[Mkguild] The Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter LXXI

[C. Matthias]

And here's a chapter that I know everyone has 
been looking forward to.  I know I have.  I've 
had these scenes in mind for years!

A couple scenes may yet change with edits from 
Chris Hoekstra and Raven Blackmane, but most of 
this can be counted on to stay exactly as is.

Metamor Keep: The Last Tale of Yajakali
By Charles Matthias

Chapter LXXI

The Dance of the Cards

         Grastalko tightened the fingers of his 
good hand in the front of his shirt as he watched 
the aristocratic man who the strange animal-men 
called Marquis.  The cards no longer appeared as 
heavy sheets of vellum inscribed with metal and 
ink.  The images that paraded before them within 
their collective heap were as vivid as his fellow 
Magyars and the ominous mountain flashing a 
piercing blue behind them.  This was no ordinary 
clairvoyance granted by the arcane powers of the 
seer.  What lay at their feet was a window into 
another place through which the vilest of sights and sounds issued forth.
         The newest of the Magyars had never seen 
a Keeper before, but there was no question that 
the strange animal man was just such a one.  He 
even recognized the peculiar species that this 
Zhypar Habakkuk had been blended with, for one of 
his wealthier cousins from his time before the 
wagons had purchased one for his zoological 
gardens to amuse his guests.  The kangaroo and 
the bearded man with him were apparently helpless 
before the Marquis because the former only spoke 
derisively of the nobleman and the latter did nothing at all.
         But the awful things that the Marquis 
said made the fire that burned in his arm flare 
with a cold blue light.  When the Marquis spoke 
of arranging the Patriarch’s assassination, 
Grastalko felt his knees buckle and his eyes 
instinctively rose to Nemgas.  The one-armed 
Magyar’s eyes narrowed and he gripped 
Caur-Merripen as if he would drive that silver 
and black blade through the Marquis’s mocking countenance.
         Grastalko had come to be a Magyar 
because of the Patriarch’s murder.  The Driheli 
knights had been sent to the Flatlands in order 
to hunt down the Yeshuel Kashin of whom Nemgas 
bore a near perfect resemblance.  In the 
Driheli’s attempt to kill this twin Grastalko had 
been captured and incorporated into the nomadic 
life of a Magyar.  Neither Dazheen nor Bryone 
could understand the significance to him to learn 
that the Marquis had orchestrated their beloved 
Patriarch’s demise.  He felt as if Nemgas had 
turned and skewered him with that ancient blade.
         Grastalko snarled and pulled his shirt 
taut with his good hand. “That man!  There hast 
to be something we canst do to stop him!  He hath killed Eli’s holy servant!”
         Dazheen shook her head, cheeks sagging 
in forlorn resignation. “There be aught we can 
do, young Grastalko.  ‘Tis the selfsame man who 
turned my cards against me.  I canst only watch.”
         The young Magyar turned his eyes on 
Bryone, but the seer-in-training could not meet 
his gaze.  Her hands rested on Dazheen’s 
shoulders to keep the elderly woman steady, while 
her eyes remained locked on the horrible scene 
below them.  Nemgas nodded to him but said 
nothing, his hatred tempered by a sense of 
justice that weighed on him.  Grastalko, feeling 
impotent, let the fire dwindle in his arm, and returned his eyes to the cards.
         And then turned away again as the 
Marquis forced Habakkuk and the other who he’d 
transformed into a kangaroo to be intimate atop 
the foul dais.  A peal of thunder raced overhead 
and he stared up at the mountain.  Cenziga’s many 
spires pierced the sky like so many thorns 
dragged across bare flesh.  The blue light 
trailed from each spire in faint circles that 
grew wider then retracted, as if the entire 
mountain were vibrating.  The constellations 
dancing at the summit took on vivid shapes of 
faces and animals and other things too strange to 
name.  The tower of fog flashed in answer to each 
thunderous exultation and seemed to crouch closer.
         “I dost know them,” Nemgas 
murmured.  Grastalko turned his gaze back to the 
cards and saw more animal men appear.  The Magyar 
pointed with the tip of the sword at a man 
bearing the visage of a rat with a black 
handprint on the right side of his face who with 
several others larger than he restrained an 
enormous hawk. “He hight Charles Matthias.  And 
‘tis Andares-es-sebashou.” The sword point moved 
to a man with pearly-grey skin, black hair, long pointed ears, and golden eyes.
         Nemgas frowned and shook his head. 
“Kashin knew them when he wast at Metamor, ere 
the Patriarch wast killed.  Good.  They shalt 
have the vengeance ‘twas denied to Kashin.”  His 
eyes darkened and his voice fell into darkness. “Why dost they do nothing?”
         “The cards,” Dazheen intoned with a 
deepening sadness. “They hath no way to resist him.”
         Grastalko leaned closer, flexing his 
fingers so as not to tear open his shirt.  And 
then jumped back with a cry as the cards 
scattered into the air.  They settled back to the 
ground after the burst of air passed, all face 
up.  Another pearl-grey skinned creature stood in 
the passageway dressed in white 
garments.  Grastalko had never seen anything so ancient as this man-like being.
         Nemgas’s voice whispered in awe, “Qan-af-årael.”
         This Qan-af-årael lifted his hands and a 
warm green light encased them.  Grastalko felt 
his heart lift as he realized that here was one 
whom the Marquis could not control.  He pumped 
his fist in the air and watched wide eyed as the 
Marquis and the ancient one drew closer.

  ----------

         Once she was against the wall, Kayla 
turned to watch Qan-af-årael and the 
Marquis.  The others were likewise standing out 
of the way, each keeping as far as they could 
both from the Marquis and from the Dais.  The 
golden platform pulsed with a sombre life that 
made them shudder.  The nine gems all throbbed with febrile might.
         The Marquis kept his cards spinning 
around his head, while the Åelf summoned a 
strange verdant nimbus over his hands.  The pale 
glow spread quickly into a large branch that 
Qan-af-årael wielded like a sword.  The branch 
had seven fronds in all four cardinal directions 
like a stylized pine tree.  The Åelf swung 
downwards and all twenty-eight fronds shot green 
lights that spiralled faster than a bolt from a crossbow toward the Marquis.
         Tournemire flexed his fingers and the 
cards flashed outward to strike each light.  The 
lights spread around each card they struck before 
vanishing into nothing.  The cards continued to 
spin and intercept the myriad blows while 
Qan-af-årael continued to fling those bright 
energies with his mystic tree.  His face stayed 
placid while the corrupted aristocrat smiled his mocking grin.
         Lifting one hand, the Marquis rubbed his 
fingers together.  Between them a black vortex 
swelled until it was as large as a 
fist.  Scattered glimmers of light from 
Qan-af-årael’s attack were sucked into and lost 
in that dark maelstrom.  The smile fading into 
concentration, Tournemire pushed the ball past 
his shield of cards.  It moved slowly compared to 
the green bolts of light but inexorably like a 
headsman to his axe.  Qan-af-årael lifted his 
branch blade with an effortless flick of his 
wrist and met the vortex with the tip.
         The vortex stopped but so too did the 
branch.  The green light writhed and bent as the 
vortex shuddered and monstrously gulfed the 
brilliant energies.  Qan-af-årael spread wide his 
other hand and a spear of pure white 
appeared.  Kayla and the others lifted their arms 
to shield their eyes so scintillating did it 
burn.  This he thrust into the blackness which 
squealed like a deluge of water poured into a forge.
         The spear vanished into the darkness, 
but whatever power the vortex had was vanquished 
along with it.  Qan-af-årael resumed swinging his 
branch and the Marquis resumed blocking the bolts 
with his cards while each in their free hands 
conjured more spells.  The walls shook as the 
millennial dust flew toward the pair.  That dust 
coalesced into weapons which jabbed at either 
combatant only to strike ineffectually against a 
card or another agglomeration of dust drawn in to defend them.
         Kayla swallowed as her thick tail 
pressed against the wall.  To her left she saw 
Charles staring with slack expression, and on her 
right was the red-furred kangaroo she knew to be 
Lindsey.  She too stared without emotion at the 
battle.  Kayla felt her heart tighten in her 
chest and realized that the Marquis must still be 
exercising some control over them.  She tried to 
reach for the wakizashi Trystathalis.  But her 
paw clenched shut when it neared the blade’s 
hilt.  She ground her fangs together, dark eyes 
narrowing at the Marquis.  How could any one man possess such power?
         Beyond Charles she could see that Jerome 
and Andares continued to restrain Jessica.  The 
hawk met her gaze with serendipitous hope, but 
Kayla couldn’t even open her muzzle to 
speak.  The spells cast by friend and foe brought 
little noise and required none.  The clash of 
light fizzled with no more fanfare than their 
eyes could stand.  Any word they uttered would be 
heard immediately.  Little wonder then that the Marquis held Kayla’s tongue.
         But her eyes were her own.  Could they 
speak enough for the hawk to understand?
         Jessica kept one eye focussed on the 
battle and one on the skunk.  Alone of all of her 
friends Kayla seemed to have some independence of 
action.  The rest were firmly under the Marquis’s 
maleficent control.  The hawk felt the grip on 
her wings and back and knew that to move either 
would mean they’d be broken by Jerome and 
Andares.  But they could not still her golden 
eyes which missed not a single detail in the infernal chamber.
         Qan-af-årael and Tournemire continued to 
batter each other with weapons of dust.  The 
mystical tree that the Åelf had summoned kept its 
barrage but not a one of the fronds seemed able 
to penetrate the shield of cards the Marquis had 
erected.  With his other hand the Åelf brought 
forth crimson vines that crawled across the floor 
and wound around the Marquis’s legs.  Half a 
dozen cards broke away from the shield to slice 
through those vines while Tournemire created more 
blobs of darkness to thwart the tree.
         Jessica turned her attention back to the 
skunk and noted the way her dark eyes moved 
around the room.  It took several seconds in 
which myriads of different colours sparkled from 
her fur to discern that there was a pattern to 
her movements.  First Kayla glanced to the upper 
left, and then down in a zigzag pattern, before 
rising straight up the middle and circling 
around.  She would centre her eyes for a second before doing it again.
         The hawk felt a thrill of elation when 
she finally recognized the pattern.  A darkness 
spell!  She could blind the Marquis if she was 
lucky, and then Qan-af-årael’s attacks could 
strike home.  It was innocuous enough that if she 
were careful the Marquis wouldn’t notice what she 
intended until it was too late.
         She blinked her eyes once and cracked 
her beak ever so slightly to tell Kayla she 
understood, then returned her focus to the two 
combatants.  More than a dozen black vortices 
swirled around Qan-af-årael now.  They swallowed 
the weapons of dust without so much as a 
consuming flare and then dove toward him like 
iron shavings to a lodestone.  The red vines spat 
as fire and wrapped themselves around the 
globes.  Some shrivelled as soon as they touched, 
others engulfed the darkness and spread to stop 
the others.  A precious few slipped past the 
defences and struck the Åelf’s white garment only 
to burst into barbells of blue flame and disappear.
         Jessica took a deep breath and blinked 
rapidly.  With each new blink more and more of 
the ambient magic became visible.  She did not 
want to see too much knowing how powerful the 
nexus they stood within was.  Too much and she 
would blind herself.  Even so, both the Marquis 
and Qan-af-årael pierced her mind with spires of 
purest diamond.  The Dais lay dormant much like 
the Censer had while Wessex studied it, but she 
knew that to be a lie.  Into the black abyss that 
seemed to throb with molten energy poured 
everything else.  Jessica had seen small 
whirlpools while draining the baths at her 
family’s inn before Nasoj’s first invasion 
destroyed it and her family.  But the whorl of 
magical energy plunging in that abyss dwarfed her imagination.
         Flexing the tip of the outermost claw on 
one wing, Jessica traced out the sigil to obscure 
eyesight.  It was too small for either Jerome or 
Andares to notice so they did nothing to stop 
her.  But as soon as the sigil was complete one 
of the black orbs fired across the room straight 
for her chest.  She cawed in terror even as an 
arc of white light arrested the vortex and sent 
it careening harmlessly off the wall.
         She felt Andares and Jerome tightened 
their grip and her wings bent painfully.  Any 
more pressure and they’d break.  She slashed out 
the spell with her claw and they 
relented.  Through it all the Marquis never took 
his gaze off the Åelf.  Yet with every ounce of 
hatred he poured at Qan-af-årael, she felt an 
equal measure pounding against her.  If the hawk 
had any hope of acting to stop him, she would 
have to be even more subtle still.
         Jessica let her focus return to the mage 
sight.  Qan-af-årael’s mystic tree blazed just as 
brightly there and the trail of energies as they 
pressed against the shield of cards seemed a 
swarm of fireflies.  The vines glowed even more 
brightly as they spread and shot across the floor 
like thousands of snakes set loose.  The 
Marquis’s cards flashed brilliantly all around 
the Marquis though they did nothing to obscure 
the radiant power of his magic.  Within the cards 
she caught glimpses of strange foreign faces and 
a crackling blue... thing... in the 
background.  She could find no other word to 
describe what those brief snatches brought to 
her, but she felt a vague menace in its 
countenance.  The faces were unfamiliar to her, 
but they boiled with rage and worry.
         But there was more than even what she 
could see with normal sight.  Flashes of energy 
passed back and forth between the two.  Spells to 
suffocate each other, ignite flames, melt bones 
within the flesh, rain spires of ice through 
their flesh, to turn their insides to stone, to 
make them drowsy, to make them laugh, to spin 
them on their heels, to spread their arms wide, 
to slash their flesh with millions of shards of 
glass, and many others that Jessica didn’t 
recognize launched from one to the other in such 
a quick succession that she felt dizzy just 
watching.  By the time she identified a spell 
that one had cast the other had unravelled or 
overwhelmed it with a spell of their own.
         Jessica had never seen mages like 
this.  She had not even conceived that such 
alacrity was possible.  Even her master Wessex 
would have balked at the thought of anyone 
possessing such power and speed.  Yet here now 
were two.  And there was no doubt in her mind 
that these two were equally matched and would 
fight until the last ounce of their strengths robbed them both of life.
         That is, unless she or Kayla could find 
some way to tip the scales in Qan-af-årael’s favour.
         She gave the skunk a meaningful 
glance.  It took several seconds to garner 
Kayla’s attention, but once she had it she 
lowered her gaze meaningfully to the bracer on 
the skunk’s wrist.  It had pierced Marzac’s illusions.  Could it aid her now?
         Kayla caught the hawk’s insistent gaze 
and let her snout droop as if dejected.  Her arms 
were fixed at her waist, the paws only inches 
from the dragon hilts but unable to open to clasp 
them.  She noted the bracer on her wrist, but she 
couldn’t move her arm to angle it enough to see 
through.  But did she have to?  This was no 
illusion to pierce.  She had to break the 
Marquis’s mental control over her.  Her mind 
seemed free to act.  Jessica had been stopped the 
moment she had summoned magic.  Would the same happen to her?
         Her thoughts were interrupted by a 
sudden change in the battle between the 
mages.  The Marquis spread his circle of cards 
wider and wider.  Instead of merely using those 
cards for defence, some broke off and sped toward 
Qan-af-årael like arrows.  The vines emanating 
from the Åelf’s left hand deflected them with 
assiduous precision.  Even the green tree spared 
several fronds to wrap about the ancient one’s 
body to shield it from their cutting edge.
         The Marquis balled his hands into fists 
and beat at the air.  A drum reverberated with 
each blow, pulsing louder and louder.  Kayla’s 
ears folded back as she felt her very bones 
trembling under the onslaught.  Qan-af-årael’s 
steely gaze tightened further as stomped with one 
foot in an alternate rhythm.  The Marquis beat 
harder and harder, but the Åelf kept 
pace.  Strangely, the two drums dimmed each other 
until the sounds felt like the icy caress of the Metamor river in late Summer.
         But this did not seem to deter the 
Marquis who began pounding with alternating 
rhythms.  The impacts crushed and tore at the 
skunk’s fur, and out of the corner of her eyes 
she could see it hurting her friends too.  But to 
her amazement, Qan-af-årael began stomping with 
both feet.  On their journeys he’d always been so 
ancient as to be frail.  But now he moved his 
body and his mind with such agility and fortitude 
that even she couldn’t match it.  Only the 
Sondeckis could move so fast and with the 
incessant pounding and counter-pounding trying to 
cancel each other out, she began to wonder about that too.
         Yet the Marquis would not be 
outdone.  He too began stomping his feet until 
the entire room reverberated with the beating of 
drums.  Kayla felt her insides churning and 
closed her eyes tight trying to will away the 
incessant rhythms.  But that seemed only to make 
the noise worse as it cascaded back and forth in 
her round ears.  The skunk glanced at her friends 
but apart from Jessica they showed no outward signs of distress.
         Qan-af-årael saw that he could not match 
so many beats and so jumped and slammed both feet 
into the stone.  The floor undulated like a rock 
thrown into pond which tripped up the Marquis’s 
complicated steps.  Tournemire danced to one side 
as he fought to keep his balance; his cards 
clustered closer to ward off any attack during 
his brief moment of vulnerability.
         A black sigil flashed from Jessica’s 
wingtips but it met the wall of cards as surely 
as every one of the Åelf’s green bolts.  Kayla 
struggled against the control but found it as firm as ever.
         The Marquis thrust out one arm and a 
wall of force slammed them back into the 
wall.  He threw his other arm out at Qan-af-årael 
and even the Åelf fell back a pace.  His cards 
fluttered in the air around him, alone of all in 
the room not feeling the gale.  His blue eyes 
glowered. “Do not interfere again.” He turned 
back to the Åelf and his scowl lightened to a 
mocking moue. “Do you need your friends to aid 
you against me?  I thought you were powerful.”
         Qan-af-årael took the mystic tree with 
twenty-eight branches in both hands and then 
split it in two, half in each hand.  The red vine 
spread up his arms and across his back and moving 
in and out of itself it fashioned a net. “Your 
magic comes from Marzac.  Against that, I will garner all the allies I can.”
         With subtle shifts in his eyes, the 
Marquis noted the change in tactics and swept one 
hand wide to gesture to Kayla and her friends. 
“And you’ve done a very good job I see.”  His 
lips split into a frenzied smile as bolts of ice 
leapt from his finger tips and sizzled in the midst of the tree swords.
         The words had no effect on the Åelf 
whose face betrayed nothing other than his 
concentration upon their battle.  To Kayla’s 
immense relief, there was no sign of fatigue in 
his movements either.  She couldn’t imagine how 
anyone could remain standing under such an 
assault, let alone deliver as many blows as he 
had.  It did make her wonder; if this was the 
Marquis’s true power, then why hadn’t the Marquis 
dispatched them when he’d captured them in 
Breckaris?  All he’d done was torture and taunt 
them and then leave them in a gaol they’d easily 
escaped.  The conclusion horrified her and made 
her renew her efforts to use the bracer to slip 
out of his control.  Was it possible that the 
Marquis needed them here for his final 
spell?  Were they just instruments of Marzac’s evil plot?
         Even as she focussed on channelling what 
little magical energy she had through the bracer, 
her eyes kept straying to the 
battle.  Qan-af-årael spun his green, branched 
blades before him in a long weave that scorched 
both air above and stone below.  For the first 
time since their battle began he moved from his 
place before the passageway and circled around 
the Marquis.  His pace was constant even with the 
Marquis flinging bolts of ice and spheres of 
darkness at him from every direction.
         But it didn’t seem like he was doing 
anything more.  His tree swords continued their 
intricate dance while the branches shot their 
green bolts which struck the cards before 
fizzling out.  The vines continued to crawl 
across his body like a shield, already fastening 
a net across his back and chest and now beginning 
to work its way down his legs and arms.  What 
could he possibly be trying to do?
         The Marquis apparently seemed to be 
wondering the same thing as his eyes narrowed 
with renewed concentration.  His cards spun 
around him intercepting each shot while he 
continued his assault.  With a sudden shift of 
his eyes, the globules of ice sped past the Åelf 
toward Kayla and the others.  Kayla tried to lift 
her arms to shield herself but like the rest of 
her body they were as inaccessible as Metamor itself.
         Qan-af-årael swung one of his tree 
swords toward them, letting the many green 
branches intercept the ice.  Even so, shards 
scattered over their flesh as they shattered on 
touching the green fronds of energy.  Most 
bounced harmlessly off their tunics, but Kayla 
winced as several pierced her skin.  Blood 
trickled along the side of her cheek and down her 
right arm.  She could see that Lindsey was 
bleeding in several places along her red-furred 
chest, and beside her, Habakkuk was also 
cut.  One of them had pieced the dark bruise 
covering his side and the blood that dripped forth was nearly black.
         Still, despite having to protect them, 
the ancient one managed to continue his strange 
dance unabated.  The floor where he struck glowed 
red with the anger of a well-fed forge.  And just 
as he returned to the very place he began, 
Qan-af-årael swept both swords up.  The marks on 
the floor leapt above the cyclone of cards and 
sped together into an intricate sigil.  A fiery 
torrent rained from that sigil across the Marquis 
who cried in what Kayla hoped was pain.
         The cards scattered away from Tournemire 
as he clapped his hands together, flesh searing 
from the tears of flame drenching him.  His 
garments, once pristine blue, were now pockmarked 
with black scorches.  Blisters peppered his face 
and hands as a white mist erupted from his 
fingertips.  The mist caught each drop of fire as 
they fell and snuffed them.  The mist rose up to 
meet the sigil and there they stayed, the one spell cancelling the other.
         Kayla felt a thrill at seeing the 
Marquis wounded, but that joy faded into horror 
as she watched him draw his cards close again and 
resume his attack.  Brilliant bolts leapt from 
his hands to strike at the Åelf who met them with 
his twin blades.  But now it was Tournemire’s 
turn to press the attack.  One by one the cards 
broke away from his shield and leapt toward the 
Åelf like an arrow from a bowstring.  But this 
time when the Åelf swung his tree swords to 
intercept, the cards passed through them with a 
flash of light to emerge as fast as ever.  Blood dripped from the Åelf’s sides.
         “You Åelf,” the Marquis laughed. “Your blood is as red as mine.”

----------

         “Mistress Celine!” a familiar reedy 
voice crooned from across the temple.  The head 
of the acolytes for the Lothanasi temple turned 
and regarded the obstreperous ibis with mild 
amusement.  For the last week the Keep’s 
archivist had been overseeing the arrangement of 
the temple in preparation for the Duke’s 
wedding.  The Keep’s Steward Thalberg would put 
in appearance a few hours out of each day to 
direct and sometimes restrain Malqure’s efforts 
but he’d already gone to bed.  Celine would have 
liked to do the same — her husband Jonathan was 
no doubt already asleep — but with the wedding 
only two days away the ibis insisted on working 
until he collapsed into a feathery pile.
         Everything had to be perfect for the 
wedding, and there was no one on Duke Thomas’s 
staff more a stickler for perfection than the 
blustery bird.  Even Thalberg was willing to let 
some things slide from time to time!
         But, as Celine crossed the temple floor 
to see what it was that had caught the ibis’s 
regard, she had to admit that she too was excited 
about the wedding.  She’d been too young to 
remember the last Ducal wedding, and only barely 
old enough to remember the celebrations for Duke 
Thomas’s birth.  It was ironic that the curses 
left her with the body of a fourteen year old, as 
she was already thirty-five years of age.  It had 
been that long since the Keep had celebrated so 
grand an event for the Ducal house.  And judging 
by the tapestries, vases, statues, carpeting, and 
everything else that the ibis had his staff bring 
into the temple, every bit of Ducal history that 
he could cram in here he would.  But, despite his 
sometimes addle-brained nature, she knew that 
Malqure could be trusted to call for help only if 
it would improve the appearance and symbolism of the wedding.
         She found the ibis bouncing back and 
forth on his talons, his long, narrow beak 
darting from side to side as his intense green 
eyes considered the stonework beneath a row of 
recently hung tapestries.  The tapestries had 
been quilted after the Battle of Three Gates and 
retold the story of the battle that forever after 
changed the face of Metamor.  Celine found her 
heart fluttering with pride as she watched the 
newly transformed Keepers throw back Nasoj’s armies.
         “Mistress Celine!” Malqure wailed with 
desperate fright. “Look at this frightful 
mess!  How can anyone expect the Duke to wed with 
this in plain sight!”  He gestured his wings at 
the ground but Celine saw nothing that should 
merit his latest outburst over imperfection.
         “Malqure, those floors were just cleaned 
today.  There’s not even a hint of shed fur there.”
         “It’s the stones!” The ibis pointed with 
one wing at the stones beneath the tapestries and 
then over to the stones in the wall beside them. 
“With the tapestries hanging like so, the 
lighting has been changed enough that the subtle 
difference in colour is now plain for everyone to 
see.  The gradual brightening I’m trying to 
achieve is ruined by this one stretch!”
         Celine frowned but lifted her lantern to 
cast more light on the walls.  As she studied the 
walls she could see that the tapestries had 
darkened the natural hue of the wall.  The rear 
of the temple, with Malqure’s arranged lighting, 
would be shrouded in subtle shadows that 
gradually brightened as one walked toward the 
altar.  Before the altar Duke Thomas and his 
bride Alberta Artelanoth would be wed in two 
day’s time, and it was there that the light shone 
brightest.  It was vague and she doubted anybody 
else would notice it, but the tapestries 
interrupted that gradual shift of light.
         “Why not move the tapestries further back,” she suggested.
         This made the ibis hop back and scree in 
horror. “That would ruin the thematic history of 
the Hassan family!  No, the tapestries must stay 
here.  You need to apply a brightening agent to 
the walls to better absorb the lighting.”
         “Did you have something in mind?” Celine 
asked. “I suppose I can summon Pascal the 
Alchemist.  She may have something that would 
work.”  And if she were wrong, bring out so many 
colours the ibis would die from apoplexy.
         “Pascal does have what we’ll need.” The 
ibis lowered his wings and managed to calm 
himself now that his crisis was recognized and a 
solution found. “I may need help from your acolytes to apply the agent.”
         Celine inwardly groaned. “Can it wait 
until tomorrow?  Most of them have already gone 
to sleep.” Unsaid was her suggestion that she 
wanted to get some sleep too.  But until the ibis 
quit she would have to keep a watch on him.
         “Aye,” the ibis replied after a moment’s 
further consideration.  He turned his beak away 
from the wall and stalked on his long legs a few paces. “Thank you, Mistress.”
         “I’m going to continue my rounds,” she 
told him pointedly. “If you need anything, please 
wait until I return.  I won’t be gone long.”  The 
last thing they needed was the ibis screaming for 
her and waking everyone up so he could point out an oil smear on a lintel.
         The ibis nodded and moved along to 
continue his inspection.  Celine gratefully made 
her way to the rear of the temple and left to 
examine the private cells.  The first she came to 
was dark and featured the faint snoring of the 
Silvassan priestess Nylene hin’Lofwine.  Celine 
glanced around the cell, noted that the priestess 
was indeed sleeping in the meagre bed, and then closed the door.
         Nylene had proven cooperative so far, 
and had kept mostly to herself, spending her days 
in contemplative prayer and keeping out of the 
way of Celine and the others serving the 
Metamoran temple.  Celine knew that Raven didn’t 
trust her, though judging by the woman’s actions 
there was nothing to suggest she was a foul 
interloper.  The head acolyte had long ago 
learned to trust her instincts with people, and 
there was something fundamentally good about this 
Silvassan priestess.  Still, if Lothanasa Raven 
said to keep her under close watch, Celine would do so.
         The one thing that did make Celine 
wonder was the person who had arrived with 
Nylene.  Elvmere had once been a high ranking 
member of the Patildor.  Celine had made sure to 
assign him the foulest and least desirable duties 
as an acolyte.  He never complained nor seemed 
disappointed by them.  In fact, he seemed to 
delight in being given the meanest chores.  One 
of these included tending the birds used in their 
daily sacrifices.  The stench from cleaning their 
cages clung to the raccoon’s fur now.  Yet when 
he tended the birds he sang little songs and told them little stories.
         Truly, Elvmere was a mystery that went ever deeper and deeper.
         But, as Celine reached the last cell, 
she felt her heart grow heavy.  There was another 
raccoon of secrets staying at the temple.  The 
darkest room of all had been given to the care of 
Rickkter the battle mage.  Ever since the 
terrible confrontation in the Belfry on the 
Summer Solstice six months ago, Rickkter had lain 
in near motionless sleep.  Only the rise and fall 
of his chest spoke of life in his body.
         Celine lifted her lantern and gazed 
around the room.  On the stone altar lay the 
raccoon.  His body was increasingly emaciated 
these days despite their best attempts to keep 
him hale and hearty.  The youthful acolyte sighed 
and ran her hand across one furry arm.  She could 
feel the bones through his skin.  If he didn’t 
wake up soon, he wouldn’t wake up at all in this life.
         She nearly screamed when the arm 
twitched beneath her.  The age regressed Keeper 
jumped back, one hand going to her mouth to 
stifle her cry.  The raccoon’s body twitched this 
way and that for several seconds then went still 
again.  Celine’s breath came in ragged gasps as 
she neared him again and peered under his 
eyelids.  His dark eyes rolled back and forth in his head like a man dreaming.
         Lothanasa Raven would need to know about 
this.  Celine recalled that she had been spending 
a well deserved rest alone with that wolf 
Wanderer.  She hated interrupting them but this 
was too important.  It was the first time the 
raccoon had moved at all in six months.  What could it mean?
         She did scream when she turned and saw 
the metal creature sitting on its haunches in the 
doorway staring up at her.  She put both hands 
over her mouth and stomped one foot. “Madog!  Don’t scare me like that!”
         “Sorry,” the metal fox replied with its 
usual aplomb. “It’s tonight.  I wanted to see.”
         “What’s tonight?” Celine asked, knowing 
the metal fox’s penchant for cryptic but insightful remarks.
         “He wakes or he leaves,” Madog replied, 
golden eyes fixed upon the altar and the raccoon laying atop it.
         Celine definitely didn’t like the sound 
of that. “Go bring the Lothanasa.  Tell her I’m 
keeping an eye on Rickkter and that she needs to come see for herself.”
         “Okay.” Madog rose to all fours and 
bounded down the hallway.  Celine put one hand 
over her heart, sighed, and turned back to watch 
Rickkter.  His arms and fingers trembled as if he 
were plunging into the ice-cold water of the 
river.  Celine hoped and prayed that this was a 
good sign and not the last tremors of a dying man.

----------

         The cards bounced on the ground before 
the Magyars.  Grastalko had his knuckles pressed 
against his teeth as he watched.  Nemgas beside 
him stewed and whispered encouragement to the 
Åelf whose name he somehow had dragged from the 
memories of his Cenziga-begot twin 
Kashin.  Dazheen sat placid with a morose 
expression creasing her aged lips.  Bryone 
trembled behind her, eyes watering with tears as 
they witnessed the evil aristocrat work his craft.
         Along the edges of the cards flecks of 
blood blossomed like rose petals unfolding in the 
morning sun.  Grastalko shook his head in 
fury.  The fire in his arm throbbed bright and 
began to smoulder his tunic’s cuff.  For a moment 
it seemed as if the Åelf would find some 
advantage, but the Marquis had countered his 
spell with such alacrity that it only seemed to 
strengthen his malicious resolve.  Beyond the 
lightning speckled mountain rumbled with its faint asymmetrical rhythm.
         Feeling frantic, Grastalko gazed with 
pleading eyes at the seer. “Surely thou canst do something!”
         Dazheen lifted her ruined eyes, the red 
slits in the black orbs noting him as if she 
could actually see through them. “He hast a 
greater power o’er the cards than I.  Though dost 
remember what he didst to my eyes with them.  I canst do nothing.”
         Grastalko sighed and let his gaze return 
to the scene playing before them.  The aristocrat 
was laughing again.  How he hated him.

----------

         “Look at him now, the high and mighty 
Åelf.  Seer of stars and wonder of the heavens!” 
The Marquis laughed as his cards continued to cut 
Qan-af-årael’s sides. “You have kept yourself 
aloof over man for so long, yet here you will 
kneel before me.  You are out of tricks.”
         The Marquis kept up the assault, while 
the Åelf frantically erected barrier after 
barrier to block those cards.  Kayla and the 
others could only watch as their one hope of 
salvation was cut from a thousand different 
directions.  Jessica squawked in agonized rage, 
but Jerome and Andares kept their grip firm.  The 
Marquis’s control over the cards and who they 
held was too firm.  The skunk’s claws twitched at 
the hilt of Trystathalis, but though they could 
tap the metal, they could not grasp it.
         “You have watched from afar and done 
nothing.” The Marquis said.  He took a few steps 
forward, folding his hands in front of him, 
content to let his cards do their gruesome work. 
“You should have stayed in your tower studying 
your precious stars.  What happens on earth is 
apparently too complicated for you.”
         Qan-af-årael’s golden eyes betrayed 
nothing.  With each strike of a card on his 
shield arcs of golden light would leap over his 
back and settle on the magical red webbing.  It 
pulsed with a determined glow but seemed 
incapable of doing anything more.  The cards 
continued unabated, slicing rivets through 
Qan-af-årael’s white robes and leaving trails of blood in their wake.
         The Marquis’s eyes gazed about the room 
as if what the Åelf did no longer mattered.  His 
voice never lost its mocking self-congratulatory 
veneer. “I confess, when we met in Breckaris, I 
was surprised you did nothing.  It is now 
apparent to me that you hoarded your power in the 
hopes that it could vanquish me.  As you can now 
see, there is no such hope for you.  Perhaps you 
should have worked some charm to defeat me 
then.  I was not standing so close to the source, 
the very well-spring of my power at the time.”
         While the cards continued to pierce 
Qan-af-årael’s many shields, each of various hues 
and consistencies, but all apparently no better 
equipped to stop the cards, the Marquis turned 
and gestured with a sweep of his arms to the 
Dais.  Its golden sheen sparkled with an inner 
darkness at each wisp of magic assailing the 
Åelf. “This Dais is a seat upon which anyone who 
dares to will it, can make the world tremble and 
fall to its knees.  All of your friends are mine 
to command.  You alone resist me, but you will 
not last much longer.  Marvel now at this, a 
symbol of the very thing you sought to 
defeat.  Here it rests, unperturbed by your 
pitiful fluttering in defiance.  It does not care 
for your hopes and dreams.  It will crush you 
beneath its weight as mercilessly as a man might 
an ant.  Only he who sits astride it can command its very essence.”
         The Marquis turned to half regard the 
Åelf.  He smiled slowly until the whites of his 
teeth could be seen behind his ruby lips. “It was 
I who found the artifacts and turned them to my 
beck and call.  Those three wizards you 
dispatched were nothing compared to this.  With 
them I tapped the greatest places of power in the 
world, and soon I will draw them all together to 
remake this world.  I only need three more deaths.”
         The brilliant gleams of light reflected 
off the Marquis’s teeth and face, giving him more 
than ever the appearance of a devil. “You, 
Qan-af-årael, Lord of Colours, shall be the 
first.  And the time has come to consummate that 
promise.”  The Marquis lifted his hands and every 
card in his deck shot into the air like a bird 
readying to swoop down on its prey.  And then, 
accompanied by a laugh from Tournemire, they 
dived straight and sure for the Åelf’s heart.
         Qan-af-årael turned his hands downward, 
the blood sluicing across his arms and beginning 
to pool beneath him.  He dropped the twin tree 
swords and reached behind him for the weave of 
red net that lay across his back.  With a sudden 
yank it sprang loose, stretching out like a sail 
of crimson.  The cards smacked into the net and 
bounced backward.  The Marquis’s laugh died and 
came back as a snarl of rage.  The Åelf, face 
placid despite its many cuts, yanked back on the 
net, sealing it off at the other end.  The cards 
furiously cavorted inside desperate to find an escape.
         A handful still lingered around the 
Marquis’s head, but the majority were now safely 
ensconced within that magical net.  Qan-af-årael 
straightened and discarded the net behind him. “I am not finished living.”
         The Marquis spun the remaining dozen 
cards around his head while the others sought an 
exit from the net.  Tournemire glared but his 
voice was now subdued and calculating. “You have 
trapped some of my cards.  Why not destroy them and free your friends?”
         “I told you, I lack the fire to burn 
your cards.” He seemed to stare at the cards 
still rotating about the Marquis’s head. “As do all here with me.”
         “They can do nothing for you.” The 
Marquis’s frown grew into a smile. “But they can still aid me.”
         To her horror, Kayla’s muscles moved 
beyond her will.  All of them, excepting Jerome 
and Andares who kept Jessica prisoner, advanced 
with murderous intent on Qan-af-årael.  Abafouq 
and Guernef diverted to the side where the Åelf 
had set down the red net confining the 
cards.  Charles took his Sondeshike out and spun 
it in his paws. James brandished his 
sword.  Lindsey bent over, long tail rising 
behind her, and grasped the axe she’d 
dropped.  Habakkuk flexed his claws as he neared, 
the wound in his side draining even more of the 
black mucus mixed with his blood.  Kayla did the same with her claws.
         Qan-af-årael waved his hands before him 
and a sudden wind drove them all back against the 
wall.  Guernef spread his wings and pumped them 
hard, fighting wind for wind.  The Nauh-kaee’s 
golden eyes had never before seemed so 
monstrous.  A deep sadness filled the Åelf’s eyes 
as his gusts of wind faded under the 
Kakikagiget’s onslaught.  Step by step they 
neared him, paws held out to rip him apart like so much meat amongst beasts.
         “You see,” the Marquis said with a 
snort, “though you trapped some of my cards, you 
did not cut me off from them.  I still control 
your friend’s every movement.  You will not 
strike them dead to defend yourself, because that 
would fulfill my purposes.  Thus, in the end, you 
will fall.   The are two possibilities.  Either 
the Binoq undoes your net and you die from my 
cards.  Or your friends kill you and the magic of 
your net fades.  Either way, you have lost.”
         Qan-af-årael turned his gaze to the net 
and with a twist of his hands, ripped it 
open.  The cards flew out like so many 
butterflies and returned to the Marquis. “No, I 
will not let you have the pleasure of using them to kill me.”
         The Marquis stroked a finger over one of 
the cards and shrugged. “Very well. By my cards 
it is.”  Kayla and the others felt their motion 
arrested and once more they could only watch as 
the cards sliced through Qan-af-årael’s 
flesh.  He bled from every limb and stood in an 
ever-widening pool of blood.  One of his ears 
exploded in a crimson burst as a card sliced 
through its middle.  Back to his knees he 
dropped, gasping from the pain, but ever dignified.
         His eyes lifted ever so briefly and 
caught Kayla’s own.  It was quick and sure, like 
a fly alighting upon a horse before being swatted 
aside by a lustrous tail.  The Åelf’s gaze fell 
to the floor and he made only a feeble effort to 
block the cards as they cut his flesh to the bone.
         Kayla blinked and then flexed her 
fingers.  And her fingers moved.  She glanced 
down, and saw the bracer resting on her arm.  The 
paw beyond moved of her own accord, but nothing 
else.  With every winsome hope inside her chest, 
every dream of snowy skies, gabled rooves and 
granite towers, and every memory of a handsome 
rogue named Rickkter, the skunk poured what magic 
she had into that bracer, that channel through 
which her love had given her freedom.
         The Marquis’s face, limned by a strange 
fire in the cards, did not turn away from the 
dying Åelf.  Kayla could almost feel the swords 
leaping into her paw.  Whatever Qan-af-årael had 
done to them had given her enough leeway to do 
this, but with a sickening realization, she knew 
it was not going to be enough.  She may yet free 
herself, but it wouldn’t be in time to save him.
         “You certainly have a lot of blood in 
you,” Tournemire noted. “Well, let’s get it all 
out, shall we?  I...” his eyes lifted to the 
cards which sped away from the Åelf to hover 
before him again.  An orange brilliance lit his cheeks. “The ten!”

----------

         Grastalko beat his fist against his 
thigh as he watched the cards flutter at their 
edges, each streaming with blood.  Not an edge 
was untouched; all of them were stained crimson 
from what the aristocrat did to the ancient one 
Nemgas had named Qan-af-årael.  That figure 
crouched low, beaten and sliced so grievously 
that now the Magyar understood the pain that 
Yahshua had felt during His scourging.  He’d 
always wished he could have grabbed the Suielman 
soldiers who’d whipped his Lord and tossed them aside like so many rags.
         Yet Dazheen said that there was nothing 
that could be done.  Even Nemgas appeared 
stricken and indecisive.  He kept waving 
Caur-Merripen about as if looking for something 
to strike down.  The mountain crackled above them.
         Grastalko cried in frustration, flinging 
his left arm over his head.  The stump of his 
hand burst into flame which engulfed his 
cuff.  The pain shot down his arm and through his 
chest, feeding off his anger.  Why wouldn’t any of them do something!
         And then he blinked, the words he’d 
heard from Dazheen and from the ancient one 
bouncing to the front of his mind.  Dazheen had 
only said she could do nothing.  She hadn’t 
spoken of anyone else.  The aristocrat could 
reach through the cards.  Why not another?  And 
the ancient one had plainly told the aristocrat 
that he lacked the fire to burn the 
cards.  Grastalko lowered his arm and peered at 
the flame leaping from his flesh.  The flame had 
come to him when he’d touched the sword from 
Cenziga.  That same sword had been the only thing 
that could thwart their enemies.  What if he had the fire?
         Grastalko looked back down at the cards 
and saw the aristocrat mocking the ancient one 
and the huge pool of blood he now knelt in.  His 
garments, once pristine, were now stained red so 
thoroughly that Grastalko couldn’t see a single 
glimmer of white.  His heart grew in fury, 
knowing that the ancient one would die at the 
aristocrat’s hands if they did nothing.  And if 
he died, then all those others who the aristocrat controlled would die too.
         This was the man who had sent the 
Driheli to die in the Steppe.  This was the man 
who had cost Grastlako the life he’d known.  This 
was the man who was ultimately responsible for 
the death of Hanaman’s son.  This was the man who 
had the Patriarch murdered.  There was no other 
man on earth more deserving of death than 
he.  Indignation swelled in his chest into rage, 
a rage against this man’s unrighteousness acts.
         Grastalko screamed with that rage, his 
entire arm bursting into brilliant orange 
flame.  His shirt caught fire, each tongue 
lapping across his face and chest as he drove his 
arm into and through the cards below him at the 
image of the Marquis’s face.  The Marquis stared 
back, a look of surprise erasing his hubris.

----------

         All of them were knocked to the ground 
by a hammering fist when the flaming arm reached 
out of the wall of cards and grasped the Marquis 
by his neck.  Tournemire’s face blistered and 
blackened, his eyes orbs of vilest white in the 
midst of the conflagration consuming him.  Yet 
still he struggled to break free from the arm 
coming through the cards from that other place 
they could all see reflected inside.  The visage 
of the lightning streaked mountain thrummed.
         Though her friends rose to their feet to 
stand slack and lifeless like statues, except 
Habakkuk who’d crumpled against the Dais, Kayla 
still felt the flickering of independence in her 
arm as she rose.  She poured every once of her 
will into the bracer, trying to flex the fingers 
that lay beyond.  A subtle motion of claws, 
twitching with freedom, and then her fingers 
balling into a fist.  She flexed, and found to 
her delight that they moved with her 
thoughts.  She reached for the blade nearest, the 
dagger-like Trystathalis.  Her paw wrapped about 
the hilt.  Her arm fought her as it drew, but the 
ring of the steel, slow and strident, was the 
hiss of the dragon’s ravenous hunger.
         The cards all gathered into a single 
wall in front of the Marquis.  The orange light 
flashed wildly over the cavorting demons 
inscribed into the Dais’s forged 
surface.  Tournemire’s brilliant blue garments 
were engulfed by the flame, charring to ash 
against his body.  His naked flesh sizzled and 
caked off black and ruined.  Yet still he strove 
against the arm which licked across his cards one 
by one.  The cards glowed bright inside the 
flame, stubborn in their resistance to the fire’s allure.
         Kayla pulled on her legs.  Her feet 
seemed rooted to the floor.  Even when that swamp 
flower had tried to make plants of them she’d 
been able to push away from its vines and 
tendrils. How she longed to cry out her 
frustration but her tongue was silent by the will of the cards.
         An idea struck her as she watched the 
Marquis writhe while Qan-af-årael levered his 
bloodied and broken body against one wall.  Her 
arm she could move some, and this she lowered to 
her leg.  The bracer brushed against her 
breeches, and her foot lurched forward once more 
again her own to command.  She did likewise with 
the other and then turned her attention back to the Marquis.
         Where once had stood a man beautiful in 
his bearing and terrible in his cruelty, now 
there was only the shape of a man blackened by 
flame that still coursed over his body.  Only his 
eyes, deep blue irises amidst a sea of starkest 
white, were untouched.  His arms, mere stumps, 
pressed at the fiery arm which bound him.  He 
paid no heed to the skunk as he endeavoured to 
save whatever remained of his infernal life.
         Kayla took a deep breath, summoning her 
courage to her.  Though her tongue still did not 
heed her, she thought the words deep inside. “For 
Rickkter.” She leapt, arm flashing high above 
her, and drove Trsyathalis the dragon bound 
inside the eastern dagger through the Marquis’s 
back.  Hot red blood shot from the wound only to 
sizzle and steam in the fire.  The Marquis flung 
his arms wide, head tilted back and screamed his 
death agony.  One of his cards scattered across 
the room and fell face down in a far corner.
         The flames from the arm singed her fur, 
blackening the bands of white on her face.  She 
shied back from it, but as Tournemire’s body 
crumpled, the dagger carried her with it, drawing 
her ever closer to the fiery arm.
         And then the hand let go, hanging in the 
air in the midst of the wall of cards.  Kayla 
yanked Trystathalis from the blackened corpse, 
and felt an immense surge of energy well in 
her.  The blade had never been more satisfied 
than it was now.  At long last, it had tasted the 
flesh and ended the life of the man who’d beaten 
its wielder.  At long last, Marquis Camille du Tournemire was dead.
         Her breath was ragged, but it was her 
own.  She stared at the fiery arm in the cards, 
and watched in utter astonishment as those cards 
gave into the flames.  One by one they blackened 
and charred until at long last the arm was drawn 
back through and nothing remained of that 
mysterious deck but a pile of odious ash.
         “Oh Rickkter,” she said, her voice 
ragged but hers again. “You’re free!”

----------

         Grastalko’s scream echoed in his ears as 
he felt the flesh on his face give in to the 
fire.  Distantly he heard Bryone screaming his 
name.  Something grabbed him from behind and 
yanked him back.  Beneath them the cards turned 
to ash but for one.  The Magyar, his rage spent 
well, fell into Bryone’s arms.  The last thing he 
saw before darkness snuffed him out was the face 
of that slender and beautiful girl calling his name in love.

----------

         Raven pressed her hands gently across 
the dying raccoon’s chest.  Celine watched her 
and stood ready to assist her should the need 
become so dire.  Only moments after Raven had 
arrived the trembling had subsisted, and then 
seconds later Rickkter’s entire body spasmed and 
arched as if he were in great pain.  The muscles, 
what few were left, pulled taut and his back 
stood a full handspan above the altar.  His 
muzzle gaped in a silent scream.  His fur, 
scraggly and threadbare, stood on end.  But 
through it all his eyes remained closed.
         Madog sat placidly behind them 
watching.  Raven prayed but could see little else 
that she could do.  Akkala had assured her that 
nothing could be done for him while his soul was 
still in the hands of the Marquis.  But Raven was 
not one to give up so easily.  Still, her heart 
wearied for there was nothing she could think to 
do except try to comfort his worn body.
         And then, Rickkter’s eyes popped open 
and he gasped, reaching up with his arms and 
nearly rolling off the altar. “Kayla!” he cried, 
his voice dry and cracking. “Oh... where?”
         Celine gasped and Madog yipped in 
satisfaction.  Raven blinked and spread her paws 
over the raccoon’s chest to keep him from 
falling. “Rickkter?  Can you hear me?”
         The green eyes swivelled slowly but met 
her.  His ears turned toward her. “Raven?”  He coughed.
         “Celine, fetch him wine to wet his 
throat.”  The age regressed Keeper nodded and 
dashed out of the room.  The wolf priestess 
turned back to the raccoon who struggled against 
her. “You are weak Rickkter.  Please don’t fight me.”
         “The... the Censer... it’s,” Rickkter 
gasped and tried to sit up.  His eyes lowered and 
he winced in pain. “What happened?”
         “It has been six months since the 
Marquis du Tournemire struck you down and took 
your soul from your body.  You are in the 
Lothanasi Temple where you have been cared for 
all this time.  You are very weak and it will 
take you a long time to recover your 
strength.  Your body needs rest and food.  I will 
have some brought.  You cannot eat much and I will not let you.”
         Rickkter laid his head back down, eyes 
closed.  His claws flexed and trembled with palsy 
as they felt over his belly and chest.  His ribs 
were visible beneath the grey fur. “Kayla?”
         “She went with the others to slay the 
Marquis and defeat the evil of Marzac.  That you 
are with us now means,” Raven felt her heart 
swelling with a joy she couldn’t put words too, 
“that they have killed him and destroyed his 
deck.  Oh praise the gods but it is true!”
         Celine returned with the wine and held a 
small bottle over the raccoon’s snout. “Just 
swallow this.” Rickkter kept his muzzle open and 
let Celine pour a small dose of wine down his 
throat.  He swallowed heavily and then gasped, his throat clearer.
         “Thank you.  Kayla went to Marzac?  How could you send her there?”
         “It is a long story, Rickkter.  And I 
will tell you.  But first, let us get you 
something to eat and something to wear.  I will 
stay by your side for now.  Others will come 
soon. To tell you the rest.  Your friends have 
missed you and will all want to see you.”
         Rickkter’s green eyes stared down his 
snout at his emaciated body. “Six months?” His 
voice wondered. “That means it’s Winter 
again.  Damn.  I was looking forward to Summer.”
         Despite herself, Raven laughed.  Behind 
them Madog wagged his tail and disappeared out the door, his work done.

----------

         Charles breathed a sigh of relief, and 
realized immediately that he had done it of his 
own will.  He turned and laughed excited, 
glancing at his friends and noting with delight 
that each of them were free to act on their own 
again too. “He’s dead!  The power of the cards has been broken!”
         “How did you do it?” James asked as he 
stared at the skunk, hoof-like hands fretting over the few cuts he’d suffered.
         Kayla cleaned the wakizashi against her 
thigh but did not sheathe it. “The bracer.  A 
gift from Rickkter.  I could still feel myself through it.”
         “Qan-af-årael!” Abafouq shouted.  The 
Binoq ran across the room and knelt at the Åelf’s 
side.  Andares was there a moment later, and 
surrounding them the rest.  Only Habakkuk and 
Lindsey did not come to them.  The Felikaush had 
to be helped off the Dais where blood both black 
and red had spread.  The blood drained off and 
was swallowed by the black crevice beneath the 
golden artifact.  Lindsey slipped a shoulder 
under his arm and walked him toward the others.
         So they were the only ones to see what 
happened next. “By Eli!” Lindsey cried, her newly 
feminine voice surprising them all.
         Turning their heads, they saw a black 
mist reach up from the crevice and coat the 
charred remains of the Marquis’s flesh.  Particle 
by particle they lifted and carried the body back 
into that darkness until there was nothing 
left.  Charles felt his heart clutch in his 
chest.  The same thing had happened to Zagrosek after he’d died.
         The Dais, though it had always glowed a 
somnolent gold, now flared into awareness.  They 
could feel disgusting thoughts slipping into 
their minds as it had so often in the 
swamp.  Charles put his paws on either side of 
his head and shook as if to make them fall out 
his ears.  Each of the nine stanchions swelled 
and cast weird shadows across the room.  Their 
darkness angled until they found one of the 
Marquis’s two servants still propped against the 
wall as helpless as marionettes with cut strings.
         “What is it doing?” Jessica 
asked.  Charles felt renewed terror.  If any of 
them should understand magic it should be her!
         The shadow fell upon the older portly 
man the Marquis had called Vigoreaux.  It rose 
from his feet and then climbed up legs, waist, 
chest, and then finally covered his head.  No 
light, no matter how bent penetrated.  Obscured, 
the man vanished from their sight.  And then the 
shadows retreated back into the cleft.  Vigoreaux was gone.
         “What just happened?” James asked, his voice small and afraid.
         “The Marquis said he only needed three 
more deaths,” Charles said as a sick feeling grew 
in the pit of his stomach.  His tail curled 
around his legs and he flinched from the glowing 
Dais. “His death was the first.”
         “Qan-af-årael!” Abafouq shouted, griping 
blood-stained garments to help the Åelf lay down. 
“You have to let us save you.  That thing wants to claim you too.”
         But the Åelf only smiled and shook his 
head. “I knew when I stepped into this room that 
I would die here.  I have lived longer than any 
ever should.  I have seen much and leave this 
world knowing that I have played my role to its utmost.”
         “But we can still heal you!” Jessica 
shrieked. “Abafouq, Guernef and I have the talent.”
         His face betrayed a slight fatherly 
smile, one that loved them but one that still 
knew better. “In this place?  No, there can be no 
healing.  There is no life that this place can 
give.  All life given in this place is corrupt 
and evil.  Were you to heal me, you would make me 
into a monster worse than the one that just died.  You must let me go.”
         “But you can’t die!” Abafouq 
wailed.  Tears streamed down the Binoq’s face. “We need you.”
         “Not anymore,” Qan-af-årael intoned calm 
and peaceful folding his hands over his chest in a posture of prayer.
         Andares stood apart from the others and 
lifted his head in song.  The words were lost on 
the Keepers, but Qan-af-årael’s eyes lifted 
heavenward and he breathed out a long sigh that 
moved with the melancholy tune.  The Keepers all 
felt tears in their eyes as they watched this 
ancient creature let himself fade into 
death.  Abafouq bawled, but not a one of them could think of a word to say.
         Charles whispered a prayer to Eli for 
the Åelf’s soul.  How well he remembered the 
words Qan-af-årael had taught him to say on the 
day he returned to Ava-shavåis.  Now he 
understood the sorrow the other Åelf had felt 
when he’d uttered those words.  He had not been 
announcing the Lord of Colour’s departure.  He’d announced his death.
         Charles rubbed his cheeks with his paws 
and dried his fur.  When he opened his eyes 
again, staring past his twitching whiskers, he 
saw that Qan-af-årael’s eyes were closed, and the 
black mist was crawling over his body and taking 
it where it had taken the others.  He cried and 
backed out of its way, turning to stare at the 
Dais to see what new evil it intended.
         But the Dais was not alone anymore.  A 
blurry image coalesced in its centre, like a man 
walking into the baths at Metamor who gained 
definition the nearer they came to the 
waters.  Through this haze something hideously 
familiar began to emerge.  Festooned on all sides 
by images of demons cavorting and raping 
innocents, jewels bedecking its contours from its 
nine sided base to its wide brimmed bowl in which 
nestled a hole for a nine-sided pommel, a 
solitary black candle burned at the apex.  From 
nothingness it appeared, one with the Dais in its evil purpose.
         The walls inscribed with lead seemed to 
fade into a vista of night-time air.  Charles and 
the others stared in anxious wonder at that vista 
of distant snow-peaked mountains and bright 
moonless sky.  In the midst of the sky stood gray 
walls whose arches led to a circular ceiling from 
which suspended four brass bells of immense 
stature.  With a start, they realized that they 
saw both the Hall of Unearthly Light and the belfry at Metamor.
         “What magic is this?” Jerome breathed with terror. “Where are we?”
         Charles shook his head in disbelief and 
turned his gaze upon the artifacts. “We’re at 
Metamor and Marzac.  It looks like both places 
are standing atop one another.” And atop the 
Dais, perfectly nestled in its centre was the 
Censer of Yajakali.  Glancing at the floor he 
could see that the ancient stone work of Jagoduun 
was complimented by the larger blocks of the 
Keep.  To one side he noted the wooden doorway 
that lead down the tower’s many steps.  But how could this be?
         And then the Censer cast its own 
shadow.  Black hands stretched across the floor, 
and the rat danced out of their way.  Again they 
bent toward the wall where propped the other of 
the Marquis’s servants.  The Castellan, a burly 
man named Sir Autrefois, regarded the creeping 
darkness as placidly as a horse might note a 
fly.  He neither flinched nor cried when the 
darkness climbed his legs and subsumed his 
body.  And when it drew back, nothing remained of 
him except his bootprints in the ancient dust.
         “What’s happening?” James asked.
         Andares finally lifted his eyes from the 
spot where Qan-af-årael had once lain 
dying.  Nothing remained there now, not even his 
spilt blood. “Marzac is awakening and calling its 
weapons.  The magic laid down is coming to life.”
         Guernef turned his head to one side much 
like a cat noting a curiosity.  Great golden eyes 
scanned them one by one before coming to rest on 
Habakkuk.  The kangaroo had one paw over his side 
and his muzzle creased in pain. “One more death,” 
the Nauh-kaee’s alien voice intoned, “and it will all awake.”
         As if sensing his meaning, all eyes 
turned to the pair of kangaroos.  Lindsey kept 
her paws on Habakkuk’s side.  The black bruise 
was disappearing from his flesh, oozing out the 
wound that had ripped through his side.  But 
instead of leaving behind flesh that could heal, 
it was collapsing his body.  The tendrils of the 
bruise caved inwards as if there was no meat left 
beneath.  His brown eyes were narrowed and all 
his paws trembled in what Charles knew had to be 
excruciating pain.  His long tail seemed thinner 
than before, and his ears pressed to the back of his head.
         “No,” Kayla breathed, echoing all of 
their sentiments.  But it was Charles who was 
first to the Felikaush’s side.  The red-furred 
kangaroo that was Lindsey sobbed loudly as she 
vainly tried to hold in his life-blood.
         Charles put one paw on Habakkuk’s 
shoulder and with the other lifted his snout. “Zhypar.  Can you hear me?”
         Habakkuk nodded, the flesh on his face 
sinking inward with each breath. “Aye, Charles.  I hear you.”
         “Are you going to die too?”
         With a long sigh he nodded.  Lindsey’s 
sobs grew and she flung her arms around his neck, 
nuzzling him with her snout. “No, Zhypar!  You can’t leave me now!”
         “I must,” he replied, his voice weak and 
strained.  Every syllable pushed past his teeth 
brought visible tremors of pain. “I’m the last of 
the Felikaush.  We... we were only meant... to 
take us to the next age.” He coughed and more 
blood spurted from the gash in his side.
         “We could try to carry you out of this 
unholy place,” Charles suggested.
         Habakkuk shook his head and blinked the 
weariness from his eyes. “No.  I’ve known since 
we set foot in this room that I would die 
here.   In that... I am like Qan-af-årael.  I 
hoped I would survive this to see the new age to 
come.  I knew the prophets of old would need to 
pass away before, but still I hoped.”  He looked 
at Lindsey and his face softened.  Tears brimmed 
from his eyes. “I’d always hoped we would share love again.”
         “You are strong!” Lindsey objected. “Please!”
         Habakkuk turned to the rat and said, 
“Charles, do you forgive me for all I’ve done to you over the years?”
         The rat thought back on all the 
pestering and prodding the kangaroo had done to 
make the rat reveal his past allegiances.  He 
recalled the time Habakkuk had broken his arm 
when Charles refused to give up the 
Sondeshike.  And he dwelled on the way the 
kangaroo had defended him during his trial.  At 
every point the rat knew he’d misjudged this man, 
his friend.  With a long sigh he nodded. “There 
is nothing that I can forgive.  Every time you 
were right.  It is I who need your forgiveness 
for the way I have pushed you away, Zhypar.”
         “Given,” the kangaroo said with a weak 
smile. “See that I am given a proper stone befitting a Follower.”
         At that Charles felt the sob break into 
his voice.  He hacked twice and then controlled 
himself, gripping Zhypar’s shoulder all the 
tighter. “I will, Zhypar.  I promise you this.”
         “And... for the rest of you.  Don’t give 
in to despair.  There is yet... hope.”
         None said a word, and the kangaroo’s 
eyes turned not to Lindsey as they expected, but 
to the walls and the empty spaces where the 
valley of Metamor was visible beneath a winter 
sky.  He gestured with one hand toward that sky. 
“I am grateful... that I can see Metamor one last time.  Please... take me.”
         Charles and Lindsey scooped their arms 
beneath Habakkuk while James and Jerome lifted 
his legs and tail.  Together, they carried their 
friend toward the edge of the wall and the edge 
of the opening.  Charles leaned out and to his 
surprise discovered that he could pass through 
the walls of stone and peer down the spire of 
Metamor at the town.  Below thousands of homes 
were lit by torches and lamps.  The Inns 
especially were brightly lit and if he wasn’t 
mistaken, his ears detected boisterous singing echoing from the city.
         He gasped. “It’s real!”
         Habakkuk smiled through the pain and 
nodded, his eyes gazing across the city with its 
snow-topped rooves and cobblestone streets.  His 
eyes strayed to the forests in the north, the 
river to the west, and the plains to the 
south.  He sighed. “It is such a beautiful city.  Home for so short a time.”
         “You don’t have to die,” Lindsey sobbed 
quietly. “If it’s real we can take you there 
now.” She gestured to the wooden door in the 
floor. “Surely it can’t reach you if we go through there.”
         “It is real,” Andares said, his voice so 
distant.  The Åelf still knelt before the spot 
where his master had died and disappeared. “It is 
real because the Hall of Unearthly Light and this 
belltower are in one and the same place.  If you 
can go from here into Metamor, anything here can follow you.”
         “He is right,” Habakkuk said, coughing 
and sending another spurt of blood from his 
side.  His chest had caved in so thoroughly that 
his left lung could take in no more air. “And 
even... if you did... I will not last long eno... 
enough to rea... reach a healer.” Habakkuk’s arms 
trembled and drew taut against his chest.  One 
paw clasped Lindsey’s arm.  Tears dripped across 
his dust-coloured cheeks. “I will... will see my 
family again.  They’ve been... wait... waiting 
seven... teen years.  Do not weep.  Pray for me, 
but weep not.  And stay strong.  The worst... is 
coming.” He lifted those wet eyes to meet 
Lindsey’s. “You... are beautiful, even now.  I 
will always, always love you.  Lhindesaeg.”
         She threw her other arm around his chest 
and pulled his head against her own.  Her snout 
whispered into his ear. “And I love you, my Zhypar.”
         He smiled.  And then closed his eyes; 
his tears rolled steadily down his cheek 
ruff.  He sighed and then his body slackened in 
the red kangaroo’s arms.  Charles felt sick to 
his stomach and put one paw on the wall to steady 
himself.  Lindsey’s sobs grew into abject wailing 
as she held the now dead body of the last of the Felikaush to her chest.
         “The Sword,” Andares said, his voice 
firm and clear amidst Lindsey’s sorrow. “It is coming.”
         Charles lifted his gaze and swallowed 
heavily.  A haze surmounted the vile Censer and 
in it a single shaft of gold coalesced into the 
form of an upthrust blade.  The pommel fit 
perfectly into the recess in the Censer’s 
basin.  The flat edge of the sword faced them, 
and though it appeared to be a ceremonial weapon, 
the light that shone from its surface gleamed with a malevolent fire.
         Lindsey screamed and the rat looked 
down.  The black mist had surrounded Habakkuk’s 
body and took it from her.  She tried to hold on, 
but his flesh vanished beneath her fingers like 
smoke.  Kayla put a paw on Lindsey’s shoulder to 
steady her, but the kangaroo paid her no heed.
         Around them the walls blurred as yet 
another scene blended with their own.  A vast 
underground chamber much larger in scope than 
Marzac’s Hall swelled into existence.  Distant 
walls were shorn from clay, and nine columns 
radiated toward the domed ceiling.  Fulgurite 
lines led from the columns toward the Dais, 
Censer and Sword.  Each column was inscribed by one of the nine chevrons.
         But another scene joined it, one that 
cycled in and out of view depending on how they 
peered outward.  Crumbling stonework bespoke an 
ancient and abandoned city, with three towering 
pillars at the vertices of a vast 
triangle.  Beyond where Metamor’s mountains also 
lay they saw a jungle with low lying trees and 
carnivorous shadows.  The sky was full of bright 
stars, though the northern stars were at a nadir 
only Charles had ever seen on the horizon.
         “Where are these places?” James asked.
         “This one with the jungle is Ahdyojiak,” Jessica murmured.
         The donkey’s long ears fell behind his 
head in confusion. “Ahdyojiwhat?”
         “Ahdyojiak, an ancient Åelf city on the 
Isle of Manzona.  It is far to the southeast.  I 
saw it after killing Agathe.  The stars are from there too.”
         “And this other place?” Jerome ventured, 
gesturing to one of the nine pillars inlaid with a brilliant fulgurite.
         “It is ancient,” Andares said, his voice 
sing-song and soft. “Far beneath your holy city 
of Yesulam.  Doubtless they do not even know it is there.”
         “The sword!  It’s shadow!” Abafouq 
cried.  All of them spun from marvelling at a 
place that existed in four places 
simultaneously.  Even Lindsey lifted her eyes at 
the Binoq’s alarm.  The golden blade stretched 
out a black hand that crept along the floor 
toward the cluster of Keepers.  All of them 
scattered away, running to the other side of the 
Hall.  But the shadow flew across the room as 
quickly as only light can move.  The end snared a 
single claw on the nearest of Jessica’s talons, 
and that was all that it needed.
         “Help!” Jessica squawked in horror as 
the darkness held her fast and ascended her 
scaled leg and then across her feathery 
thighs.  Jerome wrapped his arms under her wings 
and pulled, while Guernef beat at it with his 
wings.  But a shadow feels no force other than 
light and continued its absorption of the hawk 
without regard to their efforts.  Jessica screed 
in paralysing fear, and then she was covered by 
it and a moment later gone.  The shadow drew back 
into the sword and all four places were illumined by golden light.
         The black chasm beneath the three 
artifacts of Yajakali began to brighten with an 
infernal red light as of a lantern first seen 
down a distant corridor throws its light ahead of 
itself.  All of them, even grief-struck Lindsey, 
backed away from that precipice.  The light 
swelled, brightening from the outside inward, 
until only a thin vein of black coursed through the centre of the abyss.
         And then, the stars in the night sky 
shifted.  It was slow at first, a subtle turning 
here as the night sky bent.  Andares turned his 
gaze toward the southern stars which were clearly 
visible and utterly foreign to all but Charles 
who’d known them most of his life.  The others 
did likewise, watching as the southern most star 
navigated a ponderous and wide circle in the 
night sky.  It came to rest back at the same place it began.
         And with its rest the veins of lead in 
the Hall of Unearthly Light began to glow a 
sickly blue.  It wavered as if through a haze, 
but those lines carved into the walls described a 
beautiful ivy forest that crept up over the nine 
pillars at the hall’s corners and circumscribing 
the chevrons also glowing with that same light.
         “Lucnos,” Abafouq whispered with dread. “Yajakali’s lucnos!”
         The ground beneath them trembled.  The 
bells of Metamor throbbed and the Pillars of 
Ahdyojiak swayed.  Dust from the vault beneath 
Yesulam rained down all around them and coated 
them with ancient sand.  The three artifacts 
stood as one, and a dark fluid filled the 
Censer’s basin.  It climbed the sword.  At its 
apex, thin tendrils stretched to the nine gems 
standing on the nine stanchions of the 
Dais.  They glistened with the same blue light of the lucnos.
         “What’s happening?” James asked softly.
         “I do not know,” Andares said, fingers 
curling around the hilt of his ivory-handled sword.
         Charles spun his Sondeshike as he 
watched tendrils stretching from gem to adjacent 
gem until the whole Dais was surrounded.  Three 
sections were cordoned off inside by those 
tendrils, and the dark light spilled from the rim 
of the Censer into each.  Each stream coagulated 
on top of the Dais’s broad platform into lumpy 
shapes.  They held their breath, each trying to 
calm their hearts as those shapes took on definition.
         The darkness left them.  Bound immobile 
by nothing they could see lay the Marquis’s 
servants Vigoreaux and Autrefois, and their 
friend Jessica.  She lay on her back with wings 
pinned beneath her.  Her eyes were locked upon 
the tip of the sword, and her talons curled tight 
like fists.  Charles could see the outline of a 
pendant resting in her black feathers and her 
gear pack pressed behind her head like a 
makeshift pillow.  But he saw nothing holding her down.
         “Jessica!” He shouted and took a step 
forward.  Jerome caught his elbow and pulled him 
back.  The rat scowled at his friend, then 
followed his frightened eyes to the top of the sword.
         Standing above the sword on nothing was 
an image contradicted.  He appeared like an Åelf, 
with long pointed ears, angular face, high cheek 
bones, and silken hair.  But everything about him 
was reversed.  Where his flesh should be bright 
it was dark, and where dark it was bright.  His 
garment, rich and simple was of purest 
black.  His eyes were black beneath bright brows 
with a shining centre.  His flesh too was dark, 
outlined by white light.  It was as if light itself had been negated for him.
         “Prince Yajakali.” For the first time 
Charles could remember, Andares-es-sebashou sounded frightened out of his mind.

----------


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

Charles Matthias