  The little thief was standing in the 
carriage doorway with Gelel at his side.  He 
stared at something outside, his face shifting 
from disbelief to unsurpassed joy.  His eyes, 
bright and full of a good humour the belied his 
near corrupting attack, turned to Nemgas. “Come and see!”
         Nemgas eased over to the doorway and 
peered out.  He scanned the broken land beneath 
the watchful gaze of the tower of fog.  A long, pleased sigh escaped his lips.

         Grastalko was grateful when he could 
think clearly for all the snow.  The charred 
remnants of his left hand vacillated between a 
fierce ache and a searing anguish.  With his good 
hand he scooped as much snow into his bucket as 
he could and when the pain grew too great to 
bear, he shoved his left arm up to the elbow into 
the snow.  For a few minutes he could enjoy peace before all the snow melted.
         The other Magyars did not enjoy the 
storm, keeping their cloaks pulled tightly across 
their backs, arms, and legs.  Grastalko was the 
only one who bore only his brightly coloured 
tunic and jerkin.  The fire in his arm may bring 
him horrible pain, but it did keep him warm.
         At least whatever Dazheen had done for 
him helped him sleep at night.  He hadn’t needed 
to see the blind seer since she’d given him the 
sleeping draught.  And her warning had proven 
true.  After taking the draught, only a few 
moments would pass before the young Magyar sunk 
into a dreamless sleep that only the dawn could 
break.  With the days so short now, he had 
thought certain this would irritate Hanaman, but 
their leader said nothing when Grastalko crawled 
to the wagon tops after they had already started 
on their way.  None of the others said anything 
either, neither on their journey nor when they 
stopped for the night.  They all seemed to 
understand not to interfere with Dazheen’s medicines.
         But with each day they drew nearer and 
nearer to the very mountain that was the source 
of all his woe.  He had never seen Cenziga, yet 
with every throbbing pain in his left hand, he 
felt its immense presence grow closer and 
closer.  And now, despite the snow storm, he knew 
that something waited for them ahead.  His eyes 
were drawn to the sky, and as the snow flakes 
dances across his cheeks, he thought he could see 
the outline of a dark something piercing the sky.
         Dazheen’s cryptic words that he might 
need to go there bounced back and forth through 
his mind.  Cenziga had given him nothing but pain 
these last six months.  What could he expect from 
it now?  Just thinking about it made his 
blistered and blackened flesh glow like the 
centre of a campfire.  He shoved his arm into the 
bucket and listened to the snow sizzle and steam.
         “Dost thou see it?” Adlemas asked after 
Grastalko finally took his arm from the 
bucket.  The large an sat next to him on the 
wagon and when Grastlako could focus, let the 
younger Magyar drive the wagon.  Those times were 
becoming fewer and fewer.  But the bearded man 
wasn’t gesturing to the Assingh who plodded 
through the snow with placid equanimity; instead, 
his hand wavered at a dark outline in the clouds before them.
         Grastalko grunted and scooped fresh snow 
from the wagon top and dumped it in his bucket. 
“Aye, the mount.  I hath felt it all day.”
         “How much farther?” Adlemas asked with a quaver in his voice.
         Grastalko closed his eyes but the dark 
outline remained.  Although the pain lanced into 
his mind every time he pondered the mountain, he 
could feel something drawing him closer.  A hand 
or a rope, or perhaps even a chain, seemed to 
grasp him and pull him closer to that unnatural 
crag.  It was so close now.  He could almost reach out and touch it.
         “Nothing,” he replied through tight lips. “We hath arrived.”
         He opened his eyes and saw the snow 
storm part in front of him like a pair of 
curtains.  The half-dozen wagons in front of 
theirs had drawn a few wagon-lengths into a large 
field full of dry grass and parched earth.  They 
lined up next to each other but not because of 
the drivers.  The Assingh were so used to their 
tasks that they did it all themselves.  The 
Magyars all stared at the tower of fog rising in 
the midst of the storm.  Far overhead they saw a 
dark blue sky between the fog and the storm clouds.
         Grastalko winced as the pain lanced up 
his arm.  He shoved it into the snow-filled 
bucket, but the relief seemed fleeting.  A 
incessant drumming throbbed in his mind.  There 
was something inside that wall of fog, something 
distinctly other that called to him.  He crumbled 
in his seat and felt tears stream down his 
cheeks.  The throbbing brooked him no mercy.
         He turned his eyes away from the fog, 
hoping to see anything but.  And then, toward the 
south, he saw something else amazing.  A 
two-horse carriage stood a short distance outside 
the boundary of the storm.  The carriage must 
have been highly decorative at one point, but now 
it seemed more a renegade Magyar wagon.  And then 
he saw somebody standing just behind the seat 
dressed in a brightly coloured tunic.
         “Adlemas!  Look!” Grastalko pointed with 
his good hand, and as one all of the other Magyars turned.
         Hanaman stood a few wagons away and 
shouted with undisguised joy, “‘Tis Gamran!  And 
Nemgas!  They hath returned to us!”
         As one, the Magyar leapt from their 
wagons and rushed to meet their lost 
brethren.  Grastalko watched them, blinking away 
his tears as he kept his hand buried in the bucket to dull his enduring pain.

         Hanaman was the first to reach them, and 
with a tight-lipped smile he clasped both Gamran 
and Nemgas.  His stern eyes noted that Nemgas’s 
missing right arm but he said nothing of it.  His 
first words were full of a warmth not often heard 
from the grey-haired Magyar’s tongue. “‘Tis good 
to see thee again.  Thou hast returned to us in 
the strangest of places, though, knowing thee as 
I dost, ‘tis not a surprising place to find thee either.”
         “Or thee,” Nemgas replied with equal 
warmth. “Thou must bring rope.  A foul poison hath made a monster of Chamag.”
         Hanaman’s smile died. “What sort of poison?”
         “‘Tis one of the blood.  It hast already killed Berkon and Kaspel.”
         The Magyar leader took a deep breath and 
nodded.  Behind him Adlemas and several other 
younger Magyars were running toward them with 
shouts of joy. “Can Chamag be saved?”
         “‘Tis my hope,” Nemgas replied, glancing 
at the tower of fog.  It churned to its own 
rhythm caring not for the whims of wind or 
snow.  He stared at the distant wagons and noted 
the many and familiar Assingh with their grey 
pelts and long ears pulling those wagons.  His 
heart stirred with a forgotten passion and he 
swallowed. “Wilt thee tend to him?  Gamran and 
Pelgan wilt show thee what hast happened.”
         Hanaman saw his look and nodded. “She 
remains in the same wagon as before.  Ja!  We wilt tend to Chamag.”
         Gamran nodded and patted his friend on 
the shoulder. “Let us be off!  Thee to thy 
Kisaiya, and I to my Thelia!”  Nemgas laughed at 
the little thief and the two of them ran across 
the barren field.  They were stopped by every 
Magyar on the way, hugged and then let go as each knew for whom they ran.
         Nemgas could smell the earthy musk of 
the Assingh before he reached the wagons.  With 
it came a thousand wonderful memories of 
childhood, youth, and growing up as a Magyar upon 
the Steppe.  His was the freest of lives, full of 
responsibility, but also of love and a certainty 
that each day would bring them something new to 
see and experience.  There was more truth to 
being a Magyar than in any other guise.  And that 
scent was the sweet fragrance of a life well lived.
         Only one wagon still had anybody sitting 
atop it.  Grastalko crouched over the seat with 
his left arm shoved in a bucket that leaked water 
over the rim.  He smiled faintly, but clearly in 
pain at the two as they neared.  His eyes fixed 
on Nemgas’s stump and he swallowed 
heavily.  Gamran bounded up the wagon and wrapped 
him in a tight hug. “Grastalko!  ‘Tis good to see thee again!”
         “And thee, Gamran!  I hath missed thee.”
         Gamran’s eyes twinkled in impish 
delight. “Ah, thou wilt tell me of all thy 
adventures and all thy thievings whence I 
return!  But first, I must to Thelia’s side ja!”
         Nemgas heard this conversation as he 
rushed past to find Kisaiya’s wagon.  Already 
many of the young and women were climbing out and 
delighting in the news of their return.  It was 
the only thing that could make them all forget 
their fear of the tower of fog and the mountain 
that lay hidden in its depths.  They too greeted 
Nemgas and delayed him many more seconds.
         And then he saw her.  Long brown hair 
that clustered to her neck.  Quiet features and 
eyes that kept to their companion beasts.  Hands 
so gentle and yet so strong.  This all he saw 
dressed in their colourful weave and nothing else 
mattered.  His heart shouted, “Kisaiya!”
         She turned and her face blossomed, a 
brightness coming to her cheeks that the winter 
had driven away.  They danced between the wagons 
and flung themselves together.  She kissed at his 
neck and chest, while he kissed her forehead, one 
arm brushing back her hair, before wrapping 
around her middle and sweeping her into the air. 
“Ah!  I hath found thee again, my love!”
         “And I thee, my love!” Her voice rang 
like the echoing call of swallows across an 
Autumn plain of grass.  She pressed her face 
close to his, arms nestling between to rest in 
his warmth.  “What happened to thy arm?  And to 
thy hair?  Thy lock of white hast gone.”
         Nemgas felt an urge to reach up and 
brush across his single lock of white 
hair.  Before Kashin and he had been split by the 
touch of the evil Yajakali blade he’d had two 
locks of white hair.  The stump of his right arm 
twitched and pressed against Kisaiya’s shoulder 
as if trying to answer her question itself. 
“‘Twas a battle we fought with the man who sent 
the Driheli to kill us.  He cleaved my arm and 
the magic in his blade changed my hair.” He noted 
the look of alarm in her eyes and smiled. “Ne’er 
fear my love.  His own blade turned on him and 
slew him.  His evil hath no power o’er us.”
         And then like a thunderclap they very 
reason he made such an arduous journey returned 
to him.  With a strangled shout, he cried, “Pelurji!  Hast he awoken?”
         Kisaiya’s look of alarm faded into sadness. “Nay.  He still sleeps.”
         Nemgas felt his heart curl tight like a 
dying leaf in his chest. “Take me to him, Kisaiya.  I must see him.”
         “I know.  Ja.” She led him through the 
maze of wagons as they settled into a cluster 
just beyond the periphery of the storm. None 
dared draw close to the tower of fog, and many, 
as they ran after Hanaman to welcome them back, 
followed the outskirts of the storm to keep from 
going too close to the fear mount.  Those who saw 
Nemgas opened their mouths to greet him, then saw 
Kisaiya with him and let them be.  Their turn to welcome him home could wait.
         Kisaiya brought him to a familiar wagon 
festooned with supplies.  The windows were 
shuttered, but still a thin trail of smoke rose 
from the lantern chimney in the back.  Inside the 
doorway hung a heavy curtain which Nemgas hastily 
pushed aside.  In a solitary bed at the back of 
the wagon, watched over by a single lamp, lay a 
boy cloaked in sleep.  His face was sunken and 
stretched but the features were as he knew them 
and the boy’s cheeks were flush with life.
         Nemgas quietly stepped to his side and 
knelt on one knee.  He brushed the black hair 
back over the boy’s brow and gazed with sorrow at 
the unmoving eyelids.  The blankets rose and feel 
with the child’s measured breaths just as they 
had seven months ago when he’d first fallen into this deathless sleep.
         “His flesh hast no meat,” he said in a bitter whisper.
         “We hath fed him soup everyday since 
thou didst leave.  I hath tended to him myself 
every day, cleaning him and feeding him.  He hast withered without thee.”
         Nemgas kissed the boy’s brow gently and 
felt some solace at the warmth of his skin. “He 
hath strength left.” A long low sigh escaped his 
lips. “I had hoped with the Bishop’s death he 
wouldst awake.  The evil that took him from me still lives.”
         Kisaiya rested her callused hands on his 
shoulder, thumbs rubbing up and down his thick 
neck. “Perhaps now that thou art with us again he wilt wake?”
         “The evil must die ere he will 
arise.  But ‘tis a great relief to have found 
thee and to still see that he dost live.  Others 
wilt destroy the evil where it lay, this I wast 
told.  Now we hath only to hope.”
         She continued to gently massage his 
weary muscles as he gazed at the sleeping 
child.  After a moment her voice, very quietly, 
settled on his ears. “‘Tis good fortune that we 
didst find thee.  When I learned that Dazheen 
said that we must come here, I feared it would be 
months more ere we were together again.”
         “I the same,” Nemgas admitted.  He 
frowned. “Dazheen told thee to come this way?  Why?”
         “She didst not say.  And why didst thee come here, Nemgas?”
         “For Chamag.  A foul poison darkens his 
blood.  It killed Berkon and Kaspel.  The blade I 
took up the mount destroyed the monster that it 
didst make of Berko, so I hope it will cure 
Chamag.” He stiffened and felt a strange thrill 
race through his body.  A smile broke across his 
lips and hope blossomed in his heart. “By the 
gods!  We wert both led here!  Perhaps the key to 
waking Pelurji lay here as well!”
         Flush with excitement, he kissed the boy 
one more time and then rushed out the wagon 
door.  Kisaiya followed him, one hand reaching 
out to grab his shoulder. “Nemgas!  How couldst this place heal him?”
         “I know not,” he replied though it did 
not dampen his enthusiasm. “But I must—” A scream 
and several men shouting from the direction of 
the carriage silenced his thought.  He jumped to 
the ground and ran through the thicket of wagon 
and Assingh to see Chamag running away from the 
carriage with Hanaman, Pelgan, and others chasing 
him.  Nemgas bolted to intercept him, breaking free of Kisaiya’s warning touch.
         To Nemgas’s surprise, Chamag wasn’t 
running toward the storm.  Had he done that, the 
monster that was growing in him would surely have 
been able to escape and consume what was left of 
his felly Magyar.  Instead, Chamag was running 
straight toward the tower of fog.  Could it 
already be dusk and in those precious few minutes 
when Chamag was himself?  The sky seemed darker, 
but with the storm and the fog surrounding them, it was impossible to be sure.
         He couldn’t take any chances even if 
Chamag was doing what he wanted.  Even as 
Hanaman, Pelgan, and the others slowed in fear of 
the ominous fog and the mount it concealed, 
Nemgas pushed his legs faster.  Chamag threw open 
his arms, eyes lost and wild, dark hair caught by 
the wind as if some invisible hand were yanking 
it backward.  He didn’t seem to be aware of 
either those behind him or Nemgas racing toward his side.
         At first the fog seemed to recede as 
they ran closer.  Nemgas felt a faint throbbing 
begin to build in his skull.  The last time he’d 
come here the headaches had nearly crippled 
him.  The mount’s insouciance made him nervous.  What was it waiting for?
         And then, just as Nemgas reached out his 
arm to grab Chamag, the fog snapped into place 
and practically knocked them backward.  Nemgas 
felt a smashing blow crush into his mind and yet 
still he stumbled into that choking 
miasma.  Beside him he was dimly aware of Chamag 
writhing on the ground and screaming.
         Nemgas felt the pounding batter at his 
very sense of self.  And for several seconds he 
ran in his mind seeking some deep recess in which 
to hide.  But the presence of Cenziga allowed him 
no escape.  Its identity could not be avoided.
         And in that understanding, Nemgas 
remembered how he had survived before. Somehow, 
he moved his tongue and shouted with every drop 
of air in his lungs, “I hight Nemgas!”
         The pain and presence departed like a 
dead wind.  Nemgas blinked and waved at the fog 
in front of his face, but ti didn’t 
disperse.  Still, he could see Chamag laying a 
few feet to his side writhing lake a man 
possessed.  From both nostrils, his lips, ears, 
and even the two holes in his neck where Berkon’s 
fangs had consigned him to undeath, the black 
blood oozed and sprayed.  That ichorous sludge 
sizzled and burned in the thick fog.
         Nemgas crawled closer, but kept himself 
out of Chamag’s reach as the man screamed and his 
body expelled the poison.  He thrashed about, 
kicking and lashing with arms and legs.  His lips 
peeled back and he spat out the foul 
blood.  Though he never caught a good look, 
Nemgas half imagined Chamag’s fangs receding back into his gums.
         With a sudden cry, Chamag arched his 
back a full two feet form the ground, and one 
last spurt of the black blood exploded from his 
face.  It sizzled into nothing before touching 
the ground.  Chamag collapsed, all his energy spent.
         Nemgas crept closer and pushed back his 
fellow Magyar’s lips.  The fangs were still 
there, though they had lost some of their 
menace.  Instead of jutting out from his gums 
like a beast eager for the kill, they nestled 
snugly within his jaw beside his other 
teeth.  Nemgas wondered what that could mean, but 
he knew deep down that there was no more need to 
fear his friend.  Scooping his arm beneath 
Chamag’s back, he hoisted him on his left 
shoulder and carried him out of the fog.
         Still standing a good distance away were 
Hanaman, Pelgan, Gelel, and the rest.  They met 
his gaze with hopeful questioning stares.  He 
nodded and looked to the wagons. “The poison hath 
left him.  I wilt take him to Dazheen.  She wilt tend him.”
         Hanaman nodded, the worry in his face 
fading into his ususal cold mask of command. 
“Aye.  We shalt bring thy carriage to the wagons.  See to Chamag.  Ja!”
         Nemgas carried the burly Magyar, his 
weight a strain but not an unwelcome one.  As he 
bounced up and down on Nemgas’s shoulder, a faint 
smile seemed to crease his lips.  Nemgas sighed 
with relief.  He’d kept his promise to save him 
from the poison.  Now he had to keep his promise to his boy Pelurji.  But how?

----------

         After an hour of walking from mouldering 
room to crumbling hall, Lindsey turned to the 
ancient Åelf and said, “We’ve been everywhere in 
this damnable place and we’ve yet to see a single 
stair!  How are we supposed to reach this cleft if we cannot go down?”
         They had just found the scattered 
detritus of the clock and bell tower blocking the 
passageway.  Charles had become a normal-sized 
rat and squeezed through a hole in the rubble but 
found nothing of note on the other side. Even now 
he pulled his clothes back on with one paw 
clutching the coils of his burnt vine to the soft 
fur on his chest and the two Lothanasi symbols 
that glowed faintly there like faerie 
tattoos.  Everyone else looked weary from keeping 
watch for enemies that had yet to show themselves.
         “There is a way,” Qan-af-årael insisted 
with implacable calm. “We merely have to find it.”
         “But where are we to look?” Jessica 
asked.  The hawk sounded exasperated.  She 
flicked her wingtips at either side. “I’ve looked 
at every room magically.  There’s no hidden 
entrances or exits.  It’s like the outside of the 
house; everything is wrapped in an impenetrable 
weave.  The only opening I’ve seen is the main door.”
         “Nothing else?” James asked in surprise. “But there’s so much here.”
         “And not a bit of it useful,” Lindsey 
said under his breath.  A bit louder he added, 
“We can’t just keep wandering around like this.”
         “No, we can’t,” Andares agreed.  The 
younger Åelf crossed his arms and through lowered 
eyelids, studied Qan-af-årael. “What do you know, 
Lord of Colours?  No other knows more of what to expect than you.”
         But the ancient Åelf shook his head. “Of 
Yajakali, yes.  But of the Chateau, not a man alive can make such a claim.”
         “So,” Abafouq said in a quiet voice, “why not close the door.”
         Charles brushed his paws over his pants and frowned. “Which door?”
         “The main door,” the Binoq replied with 
a faint smile. “We left it open when we came 
in.  Jessica, you say the inside looks exactly 
like the outside.  What if, what if, we still are 
outside the Chateau?” He held up one hand to 
forestall objections. “We Binoq have a saying. 
‘If the air bites your cheek, look for 
bears.’  By this I am meaning that bears often 
try to push open the doors of lower slope 
entrances to steal our warmth.  To protect 
ourselves, many exits have two doors.  The inner 
door cannot be opened until closing the outer door.”
         Lindsey shrugged. “Worth a try.”
         Jessica nodded and jumped back and forth 
on her talons. “It could work.  If we seal 
ourselves inside, we could change the magical weave.”
         The ancient Åelf smiled faintly. “That 
may be what is needed” He gestured with a very 
light motion of his fingers.  Jerome led the way 
back to the main door with Andares close 
behind.  The rest followed with Charles and 
Lindsey taking up the rear.  The decrepit and 
crumbling walls stirred only to disgorge dust in 
their passage.  They swallowed the echoes of 
their footsteps bringing an oppressive quiet to the once decadent castle.
         The entrance room was as barren as the 
other times they had passed this way.  Apart from 
the ruined furniture which lingered as a 
testament to the Sondeckis’s recent struggle, the 
only curious feature was the doorway which stood 
open onto the blasted plain of cracked 
earth.  Beyond they could see the line of 
mangroves which grew away from the 
Chateau.  Jerome stepped to the door and put one 
hand on the frame. “I’m not sure if this will 
work,” he admitted. “It did nothing when Krenek closed it.”
         “But did he really close it?” Abafouq 
asked.  The little man ran his hands along the 
bolts fastening the wooden door to the stone 
arch. “Magic of a strange kind.” His eyes 
brightened as he splayed his short fingers across 
the frame. “Come see this, Jessica.  Follow my finger.”
         The hawk hopped in closer.  Jerome 
stepped to one side to let her lean over the 
Binoq, but he kept one hand on the free end of 
the door to keep it steady.  Jessica folded her 
wings tight along her back, and her black tail 
feathers stuck straight out as she bent over. “What am I looking for?”
         “The lines of magic are in the grains of 
wood,” Abafouq replied as he traced out on 
particular strand.  The hawk stared with wide 
eyes for several seconds before nodding quickly. 
“Watch the veins move to the braces.  Do you see?”
         Jessica peered at the lines of 
magic.  Faint at first, from between the grain of 
the light-toned wood she began to discern the 
same darkness spread over the walls both inside 
and outside the Chateau.  Focussing her gaze 
beyond the weave of the door she saw how the 
magic shield wound through the door’s 
interior.  There it met set into the stone 
wall.  But the magic drew her eyes in a different 
direction.  There was a subtle flow, like a snake 
slithering through the grass, up towards the 
latch at the free end of the door.  And there the 
magic ceased in a faintly throbbing bauble of darkness.
         The hawk drew back and nodded to the 
door. “Close and throw the latch.  There is some magic in the latch.”
         Jerome took a deep breath and slowly 
guided the door closed.  The interior darkened 
subtly without the outside light.  He lifted one 
hand and set it on the latch but didn’t move 
it.  A faint smile teased the edge of his lips. 
“Everyone ready for whatever this will do?”
         Habakkuk put one paw on Lindsey’s 
shoulder and said, “Aye.  Do it.  We’re running short on time.”
         Abafouq and Jessica backed away from the 
door.  The hawk’s gaze never left the weave of 
magic.  The Binoq backed into Guernef who nudged 
him gently with his beak.  Abafouq nodded and 
took a step forward, rubbing his hands 
together.  Charles unconsciously pet his 
vine.  James shifted back and forth form one hoof 
to the other.  Andares and Qan-af-årael waited 
with placid forbearance.  Kayla kept her paws on 
the hilts of her dragon blades.  All of them 
watched Jerome lift the latch and slide it into place.
         Immediately, Jessica saw the darkness 
spread to cover the door.  With an almost 
pellucid glamour it joined the magical cocoon 
covering the walls.  For a single moment both 
outside and inside were one and the same.  And 
then with the snap of a catapult they were ripped 
from the exterior world.  They were now in the 
belly of the Chateau and its malevolent presence 
shook the room with titanic furry.
         She snapped back from the magic to watch 
as the very stones of the room spread apart.  A 
dark abyss revealed itself between every block as 
they scattered like stones tossed into the 
sky.  Jessica cried out in horror as all of her 
friends were ripped from her.  They receded into 
the abyss until they were nothing more than stars in an empty world.
         And then, the one rock upon which she 
clung spread around her as if she were 
shrinking.  A vast plain of stone underneath a 
midnight firmament welcomed her.  The hawk pulled 
her wings in tight as she stared at the world 
around her.  Although there was no light of any 
kind she could see the stone extending forever in 
either direction without any hint of a horizon or 
a dimming of its luminescence.
         Jessica’s heart fluttered with a fear 
that she knew all too well.  It was the same fear 
she’d had when trying to reach the triangular 
platform in the Imbervand with that other chasing 
her.  Only this time, whereas it had once had a 
direction and sure location, now it felt as if 
that all-devouring hatred surrounded her.  Her 
body quivered with fear and she hunkered lower 
until she crouched like a bird nesting on a clutch of eggs.
         Even as she imagined them she felt them 
beneath her.  Through her tail feathers she 
counted three eggs, slightly oblong and as large 
as one of those melons she’d seen in the 
marketplace.  A vague memory of the pain of 
laying flitted through her mind, but it passed 
into the joy of expectancy.  But who had given her the eggs?
         Then to her right she felt a comforting 
presence.  With a bundle of twigs and leaves in 
his hooked beak, Weyden approached and then 
shoved the bramble beneath her to make her nest 
more comfortable.  She could see nothing in his 
eyes but a certain duty and complete adoration of 
her.  He was her hawk and sire to her eggs.  They 
weren’t husband and wife, but with a startling 
realization she knew them to be animals.
         Jessica stood quickly and Weyden pressed 
against her shoulders with his beak and 
wings.  He was trying to settle her back on the 
eggs with the plain insistence of a beast.  This 
wasn’t right!  She pecked at him, flapping her 
wings and squawking.  He squawked in return and 
spread his feathers in a show of dominance.  This 
wasn’t how she wanted to be with her hawk. As she 
fought to escape the nest, she wondered what had become of her friends.

         As soon as Jerome dropped the latch 
everyone else disappeared.  It startled a sa 
bubble that sprouted from the latch and then 
quickly spread to fill the whole room.  As it 
passed each of his friends they vanished from 
sight like a curtain being drawn across an open 
casement.  Not even a second had passed before he was completely alone.
         With a start he spun, hands at the 
ready.  But there was nothing to attack him.  The 
room appeared as it had before, filled with 
ruined furniture and high dust-caked walls.  He 
lifted both hands to his lips and shouted, 
“Charles!  Kayla!  Anybody!”  His cries went 
unanswered at first.  But as he took a few 
tentative steps into the room, he began to hear a 
faint sound.  He stilled his breath and listened carefully.
         Understanding came slowly.  Down one of 
the corridors he could hear it moving closer.  It 
wasn’t one something but many somethings, each of 
which called out in a child’s laugh.  Burbling 
and cascading one over the other, the giddy 
laughter mocked him and sent a chill up his 
spine.  Jerome took several tentative steps 
toward the passage.  He sucked in his breath, 
closed his eyes, and with his arms trembling, stepped around the corner.
         To his surprise what he saw were 
children.  Hundreds of them all with brightly 
smiling faces climbed one over another as they 
crept down the hall.  They bore no clothing and 
came in every race, dark-skinned and 
light-skinned, Galendish, Kitchlandish, and 
Sonngefildan.  Their eyes, blue, brown and green, 
met him with an impish delight.  They couldn’t be 
any older than five or six, and with outstretched 
hands, grasped at the air as if clawing at his legs for purchase.
         “What the?” Jerome asked, and then as he 
watched the children boil over each other to 
reach him, suffered a presentiment of death.  He 
stepped back into the doorway, back against the 
stone jamb, as the children grinned wide, teeth 
hardening and sharpening.  Their jaws jutted 
forward, faces sloping into angular 
proportions.  From their forehead horns began to 
emerge.  Their bodies hunched forward, as 
something also began to press at their 
backs.  The insistent laughter took on a macabre 
cast as they continued to deform into something from his nightmares.
         It was when the tails began sprouting 
from their backsides, and their legs took on 
beastly proportions that he knew them.  Their 
flesh, once a variety of colours, blended into a 
uniform scarlet.  These were not innocents, but 
the profane instruments of Hell.  Jerome let out 
a scream as they rushed toward him with clawing 
hands.  He turned and ran, all the sermons of his 
youth describing these demons who came to claim 
the souls of the damned hammering through his mind.

         Abafouq sucked in his breath when Jerome 
dropped the latch.  And then screamed when the 
stones twisted beneath his feet.  He slipped and 
fell through a gap in the floor into a darkened 
chamber.  His arms shot out to grab at the stone 
but it continued to spin beneath him.  The 
darkness surrounded him and it was all he could 
do to turn his head to look up and see the floor close over him.
         Sooner than he expected he landed on his 
side against a smooth stone shelf.  Sitting up, 
he rubbed his left arm and stared into the 
impenetrable darkness.  Abafouq couldn’t hear 
anything else around him so he knew he had to be 
alone.  He reached into his pack and fiddled 
around searching gently with his fingers.  He 
found his mortar and pestle quickly enough and 
then scrounged through his powders.  Having spent 
all of his life living in caves he was used to 
working blind.  Still, the moments felt as if 
they would never end.  Any moment he felt certain 
he would hear some fearsome beast growling in some eldritch corner.
         But Abafouq found the right powders, and 
with a quick twist of the pestle, the mortar 
filled with a faint green light.  He lifted the 
bowl to one side and glanced around.  He sat on a 
broad, flat stone ledge that extended in all 
directions.  Something appeared to stand in the 
distance.  It looked like a monolith of some kind.
         Abafouq climbed to his feet and walked 
toward it.  As he neared, even his footsteps 
making no noise, he felt his heart tighten in his 
chest.  The monolith towered over his head and 
was scarred with the ancient letters of his 
people.  With each step he recognized name after 
name, each one chiselled until it was only barely 
legible.  Tears began sliding down his cheeks as 
he recognized the monolith as the Sentinel of 
Forgiveness.  The final name chiselled and then 
effaced into its surface was his own.
         “No,” he uttered beneath his breath.  He couldn’t be in Qorfuu!
         “Unforgiven.  Banished.  Traitor.”
         Anafouq snapped his head around and saw 
faint shadows lurking at the edge of the faint 
green light.  He tensed and almost backed into the Sentinel. “Who be there?”
         The voices cried again the same three 
words. “Unforgiven.  Banished.  Traitor.”  Tears 
clouded his eyes as the voices themselves brought back thousands of memories.
         “Inkiqut?  Kifqunan?  Father?”
         But there was no mercy in the voices, no 
welcoming vivre.  Only cold disappointment and 
anger.  Abafouq trembled and bit the back of one 
hand to still his cries.  The shadows were coming closer.

         Kayla watched with what magic she had as 
the violet nimbus shrouded the door and then 
everything around her fell into darkness.  She 
lifted herself out of the mage sight and found 
herself still in darkness.  The skunk cried out 
to the others but there was no response.  She 
spread her arms and tail out, feeling around in 
every direction.  James had been right behind her 
only a moment before but now she couldn’t find 
him.  The donkey and every one of her friends were gone.
         To her right she saw a faint pinprick of 
light.  It was the only thing she could see in 
all the world and so she walked gingerly 
forward.  She swept her arms low to make sure she 
didn’t stumble into anything.  Beneath her paws 
the floor felt of cool stone.  It was smoother 
and less filthy than what she recalled walking 
through in the Chateau.  She pondered that as the light grew brighter.
         She had to shield her eyes for a moment 
as she neared but the light resolved into 
something familiar.  Before her was a grey-stone 
room with a devotional altar to Akkala.  On it 
rested a man who looked like a raccoon.  Kayla’s 
heart skipped a beat as she ran to his side and 
buried her face against his chest.  Though 
sleeping and emaciated, she still recognized her lover Rickkter.
         “Oh, Rick!  It’s me!” She grabbed him by 
the shoulders and shook ever so gently. “Oh 
please, Rick.  We’re here at the Chateau.  We’ve 
defeated all the Marquis’s allies.  Surely you must be awake by now!”
         But his countenance remained flat and 
lifeless.  As she stared through her tears, she 
began to wonder how it was she’d come back to 
Metamor.  Turning behind her, the darkness from 
whence she’d come was gone.  Everything around 
her carried the weight of familiarity with 
it.  Except there was something she couldn’t put 
a claw on that felt missing.  Rickkter would have known what it was.
         And then she had a sudden certainty that 
the power to lift the pall of sleep from Rickkter 
was already within her.  Kayla felt herself 
blossom with that knowledge, and her paws lifted 
to rest on his chest.  A cold fire spread down 
her black-furred arms and radiated through the 
raccoon’s bare chest.  Her breath caught in her 
throat when she saw his eyelids flicker.
         His head turned and he stared at her 
with tired eyes.  His muzzle opened as if to 
speak but nothing came out.  His whole body, 
though it moved, seemed drained.  His actions 
more the mechanical workings of a machine than a 
man.  Kayla pressed more firmly on his chest as 
if she could imbue him with all that he lacked.
         Her heart thudded against her rib cage 
as her eyes watered staring at her unkempt lover 
trying to stir.  His fur was bedraggled and she 
could see through the pelt to the dark skin 
beneath.  His bleary eyes blinked at her and she 
could only press more firmly against his chest, 
willing whatever power she had to make him rise.
         And then something changed.  It was 
faint at first, like a subtle shift in the 
wind.  It reminded her of the feeling when a door 
holding back the draft was opened somewhere 
nearby in the Keep.  But the effects of this 
change were sudden.  Rickkter’s face contracted 
and his skin sank even tighter against the 
bones.  Kayla felt a flush of energy filling her, 
and strange ideas and knowledge polluting her mind.
         “No!” She tried to take her paws from 
his chest but some force held them in 
place.  Second by second she watched the raccoon 
wither like drapes left to mildew.  His fur 
drained to fetid grey and fell off in 
patches.  His jowls drew back like rotten melon 
rinds to expose his pale fangs.  Kayla screamed 
as this undead thing she had so loved lifted an 
arm and scraped her chest with desiccated claws.

         As soon as Jerome threw the latch, the 
floor beneath James’s hooves shot upward like a 
dagger thrust into a pillow.  The donkey fell 
backwards landing on his tail and banging the 
back of his head against hard wood.  Wood?  He 
blinked and rubbed the back of his head as he shifted into a sitting position.
         Even before he was able to banish the 
stars from his eyes his nose told him that he 
wasn’t in the Chateau anymore.  In fact, he knew 
the place before all the shapes around him 
resolved into clarity.  He sat with hindquarters 
planted on wood in a room with living wood walls, 
wood ceiling, and several wood furnishings.  Only 
the hearth built into the far wall and which was 
crackling with the familiar warmth of a winter 
fire was not made from wood.  The couches, 
tables, armour tree, and door were all so well known.
         Somehow, he found himself in the 
Matthias home at Glen Avery.  He turned when he 
heard the sound of voices.  A bit of feminine 
laughter followed by the tenor chitter of an 
amused rat.  The donkey climbed to his hooves, 
his body trembling with an anger he hadn’t known 
himself capable of.  Ears turning toward the 
sound, he followed it to the tapestry covering 
the entrance to Charles and Kimberly’s bedroom.
         Only it wasn’t Kimberly on the bed with 
his friend.  Instead Charles and Bearle lay 
entwined on the bed, bodies pressed together in 
coquetish foreplay.  The donkey’s lips frothed 
and his brows fell forward with an uncontrollable 
rage.  How dare they do this to him!  He drew his sword.

         Guernef saw only a bright flash of light 
when the latch fell.  Abafouq had stood before 
him, but as his vision cleared it was a different 
Binoq that he watched.  A monolith rose from the 
stony floor of the cavernous 
expanse.  Qorfuu.  The monolith bore names 
chiselled into the stone before being scratched 
out.  His heart tightened in his chest as he 
watched the Binoq lift one hand to the stone and 
then turn to leave.  Misery consumed them both.
         It should have taken the Binoq hours, 
but the city disappeared around them and they 
were in one of the tunnels leading to the 
mountain tops.  The Binoq shook with tears and 
crumpled into one corner of the cave.  Guernef 
limped closer and rested a wing on the little 
man’s back, but the Binoq didn’t seem to feel 
it.  Guernef nudged him with his beak to get him 
moving again, trying somehow to convey without 
words that comfort would come.  But they stayed there for a very long time.
         And then the cave was gone and the Binoq 
trudged along a small path hugging the side of a 
slender peak in the snowy wastes of the Tabinoq 
range.  Guernef followed him down the path, eyes 
staring at the Binoq and wondering things that 
had not come to him in years.  He repeatedly 
tried to remind himself that he was supposed to 
be at the Chateau Marzac, but worries of that 
dark place kept slipping away like a particularly slimy fish.
         The Binoq now walked across a hauntingly 
pellucid field of snow and ice between a circle 
of crags that watched with the eyes of 
camouflaged Nauh-kaee.  Guernef marvelled at this 
his only second time seeing the ancient path of 
the sky.  His eyes returned to the Binoq and felt 
a rush of warm delight as the mystery overcame 
him.  A hatchling Nauh-kaee crawled from his 
place to be tended by the elders who’d approved of him.
         Guernef felt somebody at his side and 
his whole body burned with desire.  Abafouq was 
there, the tears turned to ice along his 
cheeks.  Despite himself, the Nauh-kaee spread 
his wing behind his friend and pushed him 
forward.  Abafouq shook his head and in his 
heart, Guernef knew he could force no one to 
tread the skyway.  Yet still he pushed and forced 
his friend onto that brilliant plane.
         “No!” Abafouq shouted as he fell to all 
fours.  His body swelled with the mystery and his 
heavy furs stretched and tore. “You will not make me yours!”
         Guernef felt a snap in his mind like a 
great boulder shattering as it clattered to the 
bottom of a gorge.  He drew back a step as 
Abafouq’s lips sealed behind a black beak.  The 
eyes burned crimson instead of gold.  Guernef 
stumbled as he walked backward, his wounded leg 
buckling beneath him.  What had become of his 
friend rose up on his swelling hindquarters and slashed with vicious talons.
         Guernef screeched in agony and jumped 
off the plateau and down into the pit.  Ice cold 
air hammered through his feathers as he fell into 
a cleft between the mountains which had no end.

         Andares felt an invisible hand smack him 
backwards as the bolt slid into place.  He flew 
several feet and then his back crashed into a 
wooden wall.  He fell forward and landed in a 
chair.  The Åelf was sitting as it were at a 
table in a brightly lit establishment.  Food was 
being served by human women in mercantile dress, 
while around his table several men he didn’t 
recognize engaged in simple conversation over plates of stew.
         Andares blinked and looked around.  He 
quickly recognized the place as the Lake’s Head 
Inn in Bozojo where once he’d stayed on his way 
to deliver a message for Qan-af-årael.  There 
behind a long counter was the short and bald 
proprietor, a one Benlan Rais.  He was cleaning 
dishes with a well-used rag while listening to 
some adventurer describe his journey of the past days.
         “So what do you think of the 
arrangement?” one of the three men asked him.  He 
was swarthy with receding black hair and a 
quivering right eye. “Does it satisfy?”
         Andares stared at the man and opened his 
mouth. “I am not sure I understand you.  What is 
this arrangement of which you speak?”
         The man snorted, clearly irritated by 
Andares’s ignorance. “Why the entire purpose in 
coming here, Andares!  You have wares to trade and so do we!”
         It then dawned on him exactly what had 
come to pass.  After his stay here the previous 
year, Andares had always taken a liking to the 
Lake’s Head Inn.  Far humbler than anything that 
could be found in Ava-shavåis, it was also more 
active and appealed to his youthful sense of 
urgency.  And somehow, once inside the Chateau 
proper, it was giving him that which he’d always 
secretly harbored a desire for — a normal relationship with humans.
         Knowing this, he knew he needed to find 
some way free of this illusion.  Yet despite 
himself he felt a smile twitch the corners of his 
lips and a nod come to his head.  Words passed 
over his tongue unbidden. “Ah, of course.  Pardon 
my distraction, but a thought came to me 
unrelated to our discussion.  I fear it prevented 
me from hearing the last of what you said.  Could 
you repeat it that way we both understand each other?”
         Benlan Rais, or the shade masquerading 
as the Innkeeper, walked over to their table with 
a hearty grin and a key in his hands. “Pardon my 
intrusion, Master Andares, but your usual room 
has been prepared.  Here is your key.” It was 
large and fashioned from iron.  Even its cool 
touch brought no concern to his forcefully placid heart.
         The smile brushed his lips again and he 
took the key and folded it into his tunic. “Thank 
you, Master Rais.  I always enjoy my stays at your fine establishment.”
         The Innkeeper strode back to his bar 
with the gait of an accomplished man.  The 
merchants resumed detailing their arrangement and 
Andares couldn’t help but think it eminently 
fair.  A band of musicians began to play a rather 
bawdy tune in the other corner.  The scent of 
meats, ale, and good cheer surrounded him.
         Inside, Andares struggled vainly to find 
a way out of Marzac’s torpor.  But on his face 
was a smile of purest simplicity.

         The latch fell and Charles stumbled on 
his paws as the ground shook with such violence 
that it took all his training as a Sondeck to 
stay standing.  The entire castle began 
collapsing around them.  He tried to reach out 
for James but a huge boulder crashed between 
them.  The rat felt his heart tense in his chest, 
but he saw no blood beneath the stone.  And then 
a rock came hurtling toward his head.
         The rat jumped to one side and then 
crawled between two stones wedged against each 
other.  He could always shrink down even further 
if he had to.  But as soon as he passed between 
the stones the quake ceased.  He lifted his head 
in surprise and banged it against the rock.  He 
rubbed his head with one paw while crawling 
out.  But he didn’t find the ruins of the 
Chateau.  Instead, he stared at a grassy plain 
with very familiar mountains rising over a 
forested valley.  His jaw hung agape as he stared 
at Metamor Valley.  He didn’t know quite where in 
the Valley, but he knew that was where he was.
         “How...” he said, and looked around but 
none of his friends were there.  And then a pair 
of voices cried out for him from down the sward.
         “Charles!” his wife Kimberly 
cried.  Their wetnurse Baerle joined their voices 
in that same name a moment later.
         The rat felt his heart leap in his 
chest.  He ran across the grassy knoll — 
shouldn’t it be covered in snow this time of the 
year? — and flung his arms about the both of 
them.  Tears streamed from their eyes as they 
kissed all three and collapsed against the 
hillside. “Oh how I’ve missed you,” he said and 
wrapped his arms about Kimberly’s neck and pulled 
her close.  With his other arm he pulled Baerle in for a hug too.
          “As have we,” Kimberly said in her soft 
soprano. “But now we never have to be apart again.”
         “I know,” he said with relief.
         “We’ll all be one flesh in stone with 
you,” Baerle replied, sliding her legs against his.
         He blinked in surprise at that comment, 
and ten looked down at their legs.  All six legs 
were entwined together and as he watched, 
Kimberly and Baerle’s foot paws began to slide 
into his.  The familiar coolness of granite crept 
up from his toes and across his ankles and 
shin.  That same stone began to swallow his Lady Kimberly and also the opossum.
         He tried to object and to control the 
stone, but Kimberly put her fingers over his 
muzzle, brushing her claw against his incisors. 
“Hush my sweet.  You will be a mountain.  We will be a mountain together.”
         And even as she spoke he saw their stony 
legs sinking into the earth and stretching 
outward.  The grass shifted and began to cover 
their massive frame as the three of them grew 
ever more one.  Charles shook his head repeatedly 
even as he felt their roots dig deep into the 
earth.  So many other voices and presences came 
to him, so many things that he didn’t know but 
felt.  The stone covered their faces and he 
watched as both Baerle and Kimberly’s forms 
eroded into separate cliff faces adorning his 
peak.  And that peak grew and grew up into the 
sky until he could see past the mountains to the 
plains of the Midlands and beyond.  The stars in 
their nightly passage had to veer to avoid striking his summit.
         Charles tried to shake all of the stone 
free, but his growth was done and he could move 
no more.  Even Kimberly and Baerle, though their 
presence was ever more part of him, were no 
longer distinct from him.  His thoughts ground 
the ages and crushed minerals to gems.  They were 
not accustomed to being stone and were crushed 
beneath him into deposits of the finest metals.
         Alone, covered by grass, trees, moss, 
and tens of thousands of animals, the mountain wept.

         It was all illusion.  Qan-af-årael knew 
this the moment the latch dropped and he stood in 
his tower in Ava-shavåis.  Knowing and breaking 
were two different things, and as he strode 
around the room noting the intricate details from 
the murals adorning every wall to the position of 
each chair including the one with only a single 
arm, he found no flaw in the Chateau’s legerdemain.
         He strode with calm grace to the balcony 
overlooking the mighty Åelfwood and stared up 
into the sky.  It should be night already if he 
were truly in Ava-shavåis but a blue sky met 
him.  The sun shone behind him and he could see 
by the length of his tower’s shadow that it was 
midmorning.  And by the shadow’s direction that 
it was Summer rather than Winter.  The middle of August in fact.
         Qan-af-årael glanced down the length of 
his tower and saw something else that didn’t 
belong.  Running through the trees were gossamer 
ivory roads that he’d never seen.  One of them 
connected to his antechamber below.  Curious, he 
descended the spiralling steps and found an 
arched portal from his tower shaped like two 
trees whose branches mingled into the 
keystone.  The road disappeared into the branches 
adorned with leaves of every shade green.  The 
only support he could see was against his tower.
         Nevertheless, he felt no fear in 
stepping onto the finely wrought road.  The 
ivory, though carved into intricate filigree no 
thicker than a oak leaf, did not bend under his 
weight.  Qan-af-årael passed into the boughs 
which grew in and through the road.  Behind him 
his tower vanished in the midst of the arboreal 
canopy.  He felt the air change and grow cooler with each step.
         The trees broke before him and he saw a 
vast endless expanse of forest.  It stretched all 
along the base of the Barrier Range.  The varied 
Midlands he’d known filled with farms and 
villages were now but part of the great wood.  He 
continued to walk and noted the long lost city of 
Yerebey standing in the midst of a great 
confluence of maple and ash.  Music rose and the 
leaves danced with every melancholy note turned 
triumphant.  The road branched with one fork 
leading into Yerebey and the other further 
west.  He did not pause but took the western 
path, one ear listening to the music as he walked.
         As Qan-af-årael continued on the road 
perched upon the air, he noted places where the 
forest canopy broke to reveal cities or 
rivers.  Only the rivers remained in his own 
time.  The cities were Åelvish but unknown to 
him.  The road forked into each, but with each 
step on the main branch he seemed to traverse 
leagues.  Eventually the road curved northwards 
through the Metamor Valley.  It too was a place 
of ancient woods and majestic cities of his own 
people.  The castle e had only ever seen in 
pictures and in dreams sparkled resplendent upon 
its bluff.  Yet he was equally certain that none 
of the Metamorians that he had accompanied these past three months lived there.
         After leaving the valley the road turned 
east through what were known as the 
Giantdowns.  Even into that barren northern land 
the forests of his people had invaded, turning 
the vast tundra into an eternal Spring.  Dark 
mountains sprang up in their midst, but even from 
that menacing crag towers of finest obsidian had 
been carved, casting back the pall its otherwise 
detestable character brought it.
         The road carried him over snowy 
mountains into which small copses of forest had 
sprung up.  More cities, more of his kind, and 
nothing of any other came with each step.  The 
path turned into the Vysehrad mountains and he 
saw Carethedor thronged with life that had not 
existed in a thousand years.  And then the road 
turned west again and crossed a land flat but for 
the undulating heights of the trees that made it home.
         Qan-af-årael walked on ignoring the many 
cities and rivers and trees that kept all locked 
in that pristine moment that his city 
preserved.  The road had begun at his tower and 
had circled over the whole of Galendor.  Yet it 
now led inexorably southwest.  With grim 
certainty, the ancient Åelf began to understand just what this illusion was.
         Undeterred, he continued walking toward 
the infinitely majestic and invincibly powerful 
city of Yajakali’s dreams — Jagoduun.

         Lindsey did not object when Habakkuk put 
his paw on his shoulder.  In truth, the 
kangaroo’s close presence was comforting.  And 
when Jerome threw the latch and everyone else 
disappeared, it was the only thing that remained.
         “Where did they go?” Lindsey asked, 
lifting one leg to take a step toward the now shut door.
         Habakkuk grabbed him by both shoulders 
and tugged him back. “Don’t!  It’s all illusion.”
         Lindsey half-turned and saw a look of 
blind panic in the Felikaush’s eyes.  It was a 
look he had only seen a few times before, and 
each time, the northerner knew that his only 
means of salvation was to trust his friend and 
former lover. He slowly nodded his head, heart 
still beating like a war drum in his chest. “Then where are they?”
         “Somewhere,” Habakkuk replied, the look 
in his eyes fading a little.  He slid his paws 
down Lindsey’s arms and tightly clasped his 
hands.  Rough callused fingers met abrasive paw 
pads, short russet fur, and narrow claws. 
“Somewhere in the Chateau.  We’re all inside 
now.  We are all under its sway.  As long as we 
touch each other it cannot separate us.”
         Lindsey threaded his fingers through the 
kangaroo’s and then narrowed his eyes. “If you 
knew that, why didn’t you warn everyone else?”
         A look of unutterably misery came to 
Habakkuk’s face.  His ears drooped to his neck 
and his long tail fell to the floor. “I felt like 
I should touch you, but I didn’t understand why 
until now.” He snarled and added, “Like so many 
of my visions, their meaning only becomes clear 
once it is too late to do anything about it!”
         It wasn’t much, but the northerner knew 
it was all he could expect. “So, where do we go now?”
         Habakkuk half turned and pointed to a 
set of stairs descending beneath the opposite 
wall.  Lindsey almost let go of the kangaroo’s 
paw so surprised was he by their sudden 
appearance. “Down.  Down to the Chamber of Unearthly Light.”
         Lindsey swallowed heavily and the two 
walked hand in paw toward the dark set of stairs.

----------


May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias