[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LX

[C. Matthias]

Greetings all!  I am now going to begin posting 
the edited version of my most recent chaptes 
beginning with Chapter 60.  Not much has changed 
in this chapter florm what it was before, but all 
those past this will see slight changes (scenes moved, added, etc...).

I will post the new material as I finished a cursory edit.

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LX

The Jungle


         Metamor looked much as it had the last 
time Murikeer had seen it, the crowds little 
different than any other city but for the 
singular variety given solely to the Cursed 
kingdom.  A pair of Warden’s gave him and 
Kozaithy a cursory glance as they passed through 
the Euper gate and gazed upon the main boulevard 
through Keeptowne, the town that crowded into the 
walls of the castle’s outer ward.
         Much of the destruction that Murikeer 
remembered had been removed, repaired, or 
entirely replaced.  Even in the cool of the early 
winter afternoon the work continued.  Murikeer 
wove his way through scaffolding and bearers 
carrying freshly hewn lumber to shore up repairs 
before winter hit in earnest.  He saw no one he 
recognized directly though a few did offer a 
brief nod of familiarity before moving on without 
addressing him.  Kozaithy took a different path 
upon arriving at Euper explaining that she needed 
to tell her friends, those that had survived the 
fall of Bradanes and followed her lead to the 
healing, and Curse, of Metamor Keep, that she had 
taken on a new service.  While not noble of birth 
or official station many of those who had 
followed her fanciful story of a cure for their 
ailment looked to her as a replacement for the 
Lady Bradanes, and her daughter, both of whom had 
perished before reaching Metamor.  Only the Lord 
Bradanes had survived but claimed no nobility for 
himself despite the assertion of his people to 
continue following him.  The refugees had taken 
up a large section of Euper that had received 
some of the greatest damage during the winter 
attack the previous year and had been steadily 
returning it to a state of livability ever since.
         They had agreed to meet at the fully 
repaired Deaf Mule, of which Kozaithy was 
familiar but had never entered, at the seventh hour.
         Thus Murikeer passed below the great 
archway and entered the First Hall, or what 
passed for it that day, and paused to look 
around.  Past the throngs coming and going on 
their various duties he saw that the gray stones 
of the Keep showed no scars from the wars that 
had scored it during the last decade.  The arcade 
of kings stretched away toward the high dais, the 
stone kings standing silent sentinel over all 
that had come after them.  Murikeer paused before 
Ovid I and stared up at the visage that he had 
last looked upon as a half-destroyed bust riven 
by the bolt of energy that had taken the life of 
his first love, the mink Llyn who called herself 
Joy.  He recalled well the words that he threw at 
her in the heartbeats before the magic intended 
to slay him passed to her and shattered many of 
the statues now lining the Arcade of Kings unscarred by their destruction.
         Would that Llyn had been so easily repaired.
         He pondered shattering the statue anew, 
but only for a moment, and moved on.  The 
brightness of the sunlight streaming in through 
the open doors of the Keep gave way to the deeper 
gloom of the myriad corridors that punctured the 
ancient stonework of the Keep like the warrens of 
a rat’s nest.  “Hello, Metamor.  Hello, 
Kyia.”  He said at some length as he paused in a 
small courtyard thick with the denuded twigs of summer topiary.
         “Hello, Findahl.  Welcome home.” Came 
the reply, a whisper on a breeze that could never 
have reached the courtyard by the mere vagaries 
of nature.  No speaker presented themselves but 
Murikeer knew the quiet feminine voice of 
Kyia.  He nodded with a smile and continued his 
journey with a shift of the small satchel hung over his shoulder.
         He in a short while came to the door to 
the infirmary and pushed it open.  Behind the 
ancient, well work desk the healer Coe looked up 
at his arrival and quirked his ears forward in 
curiosity.  “Hello, Muri.  I haven’t seen you in 
a coon’s age.”  He smiled at his pun and stood to 
come out from behind the desk while smoothing the 
equally age worn smock he wore.  “How is your eye?”
         “I took a long journey, master 
Coe.”  Murikeer crossed to offer the healer a 
handshake with a smile of his own.  “My eye 
continues to pain me, but it does not fester so badly as it did when I left.”
         “If you’re willing to stay a short while 
I would like to take a look at it.  What brings 
you?”  He turned slightly to motion at one of the 
untenanted chairs.  One of the caretakers stepped 
out of a recovery room, a white Persian cat 
Murikeer knew by appearance but not by name.  She 
glanced to Coe and his visitor and curtsied 
briefly before carrying out a stack of dirty 
linen.  Murikeer returned the greeting with a nod 
of his head while he crossed to the chair and sat 
down.  Coe stepped up close and gently drew the 
leather eyepatch that covered Murikeer’s ravaged 
left eye, his whiskers twitching at the fetid 
odor that escaped despite the skunk’s best efforts to magically subdue it.
         “I came to see if a companion of mine 
was here, I heard he took an injury during the 
summer and was still recovering.”  Murikeer sat 
stolidly while Coe carefully removed the ball of 
herbs and muslin that Murikeer changed every day 
to keep the scarred socket clean and shaped 
properly to prevent the collapse of the soft 
tissues surrounding the empty hole.  He stifled a 
wince at the familiar jab of pain attendant to 
every manipulation of his injury.  Compared to 
the crushing ache that struck him every time he 
worked magic it was a pittance.  If anything his 
pain tolerance had climbed considerably in the past year.
         “It looks healthy enough, for an injury 
of this nature.  It still refuses to heal?”  Coe 
set aside the fetid ball of dark stained muslin 
and leaned closer to examine the empty orb 
studiously.  “What friend?  I’ve none here that 
would be so long in recovery.”  After a lengthy 
visual examination he walked to a nearby table 
neatly arranged with all manner of instruments 
and bandaging to pick up a few small implements and fresh muslin.
         “The raccoon mage Rickkter.”
         Coe favoured him with a flat stare over 
his shoulder for a moment before collecting the 
last of the tools he wished to use and returned, 
handing several of them wrapped in a muslin 
square for Murikeer to hold.  “He is not being 
kept here.”  Using a pair of slender picks he 
touched about very delicately within the cavity 
of Murikeer’s empty socket.  Murikeer suffered 
the stings and jabs of lancing pain with only the 
slightest hitching of his breath while Coe prized 
out a few bits and pieces of dead tissue and 
wiped them deftly with a bit of muslin he 
held.  “Physically there is nothing I could do for him anyway.”
         “What manner of injuries did he suffer 
then?  Where is he being cared for?”  Murikeer 
held up the bundle of bandages and tools to let 
Coe give and take what he required.  The 
collection of detritus upon the first square of 
bandaging quickly soiled it beyond usefulness and 
Coe tossed it into a nearby basket to use another.
         “In body, nothing by this point.  The 
Lothanasa Raven mended many of his physical 
injuries and once those her magic did not mend 
had healed sufficiently she had him moved to her 
Temple.”  Retrieving a pitcher of clean water and 
pipette he returned and gently rinsed the injured 
flesh.  The fresh bandage quickly became as 
tainted as the first but with a more healthy red 
of fresh blood rather than the ichorous black of dead flesh.
         “How was he injured?”  Murikeer hissed 
at the chill of the cold water icing its way 
through his skull.  Coe set aside the pipette and 
began preparing a new muslin replacement to fill his wound.
         “How came you to know he was injured in 
the first place, Murikeer?  I take it you’ve only 
recently returned from whatever travels you 
endured?”  Picking through small ceramic vessels 
of herbs and unguents Coe began blending them in 
a pestle.  “I am not terribly sure how much I can tell you.”
         Murikeer nodded and watched the 
preparation.  “I returned two days ago.  Some 
mutual friends told me that he had received some 
grievous injuries defending the Duke from some assassins?”
         Coe delicately balled the mixture into a 
muslin-wrapped bundle and returned to carefully 
work it into the freshly cleaned socket of 
Murikeer’s missing eye.  The pain was sharp and 
intense and caused Murikeer to hiss despite his 
best efforts to withstand the pain.  “By the by, 
yes, as accurate an explanation as I could give 
you.  For more you might have to speak with the 
Duke himself, he has forbade overmuch loose talk 
concerning the event.”  Satisfied that his work 
was secure he lightly replaced the skunk’s eye patch.
         “I will go speak with Raven and look in on him, then.”
         “How close a friend is he?”
         “I am a mage, as you know.  He was my master.”
         “Ah.  Hopefully the Lightbringer will be 
able to enlighten you better than I can, I’m sorry.”
         “Thanks anyway, master Coe.  Should I 
come by more often for you to examine my own 
healing?  I’m afraid it’s not something any magic or divine touch can remedy.”
         “If you’ve been travelling for the last 
half year without incident I don’t think I could 
do a great deal more than you have done yourself, lad.”
         Murikeer stood and laughed ruefully, 
“Oh, there have been incidents, my 
friend.  Sometime I will have to tell you about 
some of the interesting adventures my friends and 
I stumbled into in our travels.”
         Coe clapped him on the shoulder and 
accompanied him to the door, “Over a pint of 
juice at the Mule, perhaps, where I can enjoy a 
good yarn without being interrupted by someone 
with a wrenched claw or skinned knee.”

----------

         By nightfall the plains between the 
walls of Masyor and the armies of Mallow Horn 
were emptied and quiet.  The grass had been 
tracked into mud already but the main roads were 
still clear.  Upon the foremost of these Duke 
Titian Verdane pitched his meeting tent.
         The tent was made from a brilliant 
scarlet weave and from each pole flew a wolf 
silhouette pinion.  Ten large poles arranged in a 
fat rectangle supported the fabric and between 
them a long table had been placed with one of 
Verdane’s thrones at its head.  Another twelve 
shorter poles stood off to each side to allow for 
servants and soldiers to keep watch.  Only a 
single entrance existed with a foyer through 
which only Verdane’s guests, soldiers, and servants could pass.
         From each pole a lamp had been 
hung.  Verdane sat with regal stiffness while his 
Castellan Sir Malcolm Royce stood at his right 
with burly arms crossed.  Fidgeting with his 
spectacles, Apollinar his Steward occupied the 
space at his left.  They were symbols of his 
position and his power.  Both superior military 
might and their feudal lord would be before them this night.
         Food had been brought; bread, meat, and 
wine from Verdane’s own stores.  Another reminder 
to both besieger and besieged that their wares 
would run out in time if they continued the folly 
of their feud.  Seated in a lounge between two of 
the large poles was his daughter Anya.  His 
vassals sat at the table quietly eating, watching 
and waiting.  Several times Thrane leaned forward 
as if to whisper something to Stoffels, but his 
eyes would flick to Grenholt who sat at his side 
and he’d stuff a morsel in his mouth instead.
         Verdane’s interest in them was only that 
they didn’t decide to scheme against him here 
where he was vulnerable.  The Wolf’s Claw guarded 
the tent along with two squads of pikemen, but 
against an entire army they could easily be 
slain.  One more reason for keeping all of his vassals here under his thumb.
         The first of the feuding lords to arrive 
was Lord Guilford of Masyor.  He was a modestly 
built man, though with strength in every sinew of 
his body.  As a young man he’d worked the 
fisheries alongside his subjects, a fact that 
blistered and callused his hands.  He bore a 
freshly cleaned green doublet bearing the issuant 
osprey of Masyor.  Judging by his still wet hair, 
the lakeland lord had taken a bath before coming to the tent.
         Verdane didn’t stand. “Lord Anson 
Guilford,” Apollinar said in his loudest of 
voices. “Take the seat at his grace’s right.  As 
these are your lands the place of honour at the Duke’s table is yours.”
         Guilford scowled at the other lords, 
quickly passing them by to kneel before Verdane. 
“Your grace.  Thank you for coming to my people’s aid.”
         Verdane’s stony expression remained. “I 
have done no such thing, Anson.  If I must I will 
level your castle myself.  Sit.”
         A slight ripple passed through the man’s 
form as he rose and sat.  He eyed Anya 
suspiciously as she reclined with equal 
imperturbability as her father, but said 
nothing.  He sampled the bread and sipped the wine.
         A few minutes later the besieging lord 
made his entrance.  Lord William Dupré bore a 
mail shirt beneath his ram’s head blue 
tabard.  His boots had brown smears where he’d 
scraped mud off.  His hearty face was set in a 
angry-line, dark eyes scowling as they swept over 
each of the assembled lords.  They practically 
steamed when they beheld Guilford.  But it was 
only when they caught sight of his wife on the couch that he gave into rage.
         “How dare you, your grace, bring my wife 
here for this!  She has no place in this 
tent!  You are using her against me and that is 
unconscionable!” William frothed at the lips and beat his fist into the table.
         Sir Malcolm Royce lowered one hand to 
the pommel of his sword.  His eyes never left 
William.  Verdane lifted one hand and said in a 
severe tone, “She is my daughter and goes where I 
wish it.  She is here for two reasons.  She will 
witness our discussions here, and she acts as surety for your behaviour.”
         William blanched. “You threaten your own daughter?”
         “My daughter?  Hardly!  It is not her 
person that I hold in surety, but your marriage 
to her.” At that Anya sat up.  Her worried eyes 
met William’s and she moved her lips as if to 
speak.  William seethed but nodded.
         “Lord William Dupré of Mallow Horn,” 
Apollinar intoned as if the earlier outburst had 
never occurred. “Please take the seat at his grace’s left and he will begin.”
         Dupré did as asked.  He glared across 
the table at Guilford, but unless he decided to 
throw his wine glass or a slab of mutton, he had 
nothing with which to strike.  The table was wide 
enough that neither of them could reach each 
other even if they stretched.  Guilford did his 
best not to look at Dupré, but every time his 
eyes slipped a fierce anger churned within them.
         “I have come to put an end to this 
feud,” Duke Titian Verdane said.  He did not move 
arm or leg, only his tongue as he spoke. “You 
have squabbled for too long, and have incited my 
vassals into rebellion against me.  Both of you.” 
He turned his head an inch to the right. “Lord 
Guilford, you flagrantly ignored my command to 
rebuild the bridges downstream from the 
lake.  Your forces have torched farms and 
villages within Mallow Horn’s fief.  Your actions 
have crippled a portion of the harvest in the 
Southern Midlands and will lead to hunger and 
starvation this winter in many cities including your own.”
         He then turned his head an inch to the 
left and let his eyes of iron bore into the 
unrepentant face of William Dupré. “You, Lord 
Dupré, allied yourself with fanatical Questioner 
priests and scoured your land for Lothanasi 
subjects.  You then had them murdered.  Not only 
did you violate my laws in these lands but also 
the laws of your faith.  The mandate of the 
Questioners does not extend without an order from 
the Council of Bishops over anyone who is not a Follower.”
         Verdane shifted his head back to regard 
both of them. “I hold these things against you 
and will render judgement.  But first, an 
order.  This siege is over.  When we have 
concluded everything, Lord Dupré will order all 
of his men to return home and his engineers to 
dismantle their towers.  Lord Guilford will 
release his soldiers to return to their farms and 
fisheries.  If I have to end this feud a second 
time your heads will join your flags atop your castle walls.”
         He leaned forward slightly. “Now that we 
have that established, you will tell me why you 
have done these things.  What are your 
grievances?  What do you want that I can 
give?  And what will you offer in reparations for your crimes?”
         Anson Guilford scowled but still refused 
to look at Dupré. “I want vengeance for my 
son.  One of his men killed my Lucat.  They 
hurled him off our tallest tower wrapped in a 
banner from Mallow Horn.  I will not be satisfied 
until I have blood for my son’s.”
         “I had nothing to do with it!” William 
snapped, eyes livid. “As much as I delight in 
there being one less Guilford to sully Galendor, 
I had nothing to do with the boy’s death.”
         “Liar!” Anson snapped. “The banner was unmistakable!”
         “Anyone could have placed it there who 
wished us to war against each other.  I tell you 
I did not kill that boy.” A sadistic smile grew 
on William’s lips. “If it had been me, it would 
have been you and your wife who were thrown from 
the tower.  I’d much rather fight a war against a 
weakling boy like that Lucat.”
         Anson leapt to his feet, his face 
purpling in apoplexy. “You... you... dare!”
         “Sit down,” Verdane said.
         “He’s a monster!”
         William leaned back and laughed.
         “Shut up and sit down.” Verdane 
repeated.  Sir Royce took two steps forward and 
put a mailed hand on Anson Guilford’s shoulder 
and shoved down.  The lord of Masyor, stout 
though he was, fell back to his seat with a 
strangled cry. Anson slowly turned back to Duke 
Verdane, though his cheeks still ran red. “Now,” 
Verdane added, “you attacked William’s lands 
after the death of Lucat.  What evidence do you 
have that it was Lord Dupré other than the 
banner?  Anyone who wished to sow discord in my 
lands could have placed it there knowing what you would do.”
         Anson took several seconds to 
breathe.  The colour left his cheeks slowly. “The 
Lothanas of Masyor consulted the gods in this 
matter.  They told him that a dark evil allied to Dupré killed my dear son.”
         “Nonsense!” Dupré snapped. “Your gods 
are but superstition and folly!  Even his grace does not believe in them!”
         “I do not worship them,” Verdane pointed 
out. “That is not the same thing.  Continue, 
Anson.  What did the gods have to say about this evil power?”
         Anson sat a little straighter in his 
chair, as if he sensed some small measure of 
victory in Verdane’s theological correction. “The 
evil came from the south.  A land called Marzac.” 
William fidgeted in his seat with a fierce 
scowl.  The other lords all watched with 
undisguised interest. “I’d never heard of it and 
all I’ve been able to learn since then is that it 
lies at the southern tip of the Pyralian 
Kingdoms.  That is a land said to be cursed but 
no one lives there so I can only assume it was brought here by William.”
         “What would I have to do with dark 
powers from cursed lands?” William snorted. “I 
have never been south of the Midlands!  Nor have 
any of my men!  This is preposterous.”
         “I will be the judge of that,” Verdane 
replied.  He turned back to the green-clad lord 
of Masyor. “So, what other evidence have you 
linking William Dupré to your son Lucat’s death?” 
The news of dark powers was disturbing and 
something Verdane would need to investigate on 
his own.  But that would have to come later.
         Anson pressed one fist to his chin and 
shook his head. “The banner and the Lothanas’s 
testimony are all that I needed.  My son was 
murdered.  I have the right for vengeance!”
         “You have not the right to plunge my 
lands into civil war,” Verdane replied 
coolly.  Anson opened his mouth to object, but 
Verdane shook his head. “I am through listening 
to you, Lord Guilford.  It is now Lord William 
Dupré’s turn to explain himself.” He let his eyes 
slide across the table to the blue-liveried 
noble.  The colour in William’s cheeks had 
finally faded, but the fire in his eyes was as 
strong as ever. “You have already denied having 
anything to do with Lucat’s murder, so do not 
bother saying it again.  But you have allied 
yourself with fanatical Questioners who’ve 
slaughtered several Lothanasi villages under my 
protection.  You have done far more than defend 
yourself from attack.  You have deliberately 
goaded my vassals to betray me.  What do you have to say for any of this?”
         William laced his fingers together and 
rested his hands on the table.  He leaned 
forward, a lop-sided smile gracing his lips. “I 
was attacked first.  It is only just that I seek 
out allies to destroy those who seek to destroy 
me.  His base of support has always been the 
Lothanasi in these lands.  It has become clear to 
me that as long as one of us lives this feud 
cannot end.  The one of us with the most allies 
will be the one to survive.  I was determined that it would be me.”
         Verdane noted William’s calm, but 
refused to be taken in by it. “Do you deny 
sending letters to Haethor, Ralathe, and Llarth 
requesting they send troops to aid you in your campaign?”
         “Why shouldn’t they help me?”
         Verdane took a deep breath. “They are my vassals, not yours.”
         “Why should that matter?  I asked for 
their aid, and at least Llarth did.  They weren’t 
cowed by you like those weaklings Thrane and 
Stoffels.” Thrane smiled like an idiot at that, 
while Stoffels fumed.  Verdane felt ill at 
ease.  Why would William speak ill of his 
would-be allies?  Did he have some hidden ally 
that Verdane didn’t know about? “You should have 
aided me too, your grace.  You are a 
Follower.  You’re lands will be stronger if they embrace a single faith.”
         “Pagans spread their false religion by 
the sword.  The Ecclesia does not!” Verdane cast 
a quick glance at Anson, but the lord of Masyor 
had sunk into a muttering torpor.  His eyes 
stared at something only he could see as he sat 
slumped in his chair.  Verdane glowered anew at 
William. “Those who would do so have lost hope 
and trust in Eli and are damning themselves.  And 
Thrane and Stoffels are my vassals.  They are not 
craven for doing as I say.  They are obedient and 
good servants who will be rewarded for coming to 
my aid.” He’d have to confess to lying about the 
craven bit later, but it would mollify them at least.
         “Are you suggesting I was wrong to defend myself?”
         “Slaughtering Lothanasi villages that do 
not even owe fealty to Masyor is not defending yourself.”
         William sneered. “Traitors!  They would 
stab me in the back.  They deserved to die.  And 
I’m glad I had them killed.  You may have stamped 
out the Questioners but they did their job very well.  I’m proud of them.”
         “Do you have then no justification for 
your actions other than you were attacked first?”
         William leaned back and stared down his 
nose at the Duke. “Why should I have to justify it at all?”
         Verdane swallowed the bile rising in his 
throat.  He spread his hands wide and pushed 
himself to his feet.  The other lords were quick 
to rise but William remained where he 
sat.  Haughty, he stretched his arms out and 
said, “You’ll thank me in the end, your grace.”
         “We are finished here tonight.” He could 
barely restrain the rage in his chest. “If anyone 
so much as thinks of striking the other I will 
decimate all of you.  The only way your heads 
will not decorate pig poles outside my tent is if 
you do nothing.  We will meet again tomorrow.” He 
finally turned and stared at William. “And if you 
do not get on your feet and show me proper 
respect, Lord Dupré, by the time I have finished 
speaking, your head will be rolling on the ground at my feet.”
         Dupré stood and brushed something off 
his tabard. “Forgive my impertinence, your 
grace.  But I am right.” He turned and stalked 
out of the tent.  The other lords watched him go 
with empty faces.  Even after he’d left they stood there dumbfounded.
         “If you will excuse me, I need time to 
think.  Please return to your tents.  I will 
summon you when I need you.  Lord Guilford, 
retire to your castle, but you will be expected 
tomorrow.” They each quickly left after making 
brief signs of obeisance.  Apollinar busied 
himself in one of the private enclosures within 
the tent, while Sir Royce stayed at his side a 
statue of coiled tension.  Anya rose to her feet, her eyes sullen and distant.
         “Anya,” he said. “You must talk with 
your husband.  I am very near to following through on my threats.”
         “Please, father,” she said, her voice 
faint.  He hadn’t hear her speak so plaintively 
since she’d been a girl. “Don’t kill him.  No 
matter what he has said or done, please spare his life.”
         Verdane wanted to grant mercy for his 
daughter’s sake, but if he hoped to save the 
Southern Midlands he was going to have to make an 
example of somebody, and William was asking to be 
the one.  He took a deep breath before daring to 
say anything. “That depends on him.  Speak with 
him and make him see reason.  I can understand 
where Lord Guilford is coming from.  But your 
husband acts like a madman, violently angry one 
moment and then contemptuous the next.”
         Anya licked her lips and nodded. “I will 
speak with him.  Good night, father.”
         He watched her leave the tent.  Her gait 
was stiff and formal.  He sighed heavily, 
lowering his eyes to the table.  Beside him he 
could feel Sir Royce relaxing. “Do you think she’ll succeed, your grace?”
         “I hope she does.  It’s all gone, 
Malcolm.  Everything I’ve ever tried to build in 
my life is slipping through my fingers.”
         Royce grunted. “You’ll get it back.  Jaime will come back to you.”
         Verdane lifted his eyes to the tent 
flap, but they were down and unmoving.  Beyond he 
could imagine the executioner and his 
axe.  Beneath it fell Dupré, Guilford, Calladar, 
and Otakar.  Their heads bounced into the mud and 
were crushed by wagon wheels and hooves.  It 
proved to be a satisfying dream.  “Jaime will 
come back to me.  And he better be alive.”
         Royce had nothing to say to that.

----------

         After a week of riding the Rheh Talaran 
over the swamp their golden steeds all abruptly 
came to land in a dry patch within a copse of 
cypress.  The day was not half over and the sun 
painfully blistered their exposed skin even 
though their speed kept them cool.  Once they 
landed the muggy air forced Charles and Kayla to 
pant like miserable beasts.  Even Habakkuk looked 
out of sorts with his muzzle hanging open with every breath.
         Several times the Keepers complained of 
the unbearable heat.  Since entering the swamp, 
Guernef’s thick plumage had begun shedding 
feathers in a disorderly array which Abafouq did 
his best to straighten each night.  Jerome and 
Charles had grown up knowing the heat of the 
desert but it was nothing compared to the murk of 
the Marzac swamps and jungle depths.  Clouds of 
mosquitos hovered over still algae-ridden ponds 
waiting for a foolish beast to come close that 
they might feed.  Mildew and fungus spread across 
every fallen log and even climbed like vines up 
tree trunks.  The trees were twisted with broad 
leaves that choked the sunlight but offered no 
solace.  Beasts that looked like logs lurked 
beneath the gangrenous surface of the water but 
attacked any who came near.  But knowing Steward 
Thalberg who looked much as they did, the Keepers 
knew to avoid them.  But that was only one peril 
out of hundreds that waited for them.
         And now the Rheh who had carried them 
over so much of the danger would go no further.
         After they set down between the cypress 
trees, their riders glanced in confusion at each 
other.  Guernef glided down behind them and shook 
out his neck feathers.  James was the first to 
find his voice.  He leaned forward in his saddle 
and brushed one hand over the bell-shaped white 
mark on his Rheh’s forehead. “Why did we 
stop?  There’s a few hours of day left.”
         “We have come as far as they will go,” 
Qan-af-årael said as he dismounted. “It is time 
for us to say goodbye to our friends.”  So saying 
he ran one hand along his Rheh’s cheek.  The 
small stallion pressed his head into the Åelf’s 
hand affectionately, but would not lift his hooves.
         “Well, I guess we start walking,” 
Lindsey said as he climbed down. “I hope we don’t have far to go.”
         Jessica, who’d been riding with him, 
hopped to the ground and shifted into her 
human-sized form.  She stretched out her wings 
and wiggled the fingers at their tips. “It’s 
still swamp as far as I could see.”
         Lindsey wiped the sweat from his 
forehead and then swatted at something on the 
back of his neck. “Then we better move fast.  I hate this place.”
         “Try not to think ill thoughts,” Abafouq 
warned as he jumped to the ground from his 
mount.  The Binoq touched the charm at his neck 
with one finger and said, “The corruption of this 
land will use any pass to enter us.  We must give it no openings.”
         Lindsey nodded and wiped his forehead 
again.  The Rheh remained motionless while he and 
the others removed their equipment.  Charles 
resumed his six-legged form to carry the extra 
supplies, though they had to be careful not to 
crush the ivy that began exploring his lower 
back.  By the time they were finished, Charles 
realized that he’d never noticed the real weight 
while he’d been stone.  Despite his increased 
bulk and Sondecki strength, their gear was heavy!
         Once the Rheh were divested of the gear, 
they took a few heavy steps backwards in 
unison.  Their heads lowered and they as one fell 
to their front knees.  The cypress branches 
caught a breeze and their leaves brushed together 
in a soft whisper.  Words curled through their minds in a sibilant hush.

The wind calls and we must take heed
For now we return to the start.
No more shall Rheh play any part
In thy wondrous acts and deeds.

Goodbye again, the air is now foul.
Goodbye again, time has come to bend.
Goodbye again, the curtain now will rend.
Goodbye again, fear not evil’s growl.

Goodbye ancient one, the star’s child.
Goodbye lofty one, the wind’s song.
Goodbye hidden one, sorrow’s long.
Goodbye strong and mild, never wild.
Goodbye stone and vine, ever more thine.
Goodbye bell’s death cry, balm for mourn.
Goodbye woman gone, dragon born.
Goodbye man who knows, fate divine.
Goodbye eager son, know the night.
Goodbye strength in love, strike with might.
Goodbye soaring mage, last of light.
Goodbye rider’s well, key to fight.

The wind calls and we must take heed
For now we return to the start.
No more shall Rheh play any part
In thy wondrous acts and deeds.

         And then, even as they stared in wonder 
at the golden steeds, they rose to four hooves 
and leapt into the air.  Their hooves burned with 
iridescent flame as they streaked northwards 
passed the cypress and out of sight.  The ground 
where they’d once stood was charred black.
         None of them moved for several seconds 
as they pondered the words they’d heard.  Charles 
brushed his fleshy fingers across the vine 
growing over his chest and back.  Had the verse 
about the stone and vine been about him?  And 
what did they mean by “ever more thine?”
         Qan-af-årael approached the spot where 
the Rheh Talaran had been only moments 
before.  Andares followed him, their heads bowed 
and reverent.  His ancient form knelt slowly, and 
he pressed his lips to each of the scorch marks 
one by one.  Andares did as well.  Abafouq licked 
his lips as he watched and then gestured to the 
rest. “It is only right to give thanks for what they have done.”
         That was enough to break them from their 
torpor.  The ground was warm, soft, and seemed to 
kiss right back.  By the time they were done 
their backs didn’t even ache from bending over 
for so long.  Instead they felt eager and ready 
to continue on their way.  It was as if the Rheh 
had given them one last gift before leaving.
         With determined grins, the group marched 
past the row of cypress and into the swampy maze.

         The enthusiasm from their parting lasted 
them two days.  By the third day of travel the 
hostility of the swamp and the difficulties of 
making any headway began to wear on them and 
drive them to grumbling under their breaths.  The 
heat and thick air beat at them constantly.  So 
far to the south, the sun stayed up longer than 
the Keepers were used to seeing in 
December.  With it so hot they had to remind 
themselves that it was December!  The Yule 
celebrations were not long in coming.  Soon, it 
would be a year since Nasoj had launched his 
winter assault against Metamor in the middle of a raging blizzard.
         The only raging things they were going 
to find in the swamp were mosquitos and 
fever.  They’d seen enough of the former to last 
a lifetime and hoped they’d be spared the latter.
         But as they trekked through a 
particularly marshy section of the swamp, Charles 
began to understand what Abafouq had meant about 
the corruption.  As they continued south the firm 
land gave way from time to time to bogs.  The 
trees rose high overhead with their roots visible 
above the murky water.  They tried to make their 
way from tree to tree to find any land they 
could.  Their legs were soaked and their toes 
coated in slime that stank worse than the jungle 
did.  Bugs circled them, but Jessica’s repellant 
spell seemed to finally start working.  Either 
that or they stank too much even for the mosquitos.
         His situation was worse than the 
others.  While his four legs allowed him better 
traction through the muck, he was far heavier and 
sank more easily through the viscid water.  He 
frequently had to expend his Sondecki powers to 
push off some rotting log — he hoped they were 
logs — to get past deeper patches.
         But what he thought about to keep him 
going was his wife Kimberly.  He tried to 
remember every curve of her face, from the soft 
velvety ears, to the smooth silken fur on her 
cheeks, to the bright whiskers that framed her 
snout, to the dark solemnity of her eyes, and to 
the fulsome curl of her smile.  All these and 
more the rat brought to mind to distract him from 
their predicament.  He even pondered her soft, 
furless tail.  He imagined his paws running down 
its slender length; he savored the feeling of the 
warm flesh twisting and turning at his touch.
         Soon he progressed past Kimberly’s face 
to her whole body.  He saw she dressed in a 
variety of outfits.  First she wore her working 
clothes from her days in the Keep’s 
kitchens.  Then she bore a green evening gown 
that complimented the soft tan of her fur.  Then 
he saw her reclining demurely in the matronly 
dress she bore while pregnant.  And then she lay 
stretched across their bed without any clothes on at all.
         Charles plunged forward through the 
swamp, smiling to himself as he pondered the 
visage of his wife spreading herself before him 
and for him.  He feasted upon that image, wishing 
he could more than just look.  He yearned to 
reach out his paws and stroke her soft fur from 
thigh to breast to cheek and back again.  Just 
imagining her face filled him with an urgency he 
didn’t dare contemplate while in his rattaur form.
         And then another body climbed onto the 
bed.  Clad in nothing, her paws coquettishly 
covering her breasts, breasts that fed his 
children, was the opossum Baerle.  She smiled at 
him, sharp teeth peeking out from beneath her 
white-furred jowls.  Her dark eyes glinted with 
reflected lamplight.  Her long furless tail 
curled at like a finger beckoning him 
closer.  And with her arms she entwined herself 
with Kimberly on the bed, the two of them opening 
themselves to him, inviting and sultry.
         And then he was there upon them 
both.  His paws groped at their flesh, 
indiscriminate as to who he touched.  Every 
desire in his body was fulfilled by them, their 
faces fading from all that he once knew.  They 
were not women but bodies of his desire.  The rat 
felt immense pleasure suffocate him.  It seemed 
to fade for a moment, and a question came to 
him.  Not so much a question as a 
proposition.  This could be his if he opened 
himself to something else, something that made 
him yearn to scream.  At his frightened refusal 
the pleasing figures vanished into an agony of darkness.
         Charles snapped open his eyes and 
shuddered, staring fixedly at the long coursing 
vine that grew amidst a plethora of strange ferns 
and water lilies.  He noted the distorted yellow 
blossoms whose petals and stamen reminded him of 
the last remnants of a man screaming in helpless 
terror.  Even they with their tendrils and leaves 
seemed to gyrate like his wife and her wet-nurse had in his mind.
         He glanced at the others in his party to 
see if they were suffering from illusions and 
suggestions.  But if they did they kept them 
secret like the rat.  He didn’t blame them.  His 
heart beat with shame at the thought of seducing 
Baerle or of treating her and Kimberly like prostitutes.
         As he trudged through the swamp, his 
paws felt the muddy bottom sliding up between his 
toes.  He grimaced as he yanked up on each paw, 
the ground clutching at them as if yearning to 
pull them down.  With each step it seemed to grow 
more and more difficult, and he noticed it was 
the same for his friends too. “What the?” Lindsey 
grunted behind him. “My hand!”
         Charles turned his head and stared 
slack-jawed a the northerner’s fingers stretched 
and changed in hue.  Where one had been five 
meaty digits now hung twisting curls of ivy that 
sprouted leaves and little yellow blossoms.  From 
beneath his tunic more and more tendrils of ivy 
pressed forth.  They dangled from his hair as his 
face began to split into broad canary 
petals.  His eyes blinked in terror, his scream 
dying as his tongue pressed between his lips into a plant’s stamen.
         The rat spun as he heard more screams 
echo into the pitiless heights.  Every one of 
them was suffering Lindsey’s fate, some 
vegetative horror making them part of 
itself.  The vine wrapped about Charles’s chest 
throbbed and writhed.  He glanced down at his 
hands and saw his fingers begin their growth into 
ivy. “No!” He snapped tightening his paws into 
fists.  He yanked upwards on all four of his 
feet, knowing now that the ground sought to make them roots.
         What had the Rheh said of him?  “Stone 
and vine ever more thine?” Could he be stone 
again?  He stared at his fists and pictured them 
as granite.  He thought of being a mountain, hot 
deep beneath his stony skin, sinking his feet 
into the soil but taking no nourishment from 
it.  His lofty peaks were bright with snow, solid 
and determined to stand against the elements 
beyond the ages of men.  Upon him would live the 
rams and grasses, badgers and rodents, fragrant 
pines and gentle flowers, and all manners of creatures who dared the heights.
         Behind him he felt Lindsey’s bulk 
collapsing against the water’s surface.  He 
glanced back and saw his upper body bulging 
outwards into a bulbous green blob surmounted by 
the wide yellow flower that had been his 
head.  Behind him Habakkuk tried to hold onto his 
ears with hands that writhed as they splintered 
into dozens of vines.  The same happened to everyone in front of him too.
         Charles wrapped his paws around the vine 
on his chest and willed himself to be stone.  He 
put all thought of Kimberly and what she would 
say from his mind.  He put all thoughts of his 
children and how they would never be able to run 
their paws through his fur.  His friends needed 
him more.  Their flesh was being made into 
plant.  Stone wasn’t flesh.  He would be 
stone.  The stone was his.  Charles would be a creature of living stone.
         A sullen coolness permeated his body and 
he felt himself sinking against the ooze and 
muck.  It started from deep within and grew out 
to his skin, like a crystal growing more and more 
facets and tendrils.  Hard and cold was stone, 
but also strong and sure.  All his fear faded 
into a calm certainty and a firmness of purpose 
and devotion.  And with that he knew it had 
worked.  He blinked open his eyes and unwrapped 
granite paws from the vine.  It alone remained 
permeable.  Somehow, he’d brought Agathe’s curse 
upon himself again.  The rat of might was now again the rat of stone.
         A determined frown creased his snout as 
he turned towards the large yellow blossom and 
the maze of vines that snaked through the water 
towards him and his friends.  The plant which had 
lurked at the edge of his vision before now stood 
before him menacing in its power.  The faces in 
the blossoms jeered at him, and dark green vines 
rose from the water to wrap about his stony middle.
         And then something happened he didn’t 
expect.  The ivy growing from his back lashed at 
the attacking vines with a fury he’d not seen in 
any beast.  The purple flowers spat viscous pus 
across the attacking plant and it writhed as its 
sinews sizzled and smoked even beneath the water.
         Charles pressed forward, reaching out 
with his stony arms and with the ivy gifted to 
him by the Wind Spirits in the Åelfwood.  The ivy 
raced from his arms across the open waters and 
wrapped itself around the sprawling plant.  The 
large yellow blossom in the middle writhed, 
petals flapping angrily as the purple flowers 
spat their poison.  Charles stood watching in 
stony serenity as hundreds of vines fell back 
into that one spot, the screaming flowers falling 
and shedding their petals like hair falling from a corpse.
         He glanced at his friends who were all 
varying degrees of similar but smaller versions 
of the plant his vine now attacked.  What had 
once been Lindsey was the farthest gone; he was 
now a mass of leafy fronds and yellow blossoms 
that writhed and bulged as their progenitor 
struggled.  Charles turned back to the main bulb 
and slogged through the mire to its base.  He 
reached into the water and gripped the roots, 
yanking and tearing with stony claws.  The pulpy 
mass shredded under the assault.  Thorny vines 
lashed him but could do nothing against his granite flesh.
         And then, the whole mass rose up as if 
readying to unleash another attack before falling 
back in on itself and sinking slowly beneath the 
algae-ridden water.  Charles’s vine slithered 
through the water and wrapped itself around the 
rat’s chest and back.  Most of the purple 
blossoms had been destroyed in its fight, but the 
few that survived seemed to bloom even brighter than before.
         Charles turned back around and pushed 
through the muck towards his friends.  Already, 
the broad yellow leaves drew back against their 
stalks, revealing their faces where once had only 
been impressions.  The vines withered or withdrew 
to reveal hands and arms again.  Gasps were heard 
one by one, and each of them shook their bodies, 
as the last of the vegetation fell off.
         “By Artela, what was that?” Kayla asked 
as she drew her katana and hacked at one of the 
limp vines that curled near her.  She then 
noticed the rat and exclaimed. “Charles!  You’re stone again!”
         “Aye,” he replied with equanimity. “It 
was the only way I could think to protect 
myself.  I...” he trailed off as the others 
returned to their true selves but not because of 
them.  On his chest the sigils of Akkala and 
Velena had begun to glow brightly just as they 
had after Agathe had been slain.  The same hot 
fire burned through him and he cried and clutched 
as his stony flesh as it gave way.
         A moment later, all of them were as before, the rat included.
         “I thought...” Charles stammered. “I 
thought I was sacrificing myself forever.”
         “No sacrifice is forever,” Qan-af-årael 
said with a faint but kind smile. “Especially not 
one made in love.  It is what Velena represents and serves.”
         “That’s great and all,” Lindsey 
said.  He still had a few yellow petals sticking 
out of his neck which he was busy plucking free. 
“But is he going to have to do that every time we 
run into something that tries to make us part of the flora?”
         “We know what they look like now,” 
Jessica pointed out.  She had jumped onto one of 
the massive tree roots to try and dry her black 
feathers. “I don’t think it will be hard to avoid them.”
         “It smells odd,” James said as he drew 
closer to the remnants of the massive bulb. “Like... like...”
         “Like pitch,” Abafouq finished. “I am 
thinking we can burn this even in this damp swamp.”
         Charles stroked the vine over his 
shoulders with one paw. “If you’re thinking of 
taking that thing with us then you can carry 
it!  I can’t carry everything and save everyone’s 
life at the same time you know.”
         Most of them laughed quietly.  Jerome 
patted him on the flank and nodded. “We’ll try to 
be more understanding next time, Charles.” And 
then, with a softer smile, he added, “And thank 
you for saving us.  If you had been stuck as 
stone, I know I and all your friends would have 
done everything they could to bring you back.”
         The rat nodded and smiled.  He ran his 
fingers along the vine and chittered to himself. 
“Thank you.  All of you.  I know you would.”
         “That’s right,” Jerome continued. “Now 
let’s get this plant cut down.  I’d like to eat a cooked meal tonight!”
         “Amen to that!” Lindsey grinned and 
hefted his axe with renewed vigor.  He was 
quickly joined by several other hands.  Charles 
watched as his friends dismembered what was left 
of the transforming plant. He smiled as he felt 
the vine twitch in vegetative pleasure.

----------

         Shallow waves lapped at the bow of the 
Burning Spear with very little effect on the 
dromonai’s broad mass. Though the air was mild it 
was almost becalmed and heavy laden with the rich 
salty humidity of the sea. The sun was still low 
on the eastern horizon and mercilessly stabbed at 
the eyes cast in that direction watching, always watching.
         Phil listened to the steady slow creak 
of oars rotating in their locks accompanied by 
the grunting sea-chant of the First Crew pulling 
in time to the drummer’s strike. Below decks the 
Second Crew stood ready for any action they might 
be called upon to take on which at this period of 
empty quietude entailed idle distractions, 
repairs, and quiet discourse. The Third Crew 
rested in their hammocks lulled by the sonorous 
chanting of their fellows at the oars. Phil was 
also calmed by the age old cadence and only half 
listened while he stood upon the aft castle with 
his eye against his far-seer. The heavy brass 
scope had been roughly rigged to a standpost to 
accommodate Phil’s thumbless paws during the 
Spear’s hasty provisioning for their current 
mission. Yet for all of his staring through the 
polished glass lenses he was rewarded with the 
same vision; low rolling waves and the occasional shadow or spume of sea life.
         Somewhere out there to the east the 
corrupted vessels of the Marzac fleet were 
marshalling among the multitude of mangrove 
covered islets surrounding the Marzac peninsula, 
gathering their strength to strike outward once 
again at some vulnerable point that Phil could 
not know. Though he had been a master of spies 
for years this was a battle for which he had no 
knowledge, no spies in the enemy ranks, no scouts 
to reconnoiter the enemy positions. He was blind 
and that blindness gnawed at him with every 
passing hour. Phil yearned to find them while the 
season was favorable, before the winter storms 
from the north made navigation so far from the shores a deadly task.
         “How far have we come, Captain?” Phil 
asked without taking his eye from the lens, “How 
near have we come to the corrupted waters?”
         Standing at the navigation table, a 
broad slate pedestal upon which charts could be 
chalked, the captain responded. “We’re twelve 
leagues from the coast, for what that’s worth, 
your highness. The Siren’s Table is perhaps ten 
degrees to the south and is the westernmost point of the peninsula.”
         The mage standing behind Phil, Aramaes, 
grunted. “We have been able to approach within 
seven leagues safely, your highness, so at our 
current pace and heading we have another three 
hours before we will have to come about.” The 
man’s bald pate gleamed like a augurer’s orb in 
the morning sun, the fine lines of the blue 
tattoos ringing his brow etched dark against the 
man’s smooth, tanned skin. “If we continue to 
probe the limits of the taint’s reach we risk becoming overwhelmed ourselves.”
         “At your command, highness,” Captain 
Ptomamus continued, “I will proceed as closely to 
the shore as you ask, to the very flagstones of Marzac itself at your word.”
         Phil admired the young captain’s vigour. 
He was still young, as naval officers went, but 
he had distinguished himself well on several 
difficult missions and attained the command of a 
ship earlier than most. One of the more memorable 
missions for Phil, shortly after Ptomamus had 
gained his first ship, involved a journey into 
the harbor of Arabarb under a flag of truce to 
slip a spy into the enemy city during the spring 
only a year previous. The spy had been Phil’s 
friend the rat-morphed Charles Matthias which, to 
board the ship under secrecy, had necessitated 
the bringing aboard a large quantity of native 
rats among which Charles had mingled. Captain 
Ptomamus was horribly allergic to rats and, prior 
to that mission, had always been very scrupulous 
about keeping his ship empty of them. His reports 
of the mission had been humorously restrained but 
Charles had proved to be considerably more 
colourful in his reports. The rat had spoken 
highly of the ill-comfitted captain’s forbearance 
throughout the mission, and his brave command of 
the ship while they attempted escape from 
Arabarb. “Hardly necessary, Captain, we will 
bring them to us. Taking this fight to them would 
prove fruitless.” Sighting nothing more dangerous 
than a floating otter Phil abandoned the far-seer 
and rubbed his aching eyes with his thumbless 
paws to chase away the ache of too many hours spent at the lenses.
         Phil had chosen Ptomamus’ dromonai as 
soon as he learned of its captain. While he did 
miss Commodore Pythoreaus’ wise counsel and 
reassuring presence he needed the experienced 
commander to hold their northern flank should the 
Marzac fleet manage to slip around Phil’s 
patrols. It would be the most exposed and most 
likely to suffer attack after Phil’s own and the 
prince wanted a seasoned commander in charge. 
Ptomamus was a worthy second choice to command 
Phil’s fleet, despite his youth, well liked by 
those under his direct command and the fleet as a 
whole for his charismatic leadership.
         Besides, Phil always had Rupert. The 
great ape lurked nearby dressed smartly in the 
bright orange of the Whalish Marines. He was a 
strong, silent presence, Phil’s overmuscled 
shadow, who watched both Phil and the men. The 
sight of an imposing ape with determined eyes 
proved inspirational to the crewmen, not a single 
sailor on board the Burning Spear shirked even the most mean of duties.
         “There is no need to do aught but wait.” 
Phil said as he hopped a pace back from the 
far-seer. “They came to us once, they will do so 
again.” And how calamitous that first raid had 
been, decimating every ship within Whales’ main 
harbor with twelve corrupted dromonai and 
incurring no losses for their brazen assault. 
Whales lost fully two-thirds of its remaining, 
uncorrupted, naval strength in that treacherous 
one-sided attack. The port city, as well, suffered considerable damage.
         Luck granted that most of the finely 
trained crews of the moored ships were ashore and 
not lost as well. Their rapid response saved the 
city a much worse fate while their vessels 
burned. That grace allowed the remaining ships, 
those that had still been to sea or put in at 
other harbors, to possess both full primary and 
secondary crews and in some cases a third crew 
such as the Burning Spear enjoyed. To a man the 
sailors were ready to return the favour of pain 
even if it meant doing battle with their own corrupted countrymen.
         “If we don’t find them soon,” Captain 
Ptomamus said carefully, “we will have to turn 
back for Whales. We put out with only half of our 
needed supply to accommodate the Third Crew, and 
even then what we did provision was hastily stocked.”
         “There was little time, Captain.” Phil 
reminded him gently. “We’ve enough to patrol for 
another week with what your logisticians put 
aboard.” He looked over to the Spear’s master 
mage. “If your mages can supplement the crews’ 
stamina how long will it take us to return to port?”
         Aramaes rubbed a hand over his bald head 
and downward to rub his chin thoughtfully. “With 
three crews on rotation and beating a single 
stroke, from our current position, perhaps four 
days without wrecking the crew.” He frowned at 
his own assessment, tapping his index finger 
against his lower lip. “It will put a lot of 
strain on the mages, however. But we need not 
push ourselves so far. During our last long-tell 
with Pythoreas’ fleet and Stohshal of the Wind 
Runners I was told that the windships have taken 
up anchorage in the centre of the Charyn Turn, 
which is only half the distance for us to travel.”
         Phil’s whiskers flattened back against 
his muzzle in a pained moue, his ears flicking 
down. The Turn was a convergence of the cold 
northern currents coming down the coast of 
Sathmore and the warmer currents sweeping up 
along the Marzac coast and was a dangerous 
expanse of water even in the calms of summer. 
Anchoring in the slow circulation at the centre 
of the converging currents, called the Turn, was 
an easy way to remain on station but required a 
considerable degree of seamanship to navigate. 
Ptomamus was hardly any more thrilled than Phil 
by the news judging by his own wince and the 
shake of his head. “We’ll never get the dromanai 
out of the Turn, Ara. Its currents are far too 
strong. How the windships manage I have never fathomed.”
         Aramaes nodded sagely and smiled with 
one corner of his narrow mouth. Prior to the 
catastrophe that claimed the Whalish fleet he had 
been primary mage aboard a windship. “You’ve 
never pulled canvas on a Wind Runner, Captain.” 
He chided gently with a bow to take the sting out 
of his reproach. “The galleass can break out into 
either of the westward currents to rendezvous and 
resupply us on the water. If we catch the 
Sonderush and ride it as far as the turn we can 
save some hours, and the sweat of our crews.” The 
mage waved an arm toward the clear southern 
horizon, “With this weather any rush we ride 
would prove a safe hastening of our journey.”
         Phil nodded at the mage’s logic and 
knowledge while Ptomamus grunted begrudging 
agreement. “How are your men holding up?” he asked the captain.
         “Gnawing at the mooring lines for some 
action beyond polishing oar-handles, your 
highness.” Ptomamus reported with a rueful glance 
toward the First Crew labouring at their benches 
below. A trio of deck hands was in the process of 
doling out water. “They’re soldiers, and men 
betrayed, ready to take up swords in a breath.” 
The young captain’s rueful sigh became a smile of 
pride for his crew, and the fleet of ships 
trailing along with them. “A fortnight switching 
back and forth upon the open sea with seldom a sight of land has them restive.”
         Phil expected no less and felt no little 
bit of pride himself after so long at sea. He had 
paid close attention to the crew of the Spear, 
and the fleet as a whole, in his two weeks with 
little else to do but fog the lens of his 
far-seer. He was duly impressed with their 
discipline, dedication, and skill. “I have every 
trust in your men, Captain. They make Whales 
proud.” Phil glanced across the sweep of ships 
before and aft of the Spear, four dromonai or 
‘fire bearing’ ships and seven identical dromon 
that lacked fire projectors, and felt his heart 
swell with pride. It had been many long years 
since Whales had sortied her larger ships in any 
such strength, generally having them spread far 
and wide in small groups maintaining the security 
of the trade lanes used by dozens of nations. 
Even after the crippling ambush in the heart of 
their empire the Whalish fleet stood strong, 
ready, and capable. “What say you two, shall we 
stay this course until high sun? Or shall we turn 
about now and strike for the Sonderush?“ Phil’s 
statement was interrupted by the solid report of 
Rupert’s strong hands being brought together in two swift claps.
         Phil turned and saw the massive 
silverback staring at the eastern horizon with 
intense focus. His heavy apish brow left his eyes 
as little more than muted glimmers inset within 
dark, hollow shadows. The ape’s hard stare toward 
the east was all the message the rabbit prince 
needed. Though Rupert was mute he could 
communicate far more clearly than many 
honey-tongued nobles. Phil hopped back to the 
far-seer and trained it on the horizon, but he 
saw only the empty waves capped with blinding sun-gleam.
         Rupert reached over and depressed the 
end of the long brass tube of the far-seer 
without ever taking his gaze from whatever had 
caught his attention. Ptomamus and Aramaes 
stepped up to either side and looked eastward as 
well, the captain shading his eyes with one hand 
while the mage grasped the railing and leaned 
forward with his eyes narrowed. Phil kept his eye 
to the lens of the far-seer and tried to 
understand what he was being asked to look for, 
and after several long moments he discovered what 
had captured Rupert’s attention; a subtle 
arrowing V in the water as one might see made by a skimming bird.
         There was no bird. “Prow cuts.” Phil 
breathed in surprise when he finally registered 
what he was witnessing. It amazed him that Rupert 
had spied it at all as, even with the acuity of 
the far-seer, it had taken Phil some moments. 
“Aramaes,” he called out in a surprised gasp, 
“use your mage sight, there, a few degrees below 
the horizon.” He raised a pawn and jabbed it in 
the direction he was looking. “Tell me what you see!”
         “Highness,” Aramaes’s fingers curled 
over the polished wooden rail and he stared 
eastward with the same intensity displayed by the 
gorilla standing silently on Phil’s other side. 
Phil had ordered the mages to regularly use their 
mage sight to keep watch for the corruption and 
for any of the enemy ships using magic but thus 
far they had seen nothing. Would they now? 
Despite Phil’s best efforts to make more out of 
the subtle cutting wave he could see the horizon 
remained frustratingly empty. “Oh!” Aramaes 
gasped in surprise, his body lurching up right as if dashed with cold water.
         “What?” Phil snapped, “What do you see?” 
Ptomamus looked over to the mage as well but said 
nothing before crossing over to the navigation 
table to converse quietly with the steersman. 
Aramaes muttered a few words in a language that 
defied Phil’s ears to hear as aught but useless 
syllables and glared across the water.
         “There they are!” the mage shouted and 
cast his head from side to side, scanning the 
horizon with his mage sight. “Direct course to 
intercept us, two leagues east by north!”
         “How many? And why can’t we see them?” 
Phil demanded, finally giving up on the far-seer.
         “An illusion, highness.” Aramaes 
reported breathlessly. “A damned good one, too, 
but for your bodyguard’s good sight. Even I was 
nearly unable to see under it.” He touched his 
brow with two fingers and Phil saw his eyes blaze 
with a brilliant white radiance. “I have let the 
others see, we will try to shatter their veil.”
         “Their course, Ara?” Ptomamus asked 
tensely. The steersman, a grizzled old sailor 
twice his captain’s age looked on with some concern but held his course steady.
         “South and west, they intend to strike 
across our line. They are, and probably have been 
for some time, striking engagement speed.”
         The captain nodded curtly as he took in 
the news. His crews would be fresh should any 
engagement be closed, while having been pushing 
on closing speed the enemy crews would be exerted. “Good. Highness, orders?”
         “Maintain our course until we see what 
we’re up against.” Phil flicked his gaze from 
water to mage and back. The man’s eyes shone like 
twin suns and he whispered as if in some private 
conversation. Sweat beaded upon the master mage’s 
bald pate and made his fine blue tattoos gleam with uncanny luminescence.
         “They fight.” Aramaes growled, “They 
know we have spied them, they’re cutting their 
course inward to close more swiftly.”
         “Numbers? Can we engage?” Phil asked 
again, his body half turned to issue a ready 
order to the captain when a sound like tearing 
canvas, but far more loud, rent the air. Phil 
hunkered down reflexively and his ears went flat 
against his head. Flickering blue sheets of 
radiance danced crazily across the waters like 
the aurora Phil had seen above Metamor Keep on 
occasion. Through the shimmering blue haze he saw ships; many ships.
         A discontented murmur of surprise at the 
sound became an uproar as the crew also spied 
what Phil now gaped at. The rabbit prince blinked 
at the vision revealed to his eyes. He rubbed at 
his eyes to dash the sun gleam from his retinas 
and looked again but the vision remained 
unchanged. He looked from the newly revealed 
ships to Aramaes and back, grasping the end of 
the far-seer in his paws and sweeping it across 
the distant heraldry marking the enemy ships.
         “That
 that’s more than just our ships!” 
Phil gasped. An entire host of ships appeared 
from the dissipating fragments of the illusion 
used to mask them from sight. From single deck 
skirmish vessels barely capable of managing on 
the open sea to ships with multiple decks of 
oars, or sails, or both the numbers of the enemy 
fleet were unexpected. In truth the enemy force was not a fleet.
         It was an armada.
         “The greater number of them look to be 
little more than captured merchantmen or pirate 
sturaks, your highness.” Ptomamus intoned flatly 
as he surveyed the broadly scattered enemy group. 
It was more a mob than formation, with so many 
disparate ships corrupted and brought together to 
serve the tainted power that was Marzac. “But 
there are some Pyralian Navy dromon among them, 
as well as Boreaux and even Sathmore vessels.”
         “And our own.” Phil moaned, scanning the line of ships, aghast.
         “I see the Forge Fire, Storm, and 
Athene’s Fury.” Ptomamus identified the ships out 
of hand without relying on the spyglass. The 
three Whalish fire-equipped dromonai escorted a 
much larger vessel painted with Pyralian colours. 
Smaller Whalish dromus and galleas flanked the 
monstrous flagship and its fire-equipped escorts.
         “What is that vessel at their core?”
         “The Iron King.” Aramaes informed him 
flatly, “The flagship of the Pyralian Royal Navy.”
         “Arch Pyralis is it’s given name.” 
Ptomamus nodded slowly, “I’d never thought I’d be 
facing that beast in a fight. This is the first 
I’ve ever seen it.” The young captain frowned at 
the captured Pyralian monstrosity.
         “We’re not fighting them here.” Phil 
managed to force past his clenched teeth with 
what little calm he could seize. His rabbit 
instincts urged him to find a dark place below 
deck to bury himself and let it pass. “Captain, 
bring the fleet about, it’s time to draw them out.”
         “I count some forty vessels, highness, 
most of which are under canvas.” Ptomamus 
observed, crossing his arms over his chest and 
leaning his balance back on one foot while he 
contemplated the composition of the larger force. 
“We can outpace those easily under this flatulent 
breeze.” He turned and strode to the front rail 
of the aft castle. “Your highness, if we string 
their lead elements out under oar we can deal 
with them at our leisure.” That said he turned 
toward the crew that had stopped rowing at the 
first appearance of the illusion-masked fleet. 
“Beaters to time and a half, signal forward V! 
All ships hard about!” he bellowed loudly enough 
to be heard by even the furthest oarsman on the 
bow bench but his order was nonetheless echoed by 
the Officer of the Deck. “Archers make ready! 
Aramaes, inform Gods Favored that she will be our 
north and Sea Fury will be our south. The Spear will hold the centre.”
         Aramaes nodded and bowed his head to 
hold converse with his fellow mages secure in 
their chambers below the aft castle.
         Phil dug the stout claws of his powerful 
footpaws into the wood of the deck as the Spear’s 
oars dipped to the water and backed hard to slow 
the ponderous dromonai. To their flanks the other 
ships of Phil’s small Whalish fleet copied the 
manoeuver with flawless precision. “Captain, 
loosen the formation, make it appear we’ve been 
routed into full retreat.” The prince ordered 
with a false calm he tried to convince himself 
was real while he watched the fastest of the 
foe’s ships striking ahead of the armada. Despite 
the fear dancing along his prey-attuned nerves 
while facing a predator Phil smiled. This time he 
had a surprise of his own. “I want them to think 
we’ve broken, to pursue so that they might finish 
us off.” He rubbed his thumbless paws together 
and turned to look up at the taller human 
standing at the navigation table. “I want them chasing us.”
         “Oh, they will.” Aramaes muttered. 
Rupert pounded a fist into his palm with a 
satisfyingly solid smack and stepped closer to 
the rabbit prince. Phil nodded to his friend and 
smiled afresh. Whales would not lose this time, of that Phil would make sure.
         He had no other choice.

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

Charles Matthias