Mark of the Finder: Book Two: Gallant Company

By Frank Caccavo

Young Seth Kish, last Finder of the Elves, continues his journey into the wilderness of the west as he searches for ancient elf magic to save his nation and the southland realms. But he discovers that the magic comes with a terrible price and Seth must overcome the dangers that guard it.

With new perils in his path, the elf travels far from his quiet farming life. Seth complicates his quest by coming to the defense of the lovely Isaboe. His brief act of chivalry places him in the path of first love, and earns him an implacable foe. Aided by his brave warrior companions and an enigmatic ranger, Seth journeys through hazardous lands to thwart the dark forces gathering to destroy them. With sinister enemies in pursuit, Seth learns about his race, the history of his family, and the mysteries behind the magic he possess. As he grows nearer to the confrontation that terrifies him, Seth must battle his own fears and doubts as he begins to understand the obligations of friendship, and the demands and sacrifices of honor.

In this exciting fantasy tale, a young elf and his companions must race against time to uncover an ancient magic and battle a powerful wizard as their nations future hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491765524

Frank Caccavo

Born in Philadelphia and raised in its suburbs, Frank graduated from The Citadel in Charleston SC and served in Marine Corps Infantry and Artillery units, attaining Captain’s rank. A businessman, traveler, inexpert cook, cigar enthusiast, and amateur historian, he lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, children, and several standoffish cats.

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Copyright © 2015 Frank Caccavo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-6551-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6553-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-6552-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905908

iUniverse rev. date: 05/21/2015

Contents

Chapter 1 An Emissary

Chapter 2 Council of Lieutenants

Chapter 3 The Southland Road

Chapter 4 To the Court of Navereund

Chapter 5 A Dalliance, a Duel, and a Decision

Chapter 6 A Different Magic

Chapter 7 The Whims of Princes

Chapter 8 The Hospitality of the Legionnaire

Chapter 9 The Turns of the Heart

Chapter 10 The Exile

Chapter 11 The Wizard in the West

Chapter 12 Kestrel’s Hasty Words

Chapter 13 Damnation and Redemption

Chapter 14 The Voice of Finders

Chapter 15 Into the Timberland

Chapter 16 Bloodied

Chapter 17 Crossing Tides

Chapter 18 The Blood Island

Chapter 19 Trial for Fire

Chapter 20 The Sorcerer’s Challenge

Acknowledgments

Also by Frank Caccavo

Mark of the Finder

Book 1: Marta’s Gift

The Rotcies of William Tennent High, my classmates of The Citadel, and my comrades-in-arms…

For gallant company.

CHAPTER 1

AN EMISSARY

T hrough the long parade of ages he had developed a sense of the setting sun and even in the bowels of the castle he knew when that destructive orb had receded into the horizon. In the nether world from which he had come its cleansing rays could not reach him. The place of his banishment possessed light and dark in a fashion, but the radiance was blunted as if through a veil. Now there was the risk of his destruction with each dawn, but withstanding the day was fair payment for the moon and stars that he now enj oyed.

He always waited out the bulk of the brilliance before he would move to the upper reaches of the keep. Tane Abiss was the eldest of his kind and knew that his survival over the many years had made him strong. Perhaps he was strong enough to resist the purification of dawn, but he was not incautious. He rarely tested his endurance and always with a setting sun. His eyes were open in his resting place until he knew that sweet night had fallen at last and the mortal world was enfolded in a cloak of darkness.

He rose rested… and hungry.

A slave was left bound and gagged just within the entrance to his lair. He preferred to feed alone, leaving the remains to be disposed of in the new dawn by the retainers of the keep. The terror of his victims and the attendants who brought them soaked the black stone of the walls and he inhaled deeply, relishing it.

He could smell the struggling little creature, a young female this time, who had heard him stir and was now sobbing in terror in the outer room. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the muffled sounds, his hearing quite keen. He drank in the fear and despair in those little whines as a bee takes nectar and he drew the tangy scent of hopelessness with the fright, wetly sparking his appetite. A grin creased his fanged visage.

When at last his need drove him, he came to her. As he directed, she had been set upright among a few torches so that she could see him emerge from the shadows of his chamber. He appeared as his regal self, winged and clawed. He advanced slowly, letting her perceive her fate.

In the early days after his arrival his victims were left un-gagged, so that he might savor their pleading. While he enjoyed the screams, they proved disconcerting to the work of the keep as they echoed to the upper floors. He altered his ritual, omitting their cracking voices as aperitif. But how he savored their eyes! How they widened, tear-filled and beseeching as he drew near, hoping for mercy where none existed. He’d watch as they would close for long moments, thinking him a dream or vision before reopening and finding him there waiting…smiling. In those last moments they sometimes looked up or downward in genuflection. Perhaps they prayed in vain to one deity or another for deliverance. How precious they looked when the hope faded and they embraced their fate. When all they could wish for was simply that it would end.

How sweet the taste of their little lives. He mused happily. These are such lovely prey! Such innocents nearly make being in thrall worthwhile.

The thought of his current servitude broke his mood. It burned him as much as the sun could roast him that he must serve another and that his liege be a mortal. Of late to recall the name of his lord could almost put him from his repast. It was a constant reminder of his misjudgment and the defeat he suffered at Locke’s hands in their first encounter that now bound him.

Though he was a key general and would obtain a mighty reward when the demon-man came to dominion, he bore him no fealty. Unfortunately, Locke knew this as well and had made it abundantly clear that he would end his existence in an instant if he attempted to thwart or betray him.

Obey me and you shall live and prosper, but practice your deceit upon me and I shall give you a death to last centuries. The wizard had told him in blunt, irrevocable terms. A death your kin will speak of for all time.

Despite his undead existence, Abiss had no desire to enter into permanent sleep. He had looked at Locke’s deathlike visage and saw nothing that remotely resembled mercy or accommodation. Locke would retain him so long as he served his purposes and, if he failed, he would not be freed to return to the darker realm from which he came. He would be destroyed.

Since being called from his mystic exile he had worked his own considerable powers to comply with the wizard’s will. Locke wanted an army from him. A special army the like of which mortal beings had never encountered, save perhaps in the worst of nightmares. It was his charge to tip the balance of arms in Locke’s favor by recruiting an unearthly host.

Each of the wizard’s generals had been tasked with providing soldiers for the coming campaign. Byrrath and the mercenary Sorell each had retainers at their disposal in considerable numbers, but for all their prowess and specialty their hosts were comprised of mortal beings and subject to the natural laws of life and death.

His donation to the campaign would not be an army in a traditional sense. It would not be led so much as unleashed. Like the gargoyles and the goblins his soldiers would be largely restricted to night fighting, but when they took the field they would be a sight to take the heart from even the most courageous and committed of the foe.

The composition of his host left much to be desired in the way of versatility. The number of his command would vary day to day as some of the more powerful would prey upon the lesser beings within it. As for control, there would be little. Some were capable of receiving orders and these could be managed with the subtlety of tactical movement. The mass however, would be little more than ravening hell spawn fit only for the most simple and ferocious of attacks. Once released, they would strike and savage, tear and bite until a power greater than their own ended their assault. Some among them would possess arcane abilities similar to his, but most owned only the strength and sinew of claws and fangs. Their howls and wails would chill the blood.

The vampire lord knew precisely what he would be setting free and supposed Locke did as well.

This army will possess no discipline. He mused. There will be no chain of command, no units or banners. No quarter asked and none given. Once on the field, I will do no more than to point and set them to charge.

He turned to the torn remains of his meal, the eyes open and staring. He squatted beside the corpse and smiled.

Some are so savage that they will stop in the midst of the fighting to feed upon what they slew. He spoke, the body becoming his audience. There’ll be no dark heroes among their ranks seeking glory through acts of valor or single combat with the champions of the foe. This horde will bear me no more loyalty than I bear Locke. The most ambitious among them would kill and supplant me if given the opportunity or join in a coup against my leadership rather than act alone.

A true army of chaos and its pay is the mortal flesh which had been denied them. Abiss laughed, punctuating his words by leaning forward to take a final bite of the cooling, still figure. A booty that my potential rivals cannot promise.

Byrrath referred to the coming war as A Great Killing and indeed it will be! He whispered, a snake-like tongue circling this lips as he rose from his meal. I’ve ambitions beyond the possession of land or the subjugation of the mortal races. I care nothing for what passes for riches in this world and I’ve no desire for governance over what remains when the fighting is done. But when the lands are subjugated, I’ll not return to the black realm to rule over those that are outcast from the thriving earth. I’ve come to enjoy the scents and sounds of a living world. Here there is wind and rain, nights with starlight, trees and hills and changing seasons.

He cast a passing glance at the body on the floor.

"And so much prey to choose from. Once returned to the living, I could never subsist on the bitter dregs of my dark world again. There will come a time to challenge Locke once more and when I do, I will be prepared. I will not go back!"

My lord Abiss, may I enter?

The voice that diverted his musings was honey-sweet, but a voice which Abiss knew was both a mask and a flawless lure. Only the exceptionally wise and watchful would detect what was behind it.

Decay and certain death await those who grew close enough to be enthralled by that voice. He thought.

He turned to face the closed door, recognizing its owner. It was murder that came with her kisses, for a succubus had to kill to live. Like himself it drew its sustenance from men, until what remained was a husk; soulless and devoid not only life, but spirit.

She approached the chamber door silently enough to avoid my detection so she could listen. Abiss noted. She has stealth to match her mercilessness, the perfect assassin.

He willed the heavy door open with a gesture and seated himself in the shadows of his lair.

I trust you have something special to tell me this evening, Lucretia? He said. My time is short.

She was an exceptional beauty dressed in a long gown of deepest blue and trimmed in silver thread so that it caught the glimmer of the few torches in the room as she walked. Their glow highlighted her movements, reflecting and accentuating her entrance. She owned thick raven tresses whose curls that flowed like a torrent over perfect curves and graceful limbs. The dark hair and dress contrasted superbly with skin so white it appeared as fine porcelain in the flickering lamplight.

She stepped gingerly around the remains of his supper without taking her eyes from his face and stood elegantly before him. She bowed slightly, arms extended downward and outward from the body, palms up in the ancient manner of servitude. In this pose she brought every lovely feature to play. She raised her head to him, long eyelashes fluttering, and her full lips broke into a slight smile that contained the look of both demure maiden and wanton harlot.

It is exceptionally good baiting. The vampire admitted, knowing this form was but one of many. The succubus would appear to her victims as their heart’s dearest desire come to life…loving and enamored. The dupe would drop his guard as she drew close, often embracing her happily for her words and form, even her mannerisms and scent, were drawn from the memories of her quarry. These usually died with lips softly mouthing the name of her lure. That the prey sometimes discerned that the vision was not real or that he was literally dissolving in the arms of a demon was immaterial. Once ensnared, so powerful was the trance that all that mattered was the mirage, for however long it lasted before the end.

Fortunately, he had not possessed mortal eyes for ages.

You realize my dear, that your wiles are lost upon me? I can see you as you truly are and even if I could not, I have been dead to all of mortality’s attractions and distractions for more centuries than I can recall.

It never hurts to practice, Milord. the sweet voice replied.

And were you practicing eavesdropping at my door as well?

I assure you I had only just arrived. I have matters to discuss before your meeting with the Command Council.

Ah yes, The Council. Abiss remembered with a touch of irritation. Locke had placed the mortal Sorell in overall command in his absence and the mercenary had scheduled regular meetings of the three senior lieutenants to discuss the preparations of the wizard’s army.

Sorell had organized the leadership structure of the host into two echelons. The first comprised the commanders of the races Locke had recruited. These gathered periodically to receive orders and review strategy. Abiss attended occasionally, finding the meetings as amusing as visiting a menagerie of game beasts to determine which would be slaughtered for dinner. The second was Locke’s High Command and consisted of himself, the gargoyle king Barrath, and Captain-General Sorell.

How these folk loved their titles. Abiss stifled a sigh. The conference will be another tedious affair. The armored cretin will want to know what troops I have mustered and in what configurations. He’ll want me to reassure him that I can bring them forth and deploy them when needed.

In the seclusion of his thoughts, he admitted that the Commander of The Blood Tide was not altogether inefficient and that his questions were not unreasonable. Abiss simply did not wish to take orders from his prey and so was routinely flippant to irritate his commander.

The fool thinks me unfamiliar with soldierly matters. The vampire fumed in those private moments. Idiot! A seeker of blood would find much sustenance in the fringes of war.

He turned back to Lucretia. "And what matters concern you, my pet?"

At the bidding of our liege I have sought out the last Finder of the Elves. The demon replied, ignoring the condescension in Abiss’s tone. She spoke slowly with another slow lowering and lifting of dark eyelashes, her voice soft and laden with false desire. The bearer of the magic has fled and is many leagues from us. I beg leave to pursue him.

The vampire’s smirk widened to a wolf’s grin. As I recall, you were bidden to locate and destroy these elf magicians and have been doing so for months. Why does this final elf bring you here to ask about it? Is he stronger than the others? Do you require assistance in executing him?

Lucretia responded with a predatory smile of her own and shook her head.

In locating this one I have learned that there is not a single Finder remaining, but two. I presumed that this is a thing worth knowing. Am I wrong to inform you of it?

Well, isn’t that news?! Abiss said, long fangs protruding from his lips. Our liege was not so thorough in his planning, and infallibility is not one of his many powers. Thus through one of my underlings a potential threat is ferreted out. It should please my Lord that his capable and worthy sub-commander has dealt with it decisively.

You have done well, Lucretia. Indeed, that is a thing worth knowing. Where is this second elf?

Far away, my lord. she replied, with curtness that was unmistakable. The succubus would provide no further information. He is not in his homeland, but in the rough lands beyond their realm.

Abiss looked at the demon. His eyes flashed red and he gazed with clinical interest through her mystic facade at Lucretia’s true self. She was a sight in any form! She had eagle-like talons at her feet and black wings that were much like his. The tresses of silky raven hair were in genuineness a coarse twisted mane spread around a fanged face. Her arms were long and muscular, ending in cruel claws that could tear through hardened leather like parchment. Where once was a beautiful woman now coiled an undisguised monster, savage, powerful, and pitiless.

Around her neck she wore a necklace. A chain of iron for the touch of silver was painful to the demon-kind. Dangling from it was a small pouch which he knew contained, like the trophies of a hunter, some fourteen recovered silver charms taken from Elf Finders. Huntress though she was, she had not taken so many herself. Most were recovered as the spoils of raids and assassinations and had been accumulated in a gold cup. The cup was staged in the keep’s treasure room on a pedestal as any plunder. They were no more than jewelry in any but an elf’s hands, but once Lucretia spied them she asked for them hungrily. In possessing them she could measure the shifting balance as her world gained preeminence over this one and the pleasure such an adornment offered was irresistible. Abiss granted the request not out of kindness but in understanding. She was a creature of the black while the charms were symbolic of the obverse, the literal opposite of her existence.

We have much in common, but are defined by our differences. He mused. Lucretia is a true demon, spawned in evil to wreak mischief upon mortals of any race. She is a timeless bane to all that lives, a despoiler of life. But unlike her I had been a man once, though centuries ago. I have lived and breathed the air of men, experienced the full gamut of emotion and at the end of mortality, became…something else. For Lucretia mortals are victims and their torment a calling while for me they are only prey. Our enmity is as competitors and she is a formidable threat. How she watches! That I can mimic Locke in the breaching of worlds is my leverage. She will be loyal while I hold that advantage reasoning that if I could bring her across the void, then I can send her back.

You have done well, my sweet. Abiss said imperiously, gracing her with the most dazzling smile of his own false image. You have my blessing to go at once to deal with them. Hunt these two down and add their trinkets to your collection. Come to me then with the news of your triumph.

The image of Lucretia smiled seductively and the air about her shimmered. The spell that surrounded her fell away from her like flakes of snow might be shaken off a wolf’s fur. Now she stood in her malevolent glory, a creature bred for malice and harm. Only the eyes betrayed the intellect and cunning beyond the image of the predator. She crossed her clawed arms before her chest and bowed once more, her eyes glowing and sharp teeth bared as she spoke. As you have willed, so it shall be done.

She stepped back and then turned. In a shimmering instant the façade of humanity returned and she was a woman once more. Lucretia exited the chamber with the same gracefulness with which she entered, stopping at the archway of the entrance with a slight turn of her head.

I’ll send someone down to clean up.

CHAPTER 2

COUNCIL OF LIEUTENANTS

W ith Lucretia’s steps echoing down the hall Abiss directed his thoughts to the meeting. The subject of Locke’s sudden absence had caused him much distrac tion.

The gargoyle will be there by now, chaffing openly at his servitude. He’s too stupid to hide his resentment as wisdom would dictate and too frightened to contend with the sorcerer or his Blood Tide bodyguard.

Abiss shook his head and then pondered the black-armored mercenary. On the other hand, the paid for Sorell will serve with utmost loyalty while sufficient plunder flows into his coffers. It’s why Locke selected him for command during his absence. There is plenty of loot to be had. And as Sorell is the only man among his three chief generals, the mercenary can be trusted on the basis of his greed. Gold rules men more surely than any king.

Despite his ghoulish appearance and power, Locke is at his core a mortal. Whatever the transformation, curse, or spell that had made him what he is now, the wizard was still of this world and as such he can be killed. I underestimated the wizard at our first encounter because I perceived his humanity before reckoning his power.

It is Locke’s residual humanity that burns the most. He groused inwardly. Accepting orders from Locke was an indignity. Receiving direction from, much less swearing fealty to the wizard or his chief thug rang to him of goats bleating orders to their shepherds. Abiss was unaccustomed to being bested and only rarely had he been reduced to giving service to another. He had ruled the dark world of his exile for an immeasurable time until Locke called him and he came with fury at the affront.

I failed to respect the aptitude it took to summon me. He recalled bitterly, scraping his long nails across the stone walls. Other wizards and magical adepts have attempted to rule me in the past and the fools became meals for their folly. I had intended to toy with my would-be master and then sup with pleasure upon him. But the walking cadaver stifled my resistance before it had even begun. Snuffed it out like a candle. I sensed the peril too late and yielded quickly, lest I be destroyed, and gave my oath of service knowing that to do otherwise was certain death.

In the wake of that defeat and the servitude foisted upon him, his hatred smoldered.

Obedience is not loyalty, He consoled himself. And if I am not the equal of the sorcerer in craft, I am certainly so in ruthlessness.

The Staff… Abiss sulked, speaking softly. It was the deciding factor. It makes the wretch an equal of truly powerful beings. In my hands such a weapon would make me a dark god. But to wrest it from the wizard would be dangerous in the extreme. Still, I cannot overthrow Locke if the wizard is not near here to be overthrown.

So why did Locke leave in such haste? The vampire queried the walls, pacing the chamber. It must have been a reason of some importance. Even modest military knowledge would dictate that Locke should not trust so great an enterprise as he has undertaken to subordinates, even to such as Sorell.

Byrrath does not know. Abiss murmured with certainty. The gargoyle is not privy to Locke’s schemes, nor does he care to be. The winged buffoon is satisfied that Locke is not readily available to threaten him. The Captain-General of The Crimson Riders is the key. But Sorell is as silent as the empty suits of armor that decorate the keep and I cannot inquire directly without arousing suspicion.

I cannot enthrall the black knight. He considered. Entrancing leaves evidence upon the victim and Locke possesses the skill to detect it. Nor can I attack his first lieutenant without cause and avoid a confrontation with the wizard. An alliance with Byrrath is a risk. The simpleton may not be able to muster the necessary guile to keep a pact unknown. He’ll never be more than a moderately useful pawn. Such a pliable subordinate might be handy when I make my bid for rule as a cat’s-paw if matters come to a battle between Locke and me. Sorell, out of loyalty to Locke’s treasury, will almost certainly choose to defend his client.

It was with the comforting thoughts of a dismembered wizard and mercenary that the tall figure strode from his chamber and made his way to the meeting room of Locke’s Lieutenants.

*     *     *

Sorell had ordered the chamber lit with twice the number of torches and lamps, illuminating the space like a ballroom. Light disturbed the gargoyle and he wanted the big creature’s eyes downcast and blinking. It was a simple ploy to keep the winged beast irritated, and under control. Byrrath would be anxious to receive his orders and be on his way which was precisely what Sorell wanted. Although unsure, he hoped that a well-lit room was no friend of Abiss, whom he thought of as The Leech.

Whatever purpose Locke intends for these two and their minions, I think little of it. He informed his closest subordinates. I do not trust their loyalty or capability, and I question the battle worthiness of any troops these command. Either of them would kill us in a moment if they could do so with impunity. Ensure that temptation does not merge with opportunity.

All the guards are ready, General. His aide replied. Four will be outside the doors to ensure your privacy and security. Two dozen more are located at stations upon the stairways leading to the tower entrance.

The general’s steel helm nodded slightly. Good. A false move from either of them and I will be forced to make apologies to Locke for altering his command structure. We are a great host while Abiss and Byrrath are the herders of beasts. The Blood Tide has never been turned back, never been defeated. The wizard needs us far more than either of them.

Satisfied, he waved his officers away. His freebooters rewarded ruthlessness and violence and he was a master at both. Locke had entrusted him to oversee the final preparations of the army. It had not been an easy duty, but he exacted substantial payment for his efforts.

The Kobolds had been the easiest to bring to heel. He recalled, glancing at muster lists and mentally checking off the regiments one by one. They were disciplined, martially organized, and aching for new territories. They took orders easily and fell in line quickly. The Gnomes and the Goblins were more complex. The former was numerous, though tribal in structure. They’re spear-fodder compared to the armored Kobolds, who can breach lines and exploit breakthroughs.

The gobs are vicious enough. He had told his officers. And they burn for revenge for centuries of perceived indignities heaped upon them by the Elves. But while wiry and strong for their size, they’re so small that they’ll have to be deployed in waves to have any success. They’re useless additions beyond their vision at night or in ambush. They’ll keep the elves awake.

Their hobgoblin cousins will have more utility, but their wolf-cavalry is unreliable. The volpin are frightening, but as dangerous to their riders as any foe. He scoffed.

The Orcs had presented unique difficulties. There were more than two dozen clans of varied size and each was fiercely independent and status conscious. Each tribe wanted a say in command and he’d spent a month in futile negotiations before a solution came to him. He began assassinating leaders until he found successors that were more…amiable. Or at least as amiable as an Orc could be. Even so they would not settle on a single general. Eventually, he allowed four leaders as representatives of their race.

The senior command was the more persistent headache. Byrrath commanded a horde of large winged fighters and Abiss was reputedly capable of bringing unique warriors that would shatter the will of the southland forces or slaughter them outright. A Great Killing, as Byrrath was fond of saying.

Sorell’s first act was to separate the gargoyle and the vampire from the other contingents of the army. These High Generals and the forces they led were the nightmares of mortals. To expose them to the army would be destructive to the fighting abilities of the mass, particularly the creatures that Abiss might call. Locke had warned him that the sight of living breathing men would be far too great a temptation.

They will not be able to resist tormenting, killing, or eating as many mortal soldiers as they can simply as their natures dictate. Locke had said. It will be terrible for morale! Better to have them assemble elsewhere and bring them when needed for the purpose they could best serve.

Sorell understood immediately. Shock troops!

The mercenary smiled thinly behind his steel. What would the fabled legionnaires of Navereund in their indestructible armored line do when faced against a snarling wave of werewolves or ghouls? Would the long pikes of the stoic Dwarf regiments hold when shrieking harpies tear their comrades from their ranks and ripped them to pieces before their eyes? Could the brave Elves stand against slavering undead or demons or some other unnamable hell-spawn wailing and mewling for their blood

But understanding his client’s reasoning didn’t mean he approved.

There is no knowing how such a force as the vampire calls can be managed. He confessed to his confederates. Such dark power is unpredictable and dangerous even in the hands of someone as adept as Locke.

I will not trust them, especially The Leech. He vowed, pacing the chamber awaiting their arrival. It takes no great wisdom to know a snake when one sees one and I have not remained alive when so many predecessors have fallen by being incautious. I shall give neither of them a view of my neck and while I hold command, my colleagues will stay on a short leash.

The arrival of the gargoyle was announced on his wings and the scattering of dust that blew in from the balcony as he landed. Despite his size he landed lightly with only the clicking of his clawed feet against the stone. He stepped slowly into the chamber, squinting as Sorell had wished and turning his head away from the brilliance of the rooms light.

Why muss the fire be so brright? the gargoyle roared at the black-armored knight. Yew know there is pain forrr me enn light.

It cannot be helped, Sorell replied coolly, gesturing at the table and smiling behind the closed visor of his helm. They are needed to illuminate the maps.

If yew rrremoved the pot on yerrr head yew would not need so much light to see. Byrrath retorted, attempting to glare at Sorell but managing only a series of hard blinks.

My helm stays where it is. He replied bluntly, amused and unmoved. And you, my dim-witted beast, should learn to adapt to your surroundings!

The Gargoyle issued an impotent growl and one clawed hand clenched, but he spoke no more. The winged figure shuffled to a corner as far from the lanterns as he could manage and carefully seated himself on a bench. His wings came forward to partially shade him from the glare.

Levels below Abiss strolled through the halls casually, a smile plastered on his dark hairless face. He was seen by many, but none greeted him and no one met his eyes. It was known within the keep that this one, this high general of Lord Locke, was death’s emissary upon the world. It was no secret that captives and servants were sacrificed each evening. To be called to the presence of the one who lived in darkness was to be never seen again.

As Abiss passed through the lower floors of the keep to the upper, those he encountered changed from servants, grooms and cooks to soldiers of many races. The bulk of these were gnomes and kobolds although occasionally he passed the little cave-dwelling goblins, and once or twice he had seen lumbering orcs.

These last amused him for although they reeked of fear, they alone attempted to keep up a bold front. They gripped their weapons tightly and grunted low, pig-like snorts to each other as he passed. They stared from what they deemed a safe distance, giving him a wide berth. It was their eyes, wide and watering from their unwillingness to even blink in his presence that gave their terror away, and he drank in their dread like a draft of sweet wine.

As he approached the entrance to Sorell’s tower he saw that the number of guards had increased. Three of Sorell’s armored retainers were standing rigidly by the doorway. They were large men, made larger still by their heavy armor. They stood with weapons drawn and he noted their close observation by the slight movements of their helms. He imagined such soldiers as being quite intimidating with their black armor and ferocious bearing. Like their captain-general their visors were always drawn and their armor was festooned with runes and symbols that he knew were wards of magic. Some of these were properly done and to his eyes glowed in hues of red or blue as he neared. A few possessed sufficient strength to cause him annoyance. He would have scoffed at these meager preparations if he had deigned to take notice of them. The use of such scrawls and trinkets often did no more than tell him that he was expected, and that his repast awaited him. He so savored the look on the faces of his victims when all their charms and blessings came to naught. It was why he particularly enjoyed preying upon priests and shaman. They always looked so delightfully disappointed at the end!

One of the guards opened the door for him while the others gave salute with their weapons. Passing in close proximity of the defensive markings caused him discomfort, as he anticipated. But he had braced himself for the effects of the wards and passed through the portal without pause or change of expression, not wishing the guards to believe for an instant that they possessed the means of thwarting their murder if he decided to end their lives.

He found more of Sorell’s men at every landing of the winding stairs. There were never less than three at any point. My esteemed general takes no chances, he smiled inwardly. Three are enough to ensure that at least one will sound the alarm. I wonder what Sorell would concoct had I elected to fly to the tower’s balcony like Byrrath.

At the last door four of The Blood Tide awaited him and stepped aside to let him enter. Sorell’s meeting room was brilliantly lit, which he knew would further sour the disposition of Byrrath. Flames from torches or the burning oil from lamps did not disturb him, although he could be burned. He would heal unless reduced to cinders, and perhaps not even then under certain circumstances. But it was prudent for his kind to avoid the purification of fire and this was often misconstrued as a fear of light other than that of the sun. To lull his host, he affected wariness and discomfort as he entered the chamber, blinking with pronounced frequency and lowering his head slightly. Let Sorell think me disabled when I am not, such a misjudgment might be useful.

But it was not to be. The knight faced him as he entered the chamber, one mailed hand on his hip and the other a fist upon the map table.

Your acting leaves much to be desired. Sorell announced. I know you feign your discomfort for my benefit and you are barely on time for our meeting, Abyss.

"Good evening to you as well! And if barely on time then I