[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXXIII

[C. Matthias]

And the next Chapter!  Wow, I got this one done fast. :-)

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXXIII

Visited by the Dead

         The roar of the mountain ripping from 
the card and through the artifacts only grew in 
their ears.  But it was the pounding ostinato in 
their minds that threatened to drown out 
everything else.  Even as Anef the First shook 
the skunk and gestured to the seemingly endless 
stairs, a name, singular and dominating, beat 
through every synapse of their brain, “CENZIGA!”
         Yajakali clawed at the mountain as its 
scabrous surface sliced through him and the 
artifacts.  The gems at each stanchion radiated 
fire as they glowed.  His eyes reflected them and 
the whirlpool of magic flowed into him and 
sustained him in his final struggle. “You have not yet won!”
         Anef snapped back at him, “But you have 
certainly lost!  Your war against man is over!”
         Yajakali pushed more of himself up 
through the crack in the Dais, even as the 
mountain widened and pressed the golden artifacts 
further and further apart. “It can never be over!”
         “You are dead!” Anef shouted. “And so 
are we!  The dead must move on for the living!”
         “I am the purpose!” Yajakali screamed and flung out one arm.
         Anef sprawled with the blow of magic 
crushing in the side of his face.  But his flesh 
filled back in and he was whole.  Kayla sprung to 
his side and helped him to his feet.  Anef sighed 
and grabbed her arm. “Leave this to us, 
Kayla.  We are dead.  You are alive.  Go! All of you now!”
         They locked eyes for one moment, and 
then the skunk nodded.  Se let go of the ancient 
magician and rushed toward the entrance to the 
stairs. She waved to the others and pointed. “Our 
work is done!  We have to go!” As if echoing her, 
one of the pillars at the rear of the room 
collapsed, the stones falling through 
Qan-af-årael’s form.  The ancient Åelf smiled 
sadly, and motioned for Andares and the others to follow her.
         Charles, James and Jerome grabbed their 
packs where they’d fallen against one wall and 
ran toward the stairs.  The rat looked once at 
Zagrosek, but his friend only shook his head and 
made the sign of the yew.  The rat sighed, made 
the sign of the yew, and turned his eyes from his 
lifelong friend for the last time.
         Abafouq and Guernef were right behind 
them.  Lindsey tugged on Habakkuk’s arm but the 
dust-coloured kangaroo shook his head too.  His 
eyes bore tears as he gazed at his love. “I am 
dead, Lindsey.  Weep for me, but do not linger and do not look for me.”
         Lindsey slapped her tail against the 
ground. “But I just found you again!”
         Habakkuk ignored and pointed to his sack 
flung against the pillar nearest the stairs. 
“Take my things with you.  Read and you will win 
your way to me for eternity.  Go!  You must survive for me!”
         Lindsey tugged his arm one last time, 
but this time, her paw slipped through his flesh 
and she stumbled backwards.  A rock crashed 
through the ceiling and landed between 
them.  Lindsey took a step toward him, but more 
and more stones came crashing down.  With a cry 
of anguish, she turned and hopped as fast as she 
could to the stairs, stopping only to grab his 
things.  Andares put one hand on her shoulder and guided her to the others.
         Jessica and the Marquis’s two servants, 
still weak from their ordeal on the Dais were the 
last to meet them at the base.  The hawk turned 
at the entrance, and watched as the nine mages 
linked their hands again and walked toward 
Yajakali who had nearly freed himself from the descending mountain.
         One by one the others turned, gaze rapt 
as the nine who died all faded into 
insubstantiality as they stepped backward into 
the walls once filled with the disquieting 
radiance of lucnos.  The card had stretched to 
encompass nearly the entire ceiling as the 
mountain, stretched taut like taffy, plunged ever 
deeper into the abyss.  Yajakali swung one leg 
through the hole, his whole body aglow with power.
         Anef’s voice resounded like the ringing 
of church bells. “Eleven thousands years ago our 
lives were struck down.  Now at least we ten will 
go to what lays beyond death’s curtain.  Come, Yajakali.  It is time.”
         “Time is mine!” Yajakali roared and 
raised one hand high, the visible torrent of 
magic shifting and flowing into his fist.
         “Not anymore.” And the nine mages all 
jumped onto the broken Dais, and then onto 
Yajakali.  He screamed beneath them as the 
mountain bore down.  Slowly, the Dais angled 
further, and the ten figures slipped down into 
the crack.  Yajakali shook his fist, face 
flashing once through the twisting bodies and the 
writhing chevrons, and then all of them were gone into the darkness below.
         The nine gems shattered.  Several more 
pillars collapsed as the entire room shook itself 
apart.  The stanchions glowed and the gold melted 
away revealing a grey interior like a bone 
beneath flesh.  The Sword and Censer also, once 
too frightening for words, began to melt away 
like so much wax in a blaze.  The matraluc 
beneath the gold lingered only moments more 
before it too bubbled and slid away down the 
slide of the mountain.  The chevrons flashed one 
last time before running like mud in the rain down into the crimson abyss.
         And when the last of those three 
artifacts of Yajakali disappeared, the base of 
the mountain slammed into the cleft and sealed it 
whole.  Falling rocks tore the card to shreds and 
the room fell inward in a choke of rubble and thousand year dust.
         All eleven of them ran down the hall and 
up the stairs as the collapse followed nipping at their heels.

----------

         One moment Duke Thomas lay his arms over 
the weeping form of Kyia, the feeling in his 
hooves and legs gone as the timelessness washed 
over them, and then next the spirit of the Keep 
bolted upright through the protective ring of 
arms, his, Lidaman’s, and the two guards’.  Her 
long silvery hair danced around her faintly glowing hips.
         “It is finished!” She declared with 
verve.  The look of exultant triumph in her eyes 
faded to kind pleasure as she looked down at the 
horse lord and three others still kneeling in 
front of her. “Thomas, it has been done.  Those 
you sent six months ago have succeeded in destroying the power of Marzac.”
         Thomas put one hoof to the ground and 
stood, as Andhun the bull and Gaspar a child that 
would never be a teenager ran into the room 
brandishing spears. “Your grace?” the bull 
shouted the question as he stared with wide-eyed fear at the silvery woman.
         Thomas laughed at the sight of them, 
even as the warthog and woman moved to calm their 
friends. “It is all right, Andhun,” Thomas said 
and waved one hand. “This is Kyia.  And she has 
wonderful news.” He turned back to the spirit of 
the Keep and asked, “And the Censer; has it been destroyed?”
         “Yes,” she replied and her face filled 
with euphoric delight. “The Belfry is free of 
that evil taint.  It has been a knife-wound in my 
side these six months, but now it is gone.”
         “And what of those I sent?”
         Lidaman moved his eyes from Thomas to 
Kyia and back again as he tried to understand 
what was going on.  But even he breathed a sigh 
of relief when the spirit of the Keep said, “I 
felt them within me for a short time, but they 
have returned to Marzac.  I am not certain, but I believe they are well.”
         “That will please many.  I must wake 
them and let them know.  If nothing else, we can 
ring the bells for the wedding!” The horse lord 
realized that he didn’t quite know what he was 
saying.  The heart rending terror was past, and he still didn’t understand it.
         The guards rushed to take position 
between Thomas and something at the other side of 
the room.  Kyia turned her gaze and the delight 
faded to polite scorn.  Lidaman and Thomas 
turned, and beheld a man long dead stepping out 
of the wall and staring straight at 
Thomas.  Andhun thrust his spear into the man’s 
corpulent gut but met no substance.  The ghost 
passed through them to stand before the horse 
lord.  Lidaman’s chocked tongue found the name first, “Loriod!”
         Altera Loriod scowled as he looked up 
into the horse lord’s long face. “I always 
detested you,” Loriod said. “I detested Alvarez 
for taking me from my warm country and bringing 
me here to this wretchedly cold backwater so we 
could raise carrots.  Carrots!  You all made me 
miserable, and I loathe that my last act was to defend you.”
         “You are dead,” Thomas declared, 
stomping one hoof. “Go to your end in Hell, Altera.”
         Loriod sneered. “I am leaving.  I just 
wanted you to know, that you have me to thank for 
your continued life.  I know it will grate you 
for all time to think that I was responsible for saving this world.”
         “It would,” Thomas replied, crossing his 
arms. “But I don’t believe it.”
         Loriod’s face screwed into anger. “You 
insufferable beast!  Somebody should bridle you 
and break you like the beast you are.”
         Thomas laughed at that, well remembering 
those few months when he’d been more horse than 
man and called Toumoth. “Already done.  I’m 
marrying her too.  Now be off with you.”
         But Loriod’s tirade was not over.  He 
wagged one finger and began to shout, when 
something dark grabbed him by his legs and pulled 
him down.  He screamed in freakish agony, so much 
so that Thomas, Lidaman and all four guards 
flinched away.  Loriod sank from sight, his face 
bent into a rictus of hate before it disappeared 
into the floor.  His scream echoed away a few seconds later.
         “What by all the gods is going on?” 
Lidaman asked, fighting back a childish tremble.
         “I have no idea.  Kyia?”
         The spirit of the Keep stared at the 
spot Loriod had disappeared and sighed. “The 
Censer killed him, but kept his soul from moving 
beyond.  You were the one person in the world he 
wanted to spit at one last time before his final 
end claimed him.  You do not need to fear seeing 
him again, Thomas.  He is gone to his place.”
         “Hmm,” Thomas mused and scratched his 
chin with a heavy hoof-like nail. “I need to 
speak with my advisors and discuss this news.  Is 
there anything else you can tell me, Kyia?”
         “Only this,” she replied, “Marzac is no 
more.  The magic it has stolen is now rolling 
back.  I must leave to do what I can to prevent 
it from causing any more damage.” And with that, 
she stepped toward the nearest wall and vanished within.
         Lidaman looked from the wall to Thomas. 
“Well, your grace, all I can say is that you had 
best include me in on this little meeting so you 
can tell me what by the gods just happened!”
         Thomas laughed because he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

----------

         Jessica wasn’t very good at running up 
stairs with her talons and avian body.  So she 
shifted into her hawk form and took to wing, 
flapping and carefully guiding herself up that 
endless staircase as they collapsed behind her 
friends.  They charged up behind her, pounding 
paws and boots almost as loudly as the quake.
         “Hurry!” The voice of her master, 
Wessex, resounded in her mind. “The Chateau is collapsing!”
         She twitched at Wessex’s voice, quickly 
casting a glance to either side and then to the 
small light far above.  She didn’t see her 
diminutive master, but she did see the ceiling 
and walls begin to crack under the constant beat 
of the quake.  She knew that she could reach the 
top of the stairs in time, but what of the others who couldn’t fly?
         “You saw how much magic is gathered 
here,” Wessex repeated, his voice gently 
admonishing her as he had so often done while 
he’d been alive and she his apprentice. “Use it 
to hold things the walls together.”
         Jessica pumped her wings fiercely and 
turned her thoughts to controlling the exorbitant 
power surrounding her.  The waves of magic were 
pummelling the Chateau’s stone foundations like a 
snake beating itself against a cage.  She’d never 
even imagined she would touch a fraction of the 
magic surrounding her.  What would it do to her if she touched it?
         “There isn’t much time, Jessica.  You 
cannot save others if you try to save yourself.”
         She nodded and with each thrust of her 
wings, she angled her toes to corral that energy 
and pull it back from the walls.  She felt it 
dragging her backward, but she steeled her fear 
and pulled harder.  The waves of energy no longer 
buffeted the walls, folding in over her.  The 
energy permeated her body, and she began glowing 
with it, a beacon of brilliant ember leading her friends upward.
         But there was an anger in the magic, a 
torrent ready to break forth that she knew she 
couldn’t hold back forever.  With each beat of 
her wings she tried to cast the floodwaters 
back.  The waves of energy throbbed and rippled 
beneath her touch, stronger and stronger each 
time.  What would happen when that dam broke?
         “It is not for you to fear,” Wessex 
said. “Look, you are almost out of the stairs.”
         She turned her eyes away from the magic 
bracing the walls, her friends now several dozen 
steps behind her in the darkness, and toward the 
bright light ahead.  She could see the grey arch 
of the entrance room’s ceiling, drab and 
mildewed.  It trembled from the quake, ancient 
dust drifting down, tiles breaking free and 
crashing to the floor.  Jessica reached out with 
her magic and held that in place too.
         And then she burst free from the 
staircase and angled her wings to settle her 
toward the closed door.  The purple magic that 
had kept the interior of the Chateau separate 
from the rest of the world was now full of holes 
and tearing apart like a bit of parchment in a 
gale.  The walls still stood, and even with the 
magical envelope ripped asunder, it did them 
little good in escaping the Chateau.  She had to 
get the door open again and it was still covered 
by that foul reality distorting magic.
         As she settled to the stone floor and 
shifted into her morphic form, Jessica’s golden 
eyes widened in disbelief as her former master 
Wessex walked through the purple curtain in front 
of the door and smiled to her. “Thank you for 
your prayers for me, Jessica.  You were right 
about the gods and I was wrong to ever doubt 
them.  I have called to them in my distress and 
they showed me what to do to save you here.”
         “Wessex!” Jessica cried, reaching out 
with her wings to grasp him. “You’re not dead!”
         “Yes, I am,” Wessex replied.  The man 
who looked only a child gestured to a hole in the 
purple veil near the doorway. “Send the rivers of 
magic you used to keep the stairs from collapsing 
through here.  You will break open the door.”
         “But my friends!” Jessica exclaimed, 
glancing back over her shoulder.  They were 
running up the stairs, gasping for breath, but 
still had many more to go. “I can’t keep the tunnel open too!”
         “Yes you can, Jessica.  You are a Master 
now.  You will never touch more magic than this.” 
Wessex nodded to her and pointed at the hole. “Do 
both.  Now, or you will all die when the magic bursts from below.”
         Jessica took a deep breath, turned to 
the side, and stretched her wings as far as they 
could go.  One wing reached for the stairs to 
corral the magical waves as they bounced from 
wall to wall knocking stones loose.  The other 
wing she pointed toward the hole in the 
veil.  The magical current poured out, tearing as 
it went through the purple fabric just like a 
seamstress stretching a rip.  Her black feathers 
glowed with a golden sheen that matched her eyes, 
and she felt a loud scree echo from her 
beak.  She felt as if she’d been cast into a 
forge and bound with red hot shackles.
         “There!” Wessex cried. “It’s working!  Just a moment longer!”
         Jessica’s wings trembled and yearned to 
fold over her back.  The long feathers at the end 
trembled and tore, several of them fluttering to 
the ground or caught on the magical weave to be 
sucked out through the veil and dashed against 
the stone.  Silt fell from the ceiling and landed 
on her head, some pouring into an eye and 
stinging.  A loose tile sliced across her left 
wing and she felt the blood drain over her 
feathers.  Still she held her wings as steady as 
she could.  The tear widened, and she could see 
the first glimpse of the door at long last.  And 
then, as if it were giving up, the purple veil 
shredded and the magical wind blew the Chateau’s 
only door off its hinges.  The blasted plain 
outside was dark with the moonless night.
         Wessex smiled and nodded even as her 
wings collapsed to her back. “I am so proud of 
you, Jessica.  Take care of your Weyden.”
         “Master, don’t go!” Jessica cried, 
stumbling on her talons toward the boy.
         But Wessex shook his head and stepped 
back toward the crumbling wall.  His body faded 
and she could see the wall through him. “I am 
dead, Jessica.  My time is up.  Good bye.  May 
the gods smile upon you always.” And he was gone.
         Jessica gasped a sob, even as she heard 
the pounding of boots and hooves behind her.  She 
half-turned and saw the Marquis’s two servants 
rushing up the stairs.  On their heels came James 
and Kayla..  Guernef the Nauh-kaee charged behind 
him with Abafouq riding between his wings with 
arms wrapped about his feathery neck.  She 
gestured with her wing toward the door. “Go!  I’ll hold everything open!”
         Andares had one hand upon Lindsey’s back 
as he guided sobbing kangaroo forward.  She 
carried Habakkuk’s things in one paw and her own 
in the other.  Her hopping gait was awkward but 
sure.  Behind them Charles and Jerome ran.  The 
rat span both Sondeshikes in his paws to keep the 
falling stones at bay.  His eyes were wild, and 
he gestured with a turn of his head toward the 
hawk.  Jerome rushed her, grabbed her about the 
middle, and carried her squawking out the 
door.  The rat went last, slamming the ancient 
Sondeckis staves through either side of the door 
as he rushed past.  The arch collapsed behind him 
as the front of the Chateau caved in.
         “This way!” Sir Autrefois shouted in a 
gruff voice. “There’s a safe path through the plain.  Follow us.”
         Jessica wondered at the wisdom of 
following the Marquis’s servants, but there was 
no time to argue.  She could feel the magical dam 
deep within the Chateau giving way.  Already the 
rivers of magic poured out of every crevice in 
the magical shield surrounding the Chateau.  What 
would happen when all the magic Yajakali had gathered gave way?
         Sir Autrefois bounced back and forth 
across several smaller patches of dried earth, 
never faltering despite the darkness.  Vigoreaux 
followed him, and so too did the others.  The 
chalky ground held beneath them.  Behind them 
they could hear fissures of steam rise as the 
walls of the Chateau fell.  Rocks tumbled 
everywhere and the horrific roaring rivalled the 
mountain that Charles had detonated in the 
Barrier range.  James pulled his ears down to 
block the sound, and even Charles retracted both 
Sondeshikes to safely wrap his arms over his head 
to hide his saucer-shaped ears.
         As the Castellan assured them, they 
reached the line of the jungle safely.  Jessica 
sent up several witchlights which preceded and 
followed them giving them all sufficient light to 
see.  Vigoreaux turned to look back, but Andares 
grabbed him by the arm and shouted. “Keep running!”
         Charles chanced a quick look over his 
shoulder as he ran.  The yellow-brick Chateau 
continued its inward collapse.  The scorched 
ground around it sank into the steam pits as 
whatever magic Yajakali had summoned drew 
everything down inside.  Beneath them the ground 
undulated like waves on the open sea.  Tree limbs 
clacked and leaves fell around them in a profusion of chocking green.
         They ran, Jessica taking to wing and 
perching on Andares’s shoulder.  Kayla kept both 
swords in paw and sliced away falling ivy and 
limbs that collapsed before them.  Guernef kept 
his wings tucked in tight, but the Seer of Winds 
still used his magic to blast clear their 
path.  Abafouq kept his head buried in the 
Nauh-kaee’s feathers.  James fell back with 
Charles and Jerome; the rat tossed Jerome one of 
the Sondeshikes and let him use it to keep any 
brush from falling on their heads.  The Marquis’s 
servants kept pace with them, even the somewhat corpulent steward.
         They must have ran for almost ten 
straight minutes when Andares shouted, “It’s 
coming!  Jessica, a shield!” Andares jumped into 
a small depression between mangroves and waved 
the rest to do the same.  It was large enough for 
all of them, but only just.  Jessica jumped off 
the Åelf’s shoulder and spread her wings, though 
the left couldn’t quite extend all the way.  A 
blue nimbus covered the depression.  Kayla put 
her paws on Jessica’s back, and the blue glowed 
brighter.  Abafouq climbed of the Nauh-kaee, and 
the both of them also lent the hawk their strength.
         And then the earth shook with such force 
that all of them were knocked to the ground.  The 
shield stayed in place, as their eyes cast back 
through the choking jungle.  Where once had stood 
the Chateau Marzac now exploded a white-hot 
fireball that shot in a tower of energy toward 
the empty sky.  The jungle sizzled and every 
tree, leaf, vine, and bits of flotsam caught 
flame.  The shield cracked and buckled under the 
powerful blow, but held firm.  Every one of them 
covered their eyes to keep from going blind.  The 
roar did not hurt their ears; it utterly destroyed them.

----------

         “Weyden.”
         Golden eyes blinked open to the darkness 
inside the barracks outside Lord Barnhardt’s 
castle where they’d been stationed.  Weyden 
turned his head from side to side, noting the 
outline of his friends all still asleep.  The 
giraffe Larssen snored where he laid in two bunks 
fitted together to accommodate his nine foot 
height.  The youthful Van slept soundlessly 
nearby, while Maud lay on her back with one arm 
dangling out of the bed.  Weyden’s beak cracked a 
bit as he saw them, but as they were asleep, it 
couldn’t have been they who called his name.
         He looked to the other side where 
Sergeant Dallar the ram slept with the other 
grunts in their unit.  Dallar had been one of the 
guards watching over them while they had lingered 
forgotten in prison for four months.  When the 
Duke granted them clemency and inducted them into 
the Metamor army Dallar, who had been one of the 
few who would talk with them and bring them 
things, had been given command of the unit they 
were to serve in.  Weyden, once Captain of 
Ambassador Yonson’s guards, no longer could claim 
any such distinction.  His uniform bore a single 
arrowhead to show his new humble station in life.
         But as long as his friends were with 
him, and the pipe smoking ram was now counted 
amongst them, then he would not complain.  His 
heart yearned for Jessica, his lovely hawk who 
had promised to wed him on her return, but after 
four months in a dank cell, he’d grown used to waiting.
         Dallar and the other soldiers were all 
asleep as well.  Weyden sighed and closed his 
eyes, shifted back and forth on his perch until 
he was comfortable enough to sleep again.
         “Weyden.  I’m sorry.”
         The hawk definitely heard something this 
time.  He turned his head back and forth, but all 
of his friends still lay asleep.  Toward the door 
of the barracks he saw a subtle light pass 
through and a figure emerged from the wood.  His 
heart pounded harder in his chest, for the purple 
robe, long black and white stripped tail, and 
wide golden eyes set in a short-snouted face were 
very familiar.  And he thought he was dead.
         “Yonson,” Weyden whispered as quietly as 
he could. “But what are you...”
         Yonson shook his head and floated across 
the bunks to settle before his one-time Captain. 
“Yes, I am dead, Weyden.  The one who compelled 
me, and destroyed your friends Humphrey and 
London, is now gone.  Your Jessica escaped and will return to you.”
         Weyden felt the tremor in his heart 
lift.  The hawk breathed a long satisfied sigh of 
relief.  His wings drooped as if he’d just 
dropped a heavy weight. “But, how are you here?”
         “I have only a moment, and there was no 
other I wished to see than you, my faithful 
Captain.  You have suffered much because of me, and for that I am sorry.”
         “What was it, Ambassador?” Weyden asked, 
feeling uncertain what else to do.  How did one accost a dead man apologizing?
         “Marzac took me and all who ventured 
there.  You were innocent, and yet you suffered 
because of me.  If the choice were mine, I would 
never have done any of it to you.  Please forgive me for that.”
         Weyden nodded slowly.  The rigour of 
martial life had helped work out the misery of 
the dungeons.  In truth he’d never really blamed 
Yonson for it.  His tears had never been for 
himself, but for his lost friends. “I forgive 
you.  What of London and Humphrey?”
         “I hope to see them on the other side,” 
Yonson replied with a faint smile.  His flesh 
began to fade and he glanced down at his 
paws.  His long tail curled around his legs. “I 
do hope I’ll still be this.” He glanced at the 
hawk and favoured him with a short bow. “Good 
bye, my dear friend.  Tell the others I said good bye.” And then he was gone.
         Weyden stared at that spot for several 
long seconds.  And then he settled back, beak 
cracked in an avian grin.  Jessica would be 
coming home.  His exultant heart was freed from prison once again.

----------

         The mocking presence vanished, swallowed 
by some shadow that his skills could not 
presence.  Where once the sword that was not a 
sword had transfixed him, now Czestadt collapsed 
before the altar in the side chapel in 
Stuthgansk.  The dawn’s golden light brought a 
faint glow to the gold thread.  His eyes rose to 
the icon of Holy Mother Yanlin, and he felt a 
strange peace in her eyes.  His gaze stayed on 
her for several seconds, and a smile curled the tears from his eyes.
         Czestadt didn’t know what had happened, 
but a part of him felt whole again.  There was 
still a twinge of distrust inside, but 
instinctively he knew it would be 
overcome.  Still, what could he do?  His lips 
found words again. “What has happened, 
Mother?  The sword is gone.  I know it, but I 
don’t understand.  What should I do?”
         He didn’t expect an answer, and 
certainly not in the voice of the fat-cheeked 
Bishop he’d seen impaled beneath Yesulam by the 
absent blade. “The answer has been before you for some time, Sir Czestadt.”
         Czestadt turned his head and beheld the 
jolly face of Bishop Jothay staring at him with a 
look of admiration.  He was dressed in a white 
smock with only the barest of accoutrements to 
mark his station as a Bishop.  The red cap 
covered his light-coloured hair, and the ruby 
ring adorning a fat finger, but nothing 
else.  His eyes, once filled with a feverish 
hunger, were now placid and almost melancholy. 
“You’re dead,” Czestadt said, voice slow. “But so 
did others think I was dead.” The scar Kashin had 
made in his face was still tender and would never 
completely heal, but it no longer pained him.
         “I am dead,” Jothay replied. “Forgive me 
for doing what I did to you and to all those 
children.  The blade took many lives while in my 
hands.  But I am here for you, to I hope do one good thing before I go.”
         “And what is that?” Czestadt asked, 
suspicious.  Although this was the Bishop that 
had led him astray, his heart yearned to believe him.
         “You no longer feel you can serve as you do now.  So change.”
         “To what?” Czestadt snapped. “I want 
only to serve the Ecclesia and to have no 
question about my service.  You destroyed that.”
         Jothay nodded, and the melancholy 
distance in his eyes increased. “Then serve those 
you know can be trusted until your faith in the Ecclesia is restored.”
         Czestadt sneered. “And who might that be?”
         “Whose tomb did you take refuge in after I died?”
         Czestadt licked his lips. “Sir Bearn’s.”
         Jothay nodded and smiled. “You know of 
whom I speak, Sir Czestadt.  And thank Kashin for 
me when you see him when you return to Yesulam.” 
The Bishop’s body slowly faded from sight.
         Before he had completely disappeared, 
Czestadt reached out one hand, his prayer beads 
still draped over his fingers. “Wait!  Thank him for what?”
         The dead Bishop’s smile bore a look of 
cherubic amusement as it spread across his ruddy 
cheeks. “For staying faithful to his 
vocation.  As will you...” the voice trailed away 
as the last of his substance vanished.  Only the 
golden light of the new morning shone where once 
he’d stood.  Czestadt took a long breath, nodded 
to himself, and resumed his prayers, eyes never 
leaving the Holy Mother’s face as his fingers counted off the decades.

----------

         According to the stars overhead, it was 
now past midnight.  Captain Becket pulled his 
cloak tighter about his neck as his breath misted 
in the air.  To the east and west loomed 
snow-covered mountains, and to the north the 
plains and scattered forests at the southern end 
of Metamor Valley.  They had arrived at the 
southern reaches of the cursed lands that evening 
and after finding a place near the main northern 
road shielded from the wind, they’d made their camp.
         A finger of stones jutting from the 
earth blocked the wind, though they’d had to dig 
through nearly a foot of snow before they could 
build a fire.  They’d passed a small caravansary 
at the valley’s mouth, but Becket preferred 
staying well away from anyplace that might hear 
William’s wild screaming.  Until an hour past, 
William Dupré vacillated between boldly 
proclaimed threats and frightened gasping all at 
the top of his lungs with longer periods of brooding silence.
         Becket had taken two wagons for their 
journey from Mallow Horn.  One carried their 
supplies and offered a place to sleep in the 
night grew frigid.  The other was bared to keep 
Dupré from attacking them, and those bars were 
concealed to all.  The young captain would check 
on their prisoner regularly, and he would see a 
man with dark eyes gazing at him as if wondering 
which part of his flesh he should eat first.  It 
pained Becket to see the man who he’d been proud 
to call his lord reduced to this.  What foul 
magic had the man with cards used against him?
         An hour ago, Dupré had stopped ranting 
about his master’s triumph and fell into a fit of 
weeping for all that he’d lost with his 
exile.  Jory and his other children, and even his 
wife Anya who had handed him over to her father 
the Duke.  Becket and the two other soldiers 
standing watch with him listened for a long time 
before the captain could stand it no longer.  He 
unlocked the wagon and let William warm himself 
by the fire.  For a long time William said 
nothing, his hard face staring into the snapping 
flames as empty as a thrice-checked 
bottle.  Becket wondered if he would ever say 
anything or if this wasn’t some new ploy.  The 
other four soldiers were all roused from their 
sleep and together the seven of them kept watch over their exiled lord.
         Becket pulled his cloak tighter around 
his neck as he peered at the northern forests and 
abundant snow.  He wondered what William would do 
for himself in this land.  He hated the thought 
of leaving him here, but those were his 
orders.  With a sigh, he rose and slipped a hand 
beneath Dupré’s arm.  He’d put the madman back in his wagon to sleep.
         But William grabbed his arm with his 
free hand and shook his head. “There’s no need, Captain.  I’m myself again.”
         “Milord?”
         “I’m myself, Becket.  I haven’t been 
myself in months.  Not since the Marquis forced 
me to play with his deck.  Whatever control he 
had over me... it’s gone.  Just gone.  For the 
first time I can think clearly.  That bastard 
stole everything from me, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
         Becket took a deep breath, eyes glancing 
at the other soldiers.  They were tense and ready 
to restrain their lord should he prove 
duplicitous.  But the captain wanted to believe 
him.  The firmness of the general was back in his 
voice, and it felt reassuring to hear.  Becket 
let go of his arm and settled cross-legged next 
to him. “You still have your life, milord.”
         William snorted, eyes never straying 
from the fire. “My life.  I’m to be cursed, 
Becket.  Cursed and trapped here in this 
valley.  I’ll never see my children 
again.  Verdane will make them his so he can have 
his heir.  I hope Otakar kills Jaime just so 
Verdane knows what I feel like.” He spat and the fire sizzled.
         “You won’t be alone here, milord,” 
Becket assured him, though he didn’t know what he 
was saying. “I will remain with you to serve you 
in whatever way I can.” He couldn’t believe the 
words that came from his lips.  Without thinking 
it through, he’d just committed himself to 
suffering Metamor’s curses out of sheer loyalty.
         William snorted, but his lips did 
twitch. “Thank you, Captain.  But his grace 
ordered you to return and tell him what I become.”
         “There are seven of us here,” Becket 
said, eyes glancing at the soldiers.  All of them 
nodded, hands moving to the ram-head heraldry 
they bore on their cloaks.  He almost laughed 
when he realized that the trouble would not be in 
finding men willing to stay with William but 
finding one willing to leave him. “The weather 
here is frightful.  A group of travellers could be trapped without warning.”
         William turned his head and stared at 
him with queer eyes. “But Verdane ordered you back.”
         “Stuff Verdane,” Becket snapped, feeling 
a different heat fill him. “It is to you I swore 
my hand, milord.  It is under your banner I have 
fought and bled.  And it is under your banner I would like to die.  Not his.”
         William smiled and patted him on the 
shoulder. “Good man, Becket.  If that is your 
wish...” The words were sucked out of his throat 
as a sudden wind extinguished their 
fire.  William stood, legs solid under the sudden 
gale and stared toward the south.  His eyes 
widened and his cheeks drew taut. “What the hell is that?”
         Becket rose, braced himself, and then 
made the sign of the yew over his chest.  All the 
grasses bent under the shimmering wall of light 
rushing toward them from the south.  The light 
was faint, like a thin series of cobwebs 
stretched taut and then left dangling.  They wove 
in and out of each other as they passed through 
tree, rock, and mountain in their relentless push 
north.  Becket couldn’t even turn to find a place 
to hide.  There was nothing they could do to avoid whatever this was.
         It passed through them and continued on 
its way.  The wind failed and the night resumed 
its chill.  Only he felt a fire building inside 
him.  His hands and legs cramped, his face 
throbbing with every second.  He stared past his 
nose which stretched and pulled down at his hand 
where his fingers were blending together.  Sharp 
bristles spread over the back and across his 
wrists.  The same bristles sprouted along his 
emerging snout.  His lower eye teeth protruded from his lips as he squealed.
         He looked at William whose clothes 
stretched around his misshapen body.  White curly 
wool poked between the seems, and covered all but 
his face.  Two spiralling horns emerged above 
tapered ears, while his face distended into a 
black arrow-nosed snout.  Where once had been a 
man now stood a creature more reminiscent of a ram.
         Becket stared at the soldiers, and saw 
that one had become some sort of dog-like 
creature with mostly black fur, but rusty orange 
on his chin, neck, and hands.  Three of the 
others had shrunk until they looked no better 
than boys ready to begin training as 
squires.  And the other two sported much longer 
hair and obvious breasts pushing beneath their tunics.
         William bleated in surprise as he looked 
at himself, Becket, and his men. And then with an 
long exhalation, the fur receded, the horns 
melted away, and all of them returned to how they 
had been a moment before.  Becket gasped and 
flexed his fingers before rubbing them over his face.
         “What was that?” one of the soldiers 
asked as he shifted about in his clothing.  As 
he’d grown back to his normal age his arm had become tangled in the sleeve.
         “Did whatever that was show us what the 
curses will do to us?” William pondered.  A 
subtle smile played at his lips. “Becket, did I become what I think I did?”
         Becket nodded. “You were a ram, milord.”
         “A ram.” His smile broadened and he 
straightened his doublet. “Ironic, but it is some consolation.”
         “Milord,” one of the other soldiers said 
in a rather strangled voice. “I don’t want to become a woman.”
         “Neither do I, milord.”
         William nodded. “I do not blame either 
of you.  Well, return to Midtown and wait there 
for word on what I do become.  You can then 
return to Mallow Horn and make sure that my children are safe.”
         They both nodded, their faces a mix of 
horror and apology. “We shall, milord.”
         William looked over the rest. “Do any of you wish to leave me now?”
         Becket shook his head.  He had a fairly 
good notion about what he’d become, but he would 
not let that change his mind.  He’d already 
committed to staying at William’s side, and he’d 
never go back on his word. “I speak only for 
myself, but I will stay with you, milord.”  The 
other four soldiers all assured William that they were his men first.
         William smiled and sat back down. 
“Good.  Let us get this fire burning again.” He 
glanced at the two who had for a few seconds been 
women. “Get your sleep.  Tomorrow, take two 
horses and return to Midtown.” They apologized once more and did as instructed.
         While the other soldiers started on the 
fire again, Becket stared at his hand.  For a 
moment he’d only had two thick fingers and a 
thumb.  How much longer before that was always 
what he would be like?  He lifted his eyes to 
William whose hard features were set and focussed 
on the north.  And just what would they do now 
that they would become Metamorians too?
         Those questions would be for another 
day.  Becket helped sweep away the snow that had 
blown over their wood and put his trust in his 
returned liege.  William Dupré, even in exile and 
set to be turned into a strange amalgam of man 
and ram, was himself again.  It was the first happy thought he’d had in weeks.

----------

         Tugal could not remember the last time 
she’d slept through the night.  Even after Kurt 
Schanalein had rescued her from the brothel and 
brought her to the nuns who’d cared for and 
revealed to her a world she’d never known, one of 
kindness, love, and faith, the nightmares of rape 
kept coming back to her.  They had begun to fade 
with time and with the long journey to 
Metamor.  She hoped that with her arrival at 
Metamor they would soon disappear altogether.
         She lay in a soft bed with warm quilts 
covering her body.  She couldn’t feel anything 
lower than her hips, but the pain of her wound 
was still there.  Her head turned from the 
ceiling to look at the others in the room.  The 
fire in the hearth was long reduced to meagre 
coals, but it was enough to show a faint outline 
of the other nuns.  Kurt slept in the room next 
door and she could hear him snoring.  A faint 
smile tickled the edge of her lips.  He was just 
a boy in so many ways, but she’d never met a man 
worthy of being called such than he.  Certainly 
Tugal, while still male, could never have compared.
         As she stared at the nuns, her thoughts 
went back to what the Prime Minister had told 
them that evening.  Duke Thomas would make a 
final decision three day hence, which was the day 
after their wedding.  If the horse lord waited 
much longer, all of the nuns would be taken by 
the curses and would have to stay anyway.  Kurt 
had interpreted that to mean he was leaning 
toward letting them stay and all the remained was finding a place for them.
         Not that the nuns worried.  On their 
journey through the city, they had seen a number 
of buildings that still needed repairing after 
last winter’s assault from the north.  They would 
claim one of those if they could.  Father Hough, 
the parish priest at Metamor, has assured them 
that the Keep would make a place for them, he 
only had to ask it of Madog, but they preferred 
being out in the city where they could more 
easily enter seclusion and see those in need.
         Tugal closed her eyes, feeling ready to 
face the terrors of the night, when she heard a 
quiet sobbing to her left.  She rolled her head 
over and stared at a cloaked figure huddled next 
to her bed, hands pressed to her face.  Tears ran 
through her fingers.  Tugal opened her mouth to 
speak, but her tongue caught in her throat when 
she recognized the insignia on the robe’s 
front.  An outstretched hand with a finger 
pointing downward as if he were writing.
         “Nay,” Tugal whimpered, fear grasping round her heart. “You’re dead!”
         The face turned, and before her she saw 
Agathe.  Her right eye socket was empty and dark, 
but the fire no longer burned within.  A look of 
agony gripped her face as her one eye studied 
Tugal. “Yes.  I’m dead.  Oh Tugal, please forgive 
me!  I’m so sorry!  I’m so sorry!” And she thrust 
her arms toward the bed, resting her hands on the 
mattress and burying her face into their 
crook.  She sobbed anew, chest heaving and legs 
trembling where they knelt on the stone.
         “Sorry?  You!” Tugal whimpered, and then 
her breathing began to slow.  Agathe looked at 
her and closed her bloodshot eye in misery.  The 
former man couldn’t believe what she 
saw.  Before, Agathe had always had a steely 
countenance, distant and remorseless.  It was as 
if the woman kneeling and begging her forgiveness 
was an entirely different person than the one 
who’d led them on the chase through the mountains.
         “I did evil things to you, and to 
everyone.  I’ve done so much evil, I want to tear 
my flesh off!  I’m so dirty!” Agathe beat her 
fists against her head and sobbed anew.  Not a 
one of the nuns seemed to hear their exchange, 
but Kurt did.  The heir to the Breckarin Duchy 
stirred in the other room, and then slipped out 
his door to see what was amiss.  When he saw 
Agathe, he had his sword in his hand and drove the point into her back.
         The sword passed through Agathe’s body 
as if she were nothing but mist and chipped into 
the bed’s wooden frame. “What the?” Kurt stammered. “What is she doing here?”
         Agathe looked at the sword passing 
through her middle and shook her head, still 
sobbing. “Oh I am so low!  I hurt you, Tugal.  I 
wanted to stop them.  I wanted to save you.  I 
wanted them all dead for what they did to you, but it wouldn’t let me!”
         Tugal’s teeth clenched tightly.  This 
foul Runecaster was the reason she was now a 
woman and a cripple too.  Her heart burned with a 
hatred she hadn’t felt since the nuns had taken her in.
         “How could I ever forgive you!” Tugal 
snapped.  Kurt, on seeing that Agathe wasn’t 
doing anything but weep, snatched back his 
sword.  He breathed anxiously and kept his blade ready despite its uselessness.
         “I don’t know,” Agathe sobbed.  Her one 
eye lifted and stared deeply at Tugal. “If I could, I would heal your wound.”
         Tugal winced, her teeth grinding 
tighter. “I don’t believe you.”  And yet, she 
felt something else tugging at her heart.  All 
those stories the nuns had told her of Yahshua 
and His Mother Yanlin, of the many Saints, and of 
Eli and His love, came rushing back to her as she 
stared at this sobbing woman who’d done so much 
wrong.  All Agathe was asking, like so many who’d 
come before Yahshua, was to be forgiven.
         Tugal took a deep breath and lifted one 
hand to rub at her face. “You hurt more than just 
my legs.  You destroyed the man I was.  And you 
almost destroyed the woman I am.  But... I will 
try to forgive you.  I am not there yet.  But I will try.”
         Agathe lowered her one eye, and gasped 
another sob. “That’s more than I could expect.  I’m sorry.”
         A quick flash of light rushed past them, 
and Tugal blinked in confusion.  Kurt grunted and 
his body began to shrink until he looked as if 
he’d lost a few years.  He blinked in confusion, 
and then his eyes widened as he stared past Tugal 
at the nuns.  Tugal turned over, and saw that 
they too had been reshaped by Metamor’s 
curses.  The eldest, Mother Brigita, had a broad 
duck bill protruding from her darkened and 
smoothed face.  Of the other seven sisters, three 
sported beastly snouts, while four looked to be 
children again.  None of them appeared to have become men.
         And then, just as quickly as the changes 
had overtaken them, they faded away.  Mother 
Brigita bore her wrinkled face again, and the 
sisters returned to their old selves.  Kurt 
regained what few years he’d lost and pointed his 
sword at Agathe again. “What did you just do?”
         Agathe shook her head. “Nothing.  What 
happened at Marzac would always be felt over the 
world.  So much magic would make Metamor’s curses 
strike, but without that magic, they cannot hold on.”
         Kurt narrowed his eyes, clearly not 
understanding. “You mean the curse tried to make me a boy again?”
         Agathe nodded and sighed, her sobbing 
fading into sniffling. “And if you stay here it 
may still do so.  Forgive me for what I’ve done 
to you.  If you can, then I know Eli will too.”
         Tugal let out a long breath and felt 
herself relax. “I will try, Agathe.”
         Her last were soft ad echoed as if they 
were carried on her final breath “Thank you.” 
Agathe’s form faded until nothing but shadows 
remained where she’d knelt.  Even the stones 
where her tears had fallen were dry again.
         Kurt waved one hand through the spot and shook his head. “She’s gone.”
         Tugal laid her head back down. “I 
know.  I think my nightmares will be too.”
         The boy frowned and lowered his sword. 
“Do you need me to stay up with you?”
         She shook her head. “No, but thank you, 
Kurt.  Get your sleep.” He muttered something 
more then returned to his room.  Tugal stared at 
the ceiling for a handful of breaths before a 
warm dream wrapped her in sleep’s arms.  Her 
heart, so weary, felt a taste of peace.

----------

         The World Bell remained pointed to the 
southwest for only a few minutes before it and 
the wind clawing them in the secluded garden died 
away.  The massive brass bell swung back to its 
resting place, quiet and still.  Elizabeth sighed 
and straightened, glancing at the waters in the 
fountain to see what she might recognize from the 
spells.  Only they showed nothing but the gentle rippling of a brook.
         “This was not a spell as we know it,” 
Elizabeth said, turning to catch the attention of 
the guild master, Demarest. “Magic itself was 
drawn to the southwest.  I’ve never seen — never heard! — the like of it.”
         Demarest shook his head. “Neither have 
I, and that...” His eyes widened as he stared 
past her toward the southwest.  Elizabeth turned 
, putting one hand back on the sconce to steady 
herself.  Though massive walls kept them from 
seeing more than twenty paces to the southwest, 
through it they saw something else unheard of.  A 
long wall of magical energy, wrapped and bound 
tight, spread across the plain and through 
everything as it thundered to the northeast.  And 
far, far away, beyond the horizon, a brilliant light shattered the heavens.
         “Eli preserve us,” Elizabeth prayed, too 
frightened to do anything more.
         The magical wall drove through Marigund 
and through the garden where they all stood 
gaping and helpless as infants.  It felt no 
different than a burst of wind, extinguishing 
candles and popping witchlights as if they were soap bubbles.
         The World Bell did not ring.  It made no 
sound at all.  Instead, it shattered into a 
billion fragments too small to see, a brass 
vapour that pulverized the trees and stone wall 
behind it.  Elizabeth gasped as the shredded 
branches collapsed, and the wall groaned, blocks 
falling in the magic’s wake.  She could only be 
grateful that none of them had been standing 
there, or they’d be no more than a red smear.
         Demarest sucked in his breath and stared 
with unbelieving eyes at the empty arch where the 
World Bell had hung for hundreds of years.  His 
voice utterly failed to sound reassuring. “I really hope that was a good sign.”
         Elizabeth looked to the southwest.  The 
spire of light was gone, and so too was any sign 
of magic in that direction.  To the northeast the 
wall continued until it vanished beyond the 
horizon.  She summoned a witchlight and the 
gardens reclaimed their soft illumination. “We’re 
still here,” she pointed out. “From what we’ve 
learned, had things gone poorly at Marzac, we would not be here.”
         Demarest and the others could not take 
their eyes off the absent World Bell. “Well let’s 
find out.  And now.  I want people from Metamor 
and from Yesulam to tell me what in all the hells they’ve been doing.”
         Elizabeth took a deep breath and stared 
at the empty arch.  Once the others saw this, 
there would be no more arguments.  She collapsed 
against the pillar with a heavy sigh, all her energy suddenly spent.

----------

         Above them the world burned.  The blue 
nimbus protected them from the worst of the heat 
and ash, but from time to time the wind would 
seep through a crack and scorch their 
throats.  Jessica, already exhausted from holding 
the Chateau together long enough for them to 
escape, slouched against one side of the 
depression and breathed slowly.  Andares tended 
to the cut on her wing, pronounced it minor, and 
after cleaning it let it dry in the air.
         Abafouq built a magical construct much 
like a scaffold of crossed bars beneath the blue 
shield that gave it strength.  This he tended 
with meticulous care while the others watched him and the devastation above.
         The fireball quickly turned into a dark 
cloud that towered over the plain as it 
disappeared into the sky.  The inferno beneath 
limned that cloud with red shadows as if it too 
were burning.  After the fireball and cloud 
dissipated, all that remained was the fires 
consuming the swamp in every direction they 
looked.  Choking smoke obscured the sky and 
blotted out the stars.  The earth still trembled 
like a whipped man shivering after the blows.
         Inside the depression, they huddled and 
waited for the chaos to burn itself out.  Once 
the afterimage of the fireball had faded from 
their eyes, Guernef had drawn his wings in tight 
and squawked with one long exhalation.  At first 
they heard nothing.  But the magic in his voice 
loosened their ears, healing the wound the roar 
inflicted.  By the squawk’s end they could hear 
not only his voice, but the ravenous hunger of 
the fire outside.  He then erected a spell by 
tugging at the air in the middle of the 
depression with his claws that would keep the air 
inside pure for however long they needed to 
hide.  It didn’t stop the foul miasma from 
seeping through, but it did stop it from doing more than burning their throats.
         Charles, sensing that the immediate 
danger was past, resumed his stony flesh and 
coaxed his vine to nestle within where it had 
first taken root above the base of his tail.  He 
felt it sinking inside, but slowly, and with less 
warmth than before.  It would be a long time 
before his vine was full recovered, but at least it would heal.
         He then turned his impassive attention 
on the Marquis’s two servants.  The steward 
Vigoreaux panted heavily and painfully clutched 
his stomach, completely worn from the run.  The 
castellan Sir Autrefois was stoic and eyes the 
devastation above with some measure of grim 
satisfaction.  Nearby, Lindsey and Kayla huddled 
together, the skunk whispering soft words into 
the newly-made kangaroo’s long ears.  The 
kangaroo’s dark eyes occasionally turned to the 
skunk, and her boxy muzzle would twitch out of 
its rictus of despair.  As stone, Charles already 
felt his empathy settling into a dispassionate 
regard, but still he wished he could do something more for the northerner.
         Still, he returned his attention to the 
Marquis’s men and said, “From the look of things, 
you were being controlled as much as Zagrosek was.  What did they do to you?”
         “The Marquis or the Prince?” Autrefois asked in a grumbling whisper.
         “Either.  Both.”
         “We’ve served the house du Tournemire 
our whole lives.  My father was a member of his 
father’s guard, and I joined them when I was of 
age.  During the civil war fifteen years ago, I 
distinguished myself and Camille conferred upon 
me the title Sir.  I was made his Castellan a few 
years later.  Vigoreaux’s father was Steward 
before him.  The Marquis never went anywhere 
without us at his side.  Even into evil.”
         “And what did he hope to get out of an alliance with Yajakali?”
         “Alliance?” Autrefois snorted and shook 
his head.  Beside him Vigoreaux closed his eyes 
and murmured miserably. “Camille was always power 
hungry, and he enjoyed making people dance on the 
end of a string, but he was never evil.  He took 
his responsibilities over the land very 
seriously.  He risked going into Marzac because 
he hoped he could cultivate the swampland and 
find new sources of food.  We’d been suffering a 
drought that year and very poor crops.  Many were 
dying.  But once we went there, all of it was 
over.” Autrefois sighed and lowered his head 
between his knees.  A limb cracked overhead and 
bounced off the shield sending sparks everywhere.
         The others listened in, but they all let 
Charles ask the questions. “And Yajakali?  What did he want?”
         “I never knew,” Autrefois replied. “He 
shut down my mind and made me do only what he 
wanted me to do, but I never understood why.  The 
same with all of us.  It’s like I was a different 
person all those years.” He shrugged and leaned 
back in the dirt.  A tremor sifted more down on 
all their backs. “All I know is Yajakali killed 
me and now I’m alive again.  I have no idea why.”
         “He did something,” Andares mused just 
loud enough for the others to hear over the 
conflagration, “that no one thought 
possible.  And now we see why.  Even if he 
succeeded, the magical blowback may have still destroyed him.”
         “What was he doing?” James asked.  The 
donkey lay on the ground near Charles, hooves crossed at the pastern.
         Andares’s angular face folded into a 
moue. “To undo a mistake.  Or at least, to undo 
what he sees as his mistake.  He would have taken 
Metamor’s curse and made all of mankind into 
talking beasts.  To him, you are only a little 
above the brutes of this earth, and should better 
reflect that in your shape.  But he is gone 
now.  The world can continue for the first time 
in millennia without the threat of Marzac hanging 
like a spectre over their shoulder.”
         “But what of us?” Lindsey said, chocking 
back her sobs to glare at the Åelf. “Do you know 
how many years I wished I could have become 
this?  And now I have it and he’s gone!”
         Kayla put a restraining paw on the 
kangaroo’s shoulder. “He will be someplace 
better, Lindsey.  He didn’t want this to happen to you either.”
         Lindsey wrapped her paw around the strap 
of Habakkuk’s satchel and shook it. “All he left us were letters!  I want him!”
         “You cannot,” Abafouq said softly.  The 
Binoq’s eyes were on the magical lattice he’d 
erected, but he turned so that he mostly faced 
the kangaroo. “You cannot have him back.  Just as 
I cannot have my home back.  Yajakali wanted his 
world back, but he could not be having that 
either.  Habakkuk gave his life to make sure Yajakali could not get it back.”
         “Shut up,” Lindsey snapped at him, tail thumping against the dirt.
         “You cannot undo what is done. Not without becoming a monster.”
         “Shut—” Lindsey’ snarl was swallowed by 
the earth shaking and throwing them all down.
         Jerome bounced to his feet and stared 
across the burning plain once they quake settled. 
“The land’s gone.” He peered a moment more when 
his eyes widened in fright and he dived back into 
the depression. “I hope this shield will block water!”
         Charles scrambled up the incline and saw 
immediately what his fellow Sondeckis had 
seen.  The land around the Chateau had collapsed 
until there was nothing but a huge pit.  The 
jungle on every side was nothing but smoldering 
ash.  Except the jungle to the south, which had 
collapsed into a valley leading straight out to the sea.
         And with the last quake, the sea came rushing in.
         The rat’s jewelled eyes widened as he 
watched the waves bear down that valley, 
consuming the flames and rising in geysers of 
steam as they swallowed the hottest coals.  The 
land washed away, mud and filth, all of it, born 
along and driving like a thousand anvils toward them.
         “Water nothing,” the stone rat scowled. 
“We’re about to be buried alive!  Jessica, Abafouq!  The shield!”
         Andares helped stir the hawk, while 
Abafouq and Guernef used their strength to keep 
the shield steady.  Kayla squeezed Lindsey’s 
shoulder one last time before leaving her to lend 
her powers to the shield.  Charles stayed where 
he was, granite claws digging into the earth as 
the water, mud, and detritus poured into the vast 
pit where once the Chateau stood.  The waves 
crashed and sizzled as they sank into the 
crater.  For a moment, the rat hoped the crater 
would be enough.  But far quicker than he could 
have imagined, the torrent spilled over the 
crater’s edge like a tongue licking voluptuous 
red lips as it readied to strike its next meal.
         “Here it comes,” the rat said, his voice 
steady, but his tail tip twitched erratically.
         The sea crushed the blackened trees and 
brush, shouldering them aside like the Rheh did 
the Flatlands grasses.  Charles half imagined 
Yajakali’s face screaming at them one last time 
as the muck drove over their shield.  The earth 
shook wit the force of it, knocking the rat 
backward into the depression.  The shield 
buckled, Abafouq’s magical lattice bent, but it held.
         Charles shook his head, put one paw on 
James’s shoulder who stared with whitened eyes at 
the chaos surging overhead, and then settled 
himself in to watch.  A bit of water squirted 
through a crack in the shield; Sir Autrefois 
scrambled to get out of its way.  It sizzled where it struck the earth.
         “What do we do now?” James asked, 
staring in befuddled stupor as the mud coated the 
shield, covering it in layer after layer of debris.
         “I don’t know,” Charles admitted. “But 
we have to get of here and soon.”

----------

         Nemgas blinked open his eyes to a clear 
night sky.  The faces and lights that had danced 
in conjunction above Cenziga were gone.  The 
tower of fog that had kept them isolated from the 
rest of the world lingered still, but the 
uppermost reaches were drawing away, torn free by 
nothing stranger than wind.  Where once the 
strange mountain had stood was a barren plain of 
dirt from which rose a thin stream of starry blue 
light.  Nemgas blinked again, marvelling at its beauty.
         “It hath fulfilled its purpose,” an 
unfamiliar voice said behind him.  Nemgas rolled 
over, brushing tattered remnants of vellum from 
his tunic.  Four figures whose flesh were tainted 
by that blue light hovered over the body of 
Grastalko.  The young man lay in the arms of a 
man who did not appear much older.  Two others, 
one ruddy and the other thin with a discerning 
eye, worked their hands over his body, pushing 
and massaging his flesh, especially his left arm 
which was still blackened from fire.  All three were dressed like Midlanders.
         The fourth Nemgas knew the moment he saw 
him.  He was dressed in gleaming silver armour, 
with a breastplate stylized to look like fur, 
gauntlets tipped with black claws, and helm 
crafted to appear as the snarling jaws of a 
wolf.  The Magyar exhaled in awe. “Pelain!”
         The armoured man nodded. “Thou dost know 
me, as I thought thee wouldst.  Good.  I thank 
thee for finding my blade and striking the evil 
from Jagoduun with it one last time.”
         Nemgas looked down at his feet and saw 
Caur-Merripen laying there, the silver gleaming 
like a hound dog satisfied with its latest 
catch.  A few feet further and he saw Dazheen 
slumped on her knees and Bryone at her side 
wiping cleaning her face with a cloth damp from her tears.
         “Why art thee here?” Nemgas asked.
         “We hath been freed.  The artifacts art 
gone, and so nothing more dost bind us.” Pelain 
gestured to the three Midlanders.  The youngest 
smiled and nodded to him. “Both of thee didst 
suffer much to aid us.  Thou hast not suffered in vain.”
         Nemgas managed to stand and licked his 
lips. “Then ‘tis over?  The evil hath died?”
         Pelain nodded, the ruby eyes of the wolf 
gleaming brighter. “Aye, ‘tis over.  A tale of 
eleven thousand years hath come to a close.”
         “Where didst Cenziga go?” Nemgas 
gestured to the empty plain.  The mountain’s 
disappearance seemed to rip something out of his 
own heart.  He had always been connected to it.  How could it be gone?
         “It hath filled the cleft made by 
Yajakali.  ‘Twas its purpose.” Pelain turned to 
the Midlanders and asked, “How art the boy?”
         The ruddy one leaned back and nodded. 
“He’s well.  He’ll sleep for a little longer, but 
the fire won’t kill him anymore.”
         “And the pain?”
         The youngest smiled peaceably. “The pain is gone too.”
         The last of the three stretched his arms 
behind his back and nodded. “But he will still 
have the fire.  It is all we could do for him.”
         Pelain favoured them with a faint but 
proud smile. “I thank thee all, Kaleas, Marin, 
and Thulin.  Thy tasks are done.  Go beyond.  Thy 
Eli is waiting to receive thee.”
         Marin lowered Grastalko’s head to the 
ground ever so gently, and brushed his hair back 
from his face.  The boy’s visage was so peaceful 
and still that had they not said otherwise, 
Nemgas would have thought him lost to death. “Shall we see you there, Pelain?”
         “I pray that it wouldst be so,” Pelain 
replied without a trace of anxiety.  The 
Midlanders saluted him, and then their forms fell 
back into the gently ascending spire of light and 
were lost to sight.  Pelain watched them for 
several seconds before turning back to Nemgas. 
“Cenziga wast born in the moment that Yajakali 
sundered the veil to the Underworld.  It wast 
placed here, where it could wait unbeknownst to 
the forces of Marzac.  Those few like us 
permitted to climb to its summit, wert uniquely 
prepared to strike that evil.  Thou hast observed this.”
         “Aye,” Nemgas agreed as he remembered 
all that he’d seen in the ten months since he’d 
scaled the bizarre peak. “The invisible blade 
that burned Grastalko and cut Czestadt.  Thy 
sword Caur-Merripen which alone could repel 
Yajakali’s.  E’en this fog which didst burn the 
evil out of Chamag and brought the peace of death 
to Berkon and Kaspel.  I hath seen it.”
         “That evil will ne’er strike this world 
again,” Pelain said. “And all that it hath wrought hath been undone.”
         Nemgas frowned and ran his fingers along 
the stump of his right arm. “But what of 
me?  Didst Cenziga create me?  I remember being 
born amongst the Magyars, but I didst come from 
Kashin of the Yeshuel.  Wilt I be undone?”
         The long dead hero in wolf armour rested 
a gauntlet on his shoulder and smiled. “Memory be 
but one more thing that man dost create.  E’en 
so, that thou art, be it the fault of Cenziga, 
hath been foreordained.  Thou art as real as 
Kashin.  And thy life belongs to thee.”
         Nemgas took a deep breath.  He would 
have to trust in Pelain’s word. “Thou hast 
brought healing to Grastalko.  What of my boy, Pelurji?  And what of Dazheen?”
         “Another wilt tend to Dazheen.  As for 
thy boy, didst thee not hear?  The evil that 
smote him hath been undone.  What thy fellows 
hath done for him wilt tend to the rest.” Pelain 
glanced at the blue embers.  So much thinner than 
they had been, soon they would gone.  Even the 
fog was breaking apart. “I must leave thee 
soon.  But I wilt not give thee one last word ere 
I go.  The boys, Pelurji and Pelaeth wilt become 
leaders of their peoples.  Thou hast seen true in 
this.  I only wish that I couldst tell thee of 
the legends that thy progeny wilt speak of them.”
         Nemgas reached his arm out, and the 
words biding Pelain to speak more tumbled from 
his tongue, but the blue limned hero of Cheskych 
fell into the spire just as the three Midlanders 
had.  The light lifted from the ground and 
vanished into the starry night above.
         For several seconds Nemgas stared 
upward, until a vast wave tore the fog around 
them, a wall of light pushing it aside as it 
thrust its way across the Steppe.  Nemgas spun on 
his heels and saw the distant wagons.  His heart 
leapt in his chest.  No more did this spot need to be hidden from mortal eyes.
         He turned to Bryone who gazed at him 
with questioning eyes. “I wilt send the others 
for thee.  Stay with them.  I must harken to my 
son.” Bryone nodded and wiped tears from her eyes.

----------

         “I will try to climb through,” Charles 
suggested.  They saw only by the cool light of 
the witchlights Jessica had summoned, and now 
submerged beneath the carnage brought by the sea, 
they realized how little light that was.  Tired 
and worn from their exertions, they had been able 
to do little but lay in the muck and rest.
         “That’s mud over our heads, not stone,” 
Jerome pointed out. “You can’t pass through that.”
         “I’m a rodent, I can dig through it,” 
the rat replied. “I’ll have to leave my vine for 
a moment, but we need to see what’s out 
there.  We haven’t felt a quake since this happened.  I think it will be safe.”
         Jessica stretched her wings and lifted 
her head to stare at the faint shield. “I’ll open a patch for you.  Good luck.”
         None of the others objected, so Charles 
gently coaxed his vine from the small of his back 
and planted it in the soil.  The end curled 
around his paw to thank him and then let go.  The 
rat glanced at Jerome. “Do you mind lifting me up 
once I shrink?”  At Jerome’s nod, the rat allowed 
himself to change into a normal sized rat, albeit 
one still made from stone.  His friend held out 
his palm and Charles climbed into it.  A queer 
smile graced Jerome’s lips as he hoisted the rat 
as high as he could reach.  Jessica concentrated 
on the patch beside his head and a small bit of 
the nimbus withdrew.  Charles dug his claws into 
the hard packed dirt and quickly wedged himself inside.
         As soon as his entire body forced itself 
inside, digging a new tunnel with stone claws, he 
was reminded of the time Misha and he had played 
predator and prey through the halls of 
Metamor.  He’d escaped down a crack in the wall 
and had nearly gone feral in his panic.  Now, as 
stone, he could see past that fear and dig, 
always going forward and always going up.  Alone 
of his friends he could survive without food, 
water, or even air.  He would risk the desolation 
above for their sakes because he alone could take that risk.
         The mud was hard packed but it gave to 
his claws.  Minutes dragged past, but he kept 
digging.  When finally he broke through to the 
surface he had lost track of time.  The world 
around was dark apart from a crimson line to the 
north where the jungle still smoldered.  Above 
the smoke still blotted the stars.  Everything 
around him was muck and filth.  Where once stood 
the Chateau now lingered an inland lake and a 
channel to the sea.  The air was pleasantly cool against his stony flesh.
         He willed the granite to soften and in 
moments he was flesh and blood again.  He took 
several deep breaths; the air was riddled with 
foul scents but it was breathable.  He smiled to 
himself, returned to stone, and then assumed his 
six-legged form.  With all six limbs he clawed at 
the muck, tossing it aside with the alacrity of a 
dog searching for a buried bone.
         And that’s when he heard the voice of 
his closest friend. “Thank you, Charles.”
         He spun and there standing on the 
desolate plain only feet from him was Krenek 
Zagrosek.  He bore the black robe of the 
Sondeckis and his smile brightened the air around 
him. “Krenek!  I thought you were dead.”
         “I am,” he replied without remorse. 
“Truly, I was dead the moment the Marquis took me 
to Marzac.  I could never have survived such a 
corruption.  I’m just here to say goodbye.  And 
to thank you for believing in me even when no one 
else would.  I’m sorry you had to suffer so much on my account.”
         “I would gladly suffer it again for 
you,” Charles replied, the words spoken before 
his mind could ponder them. “And I will keep my 
promise to pray for you, Agathe, and Yonson.”
         “I know.” Zagrosek looked past him and 
clasped his hands before his waist. “And promise 
me that you will bring Garigan to Sondeshara one 
day.  He deserves to know his heritage as a Sondecki.”
         The rat frowned but nodded. “I 
will.  With all that has happened, perhaps it is 
time to heal that wound too.  I’ll want to bring 
Ladero there as well.  My youngest child is also 
a Sondecki.  I hope he hasn’t broken anything while I’ve been gone!”
         Krenek laughed warmly and then his eyes 
lifted to the sky. “I am being called away, 
Charles.  Walk with Yahshua all thy days, and you 
will never be afraid.  Sondlatharos!”
         “Sondlatharos, Krenek.” If stone could 
cry, Charles would have shed crystals from his 
eyes.  Zagrosek smiled all the while he faded 
into the shadowy night.  The rat stared a moment 
more, but his friend did not reappear.
         He said a silent prayer for his friend 
and the others destroyed by Marzac, then returned 
his six limbs to digging in the close-packed mud 
and debris.  It took him several minutes of 
ripping dirt with granite claws to dislodge 
enough earth to open a way to his friends.  Once 
he had a small hole, he shouted, “Everything’s 
clear up here.  I think it’s safe to come out.”
         “Do you need any help?” James shouted back up.
         “Give me a few more minutes and I’ll 
have this wide enough for us all.”  And he was 
right.  Jessica and Abafouq stayed behind to keep 
the earth from collapsing in on them, while 
Charles and Jerome helped the rest climb up to 
the surface.  Andares carried the rat’s vine with 
him, which Charles gratefully returned to the 
small of his back.  Jerome then passed Abafouq up 
even as the Binoq chanted his spells.  The 
Sondecki grabbed the hawk around the middle and 
leapt up the hole.  A moment after they were all 
free, the earth sank into the depression with a disconsolate whump.
         “Now what?” Lindsey asked, her tone sharp, but beginning to soften.
         “Now we have to find someway out of 
here.” Charles gestured to the northern jungle. 
“The sea didn’t put all of the fire out.”
         “We don’t have enough supplies to trek 
through the swamp again,” Kayla pointed out. “We 
don’t have enough supplies to last more than a few days.”
         “I think I know way,” a rather timid 
voice said.  They all turned to the Marquis’s 
portly steward.  Vigoreaux flinched under the 
scrutiny, but marshalled himself to speak again. 
“The day before you arrived, the Marquis spoke of 
the Whalish fleet defeating his forces.  Their 
ships can’t be more than a day away.”
         “Where would they be?” Guernef squawked.
         “To the south,” Vigoreaux turned to 
point, but turned back to the Nauh-kaee instead. 
“If what his grace said about your kind is true, 
you should reach them half a day at most.”
         But Guernef shook his head. “They’ll 
need to see somebody they recognize.  I would be just another monster to them.”
         “I’ll go with you,” Charles said. “I’ve 
been to Whales before and have met several of 
their Captains.  We should be able to find one that will listen.”
         Guernef look him up and down and 
suggested, “Only if you assume a smaller form.”
         The rat returned to his two legged 
stance, and then climbed onto the offered 
back.  Jerome stood at his side and patted him on 
his granite back. “We’ll keep a signal light so 
you can find your back to us.  Eli go with you.”
         “And with you, my friend.”
         Charles buried his face in feathers as 
the Nauh-kaee leapt into the smoky air and beat 
his wings, angling toward the distant southern sea.

----------

         The Magyars all stared in gaped-faced 
wonder as the fog was blown away and no ominous 
mountain stood anymore.  Nemgas saw Hanaman rush 
toward him with Pelgan and Gamran on his heels. 
“Tend to Dazheen!” he shouted, jerking his thumb 
over his shoulder. “All art well!  The mountain 
hath fulfilled its purpose!  Thou hast no need to fear!”
         They each appeared to understand and 
while they still hesitated, they ran toward the 
unconscious seer.  Nemgas, heart trembling 
anxiously, ran to the wagons.  He darted amongst 
them until he found the one he wanted, jumped to the door, and barged inside.
         He found Kisaiya kneeling next to the 
bed in which lay the emaciated Pelurji.  She 
snapped her head around, long hair flinging over 
the sheets, and then let out a long breath.  It 
seemed to go on forever, as if she hadn’t let it 
go since Nemgas had left her side earlier that 
night.  Nemgas crossed to her and knelt next to her.  Pelurji did not stir.
         He ran his one hand down her back to 
comfort her. “The evil hath been lifted, Kisaiya.  All art well.”
         She rested her head against his and trembled. “I didst hear shouting.”
         “The mountain be gone,” he replied, 
kissing her forehead softly. “The evil hast been 
defeated and can no longer return.” He glanced at 
the boy and felt his heart tighten in his chest. 
“Pelurji shouldst awake.  Oh my boy, please wake!”
         Kisaiya sniffled and shook her head. “It 
hath been so long now.  Who couldst survive asleep for so many months?”
         Nemgas ignored her fear, and with gentle 
hand stroked it across the boy’s face. “Come, my 
Pelurji.  My son.  Come back to me.” He leaned in 
closer and brushed the back of his fingers along 
the boy’s cheek.  Pale and withdrawn, they 
nevertheless warmed to his touch.  Nemgas closed 
his eyes in quiet prayer to any god who would 
listen.  His last was said to Kashin’s god, 
Eli.  Eli’s son Yahshua came back from the 
dead.  Could but a similar miracle be worked for his boy?
         “Nemgas!” Kisaiya gasped in sudden fright.
         He felt it before he saw it.  Against 
his knuckles Pelurji’s cheek moved of its own 
accord.  He smiled, his heart slowing, finally 
content.  Pelurji blinked at the light, and 
weakly tried to lift one arm beneath the sheets 
before giving up and letting it fall back 
down.  Those eyes looked down and saw Nemgas, and 
a smile came to his lips. “Father Nemgas,” 
Pelurji said, voice young and full of delight. “I killed a dragon!”
         Nemgas choked back a laugh and nodded. 
“Aye, thou didst that.  That and more, 
Pelurji.  I doubt that wilt be the greatest feat 
that wilt be laid at thy hands in the years to come, my son.”
         Pelurji frowned as he tried to move his 
arm again. “Why canst I lift my arm?”
         Kisaiya hugged Nemgas tight, her eyes 
wet with tears as she stared at the boy woken 
from an eight month slumber.  Nemgas stroked his 
forehead and sighed. “Thou art very weak.  The 
battle didst put thee into a deep sleep from 
which thee has only just arisen.  I wilt help 
thee regain thy strength, my son.  Thou shouldst 
not fear that.  Nor anything else.  I hath won 
thee back.  Ah, praise be the gods I hath my son back!”
         And with a shout of joy, Nemgas wrapped 
his arm around Pelurji’s back and pulled him to 
his chest.  Kisaiya wrapped her arms about them 
both as best she could.  All their hearts beat together in joy.

----------


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

Charles Matthias