Four Pretenders & the Talismans of Darkness & Light: The Grimlindian Chronicles, Part 2

By Melvin Karew

The guard at the city gates does not attempt to stop the stranger entering Nuthollia, for his job is to keep people inside the city and no person would enter the city voluntarily unless he were an agent of Grimlindus.

Nuthollia, the capital of Neuthonia, is no longer a trading metropolis. Its remaining inhabitants are usually hiding indoors, trying to escape Grimlindus's violent soldiersthe tall blond northerners, bandit warriors and Knights of Destruction, as well as goblins, hobgoblins, kobolds and ogres from further east on the steppes. While contact with these soldiers is dangerous and unpredictable, the soldiers do keep the city's economy moving, the trade continuing. So Nuthollia's inhabitants, the original Neuthonics as well as countless released prisoners-of-war, attempt to earn a meagre living in fear and dread.

The stranger is rnwulf, the tall barbarian who had been learning sword-skills in the cold hills of the Borderlands. He is dressed in heavy furs. His long, straight, black hair is tied back by a broad cloth that completely conceals his forehead and from which hangs three beaded feathers. His heavy broadsword is strapped to his back, partially buried within his fur coat, while a number of knives are strapped to his chest and belt. A two-headed tomahawk hangs from his belt. He is accompanied by Caleb, the huge wolf that is as large as a small pony and which has a thick mane of grey fur. Man and wolf survey the cold, snow-covered streets, looking beyond the unhappy houses to the dark palace standing on a hill near the centre of the city. They turn away from it and head into one of the darker and less inviting neighbourhoods, where even Grimlindus's soldiers would think twice before entering. The houses are closer together than elsewhere; the streets disappear into narrow alleyways and blind corners. Open doorways and boarded windows show that many of the residences are empty of normal occupation. However, a quick survey inside would reveal hiding squatters, ruffians, thieves and muggers.

The man and wolf stop in front of a building that is deep within this neighbourhood. This building is similar to all the others, dismal and grey. It has a heavy steel door with a small window at face height, covered by a shutter. The man thumps on the door and the shutter is pulled back, revealing two dark, slanted eyes.

"What do you want?" says the bouncer.

"Where are your mistresses?" asks rnwulf, with a heavy, northern accent. "They are busy. Who wants to know?" "I was sent by Cleosius the warlord, to purchase something which was stolen from him. They are expecting me." The shutter is slid shut and rnwulf hears muted discussions behind it. The shutter slides open again. "You are early!" snaps the voice and the shutter slams closed. rnwulf thumps on the door again, his blows echoing inside. The shutter is pulled back again.

"Can I wait inside?" he asks. The door opens, revealing a seven-and-a-half foot monstrosity, which bends over inside the small front room; its hairy frame fills up the doorway. Bugbear! thinks rnwulf, staring at the hairy giant-goblin, which would tower over one of its smaller goblin or hobgoblin cousins.

"Come inside," it snarls, "but the wolf stays out there." After re-locking the door, the bugbear leads rnwulf along a dimly lit corridor, before arriving at a small room, furnished only with a hard-backed chair.

"The mistresses are busy, the bugbear growls, but I will send someone to fetch them when they are, um, finished. Would you like a drink while you are waiting?" rnwulf waves the bugbear away and sits on the chair. In a moment, he becomes completely motionless, his keen eyes surveying every inch of the room. He waits, becoming tenser as he looks at the low ceiling and the walls. After a short time he stands up, goes to the door and tries the handle, finding it locked. H

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477153291

Melvin Karew

Melvin Karew was born in 1969 in the outer suburbs of Sydney, Australia. He describes himself as a balding, middle aged, mildly overweight office worker. He lives in Sydney with his two sons and his Labrador. His writings explain who he really is.

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Copyright © 2012 by Melvin Karew.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4771-5328-4

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-5329-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

BOOK III:

FOUR PRETENDERS

BOOK IV:

THE TALISMANS OF DARKNESS & LIGHT

APPENDIX

INDEX OF CHARACTERS

Dedication

for my late brother, Chris,

and for his children,

Ruby and Jack.

edited-MAP%20X.jpg

BOOK III:

FOUR PRETENDERS

FOUR PRETENDERS

Pharos’s vision clears and he sees Kristina looking down at him.

How are you? she asks. Can you see?

Yes, he says. What is happening?

Haestig is dead, says Kristina sombrely. The other evil lords are dead or fled. Everyone is alive, mostly.

Pharos looks around the citadel, to see Hank kneeling with Rhaecyl, Firebinder leaning over Melphore and Silver Hawk rushing to Behrtygha’s side.

What do you mean by ‘mostly’?

Kristina points across the top of the citadel, to the other wall. There is a rumbling and a giant lizard-like head appears on the outside of the wall, near the very southern end where the wall has broken off. The head rears up and claws glint in the sun.

It has a rider, someone I do not know, says Pharos, his clearing eyes picking out the detail.

Is there someone with the rider? asks Kristina.

No. Yes. Something is tied behind it. The oriental dragon turns and leaps into the sky, magically slithering in the air. I see it now. There are two bodies tied on the back.

Who are they? asks Kristina. I saw the demon walk along the wall, saw it kill Iduard. I could not make out what it was carrying.

It is Ariadne and Diarmuid, says Pharos softly.

The eastern dragon wheels and flies back, to pass over the ruined citadel, flicking out its forked tongue as it does so. Bellshival screams, laughs at the adventurers below and orders the snake-like creature onto them. It comes down, faster, getting larger, blotting out the sun. Its two fangs drip black poison. They lie on the top of the wall in terror as the mouth comes down, closer, driving down towards the man-elf and the swords-woman…

Pharos wakes with a start and sits up on the bed, his tall, muscular body dripping with sweat. He has been lying on a small bed in a darkened room. A cold wind drifts through the gaps in the shutters, freezing the sweat on his body. The bed next to him is indented and warmth rises from it, indicating that someone has just vacated it.

What is wrong? says a soft voice in the darkness.

His elf-sight makes out the naked figure sitting on a chair in the corner, eyes open, staring towards the bed but not seeing.

What are you thinking, Kristina? he asks as he wipes the sweat from his goatee. Come back to bed.

We need to talk, she answers and runs a hand through her black hair, with her ring finger splitting the lock of red hair.

He rises, walks to the window, opens the shutters and looks into the darkness beyond. He sees the village below, huddled within the walls of a tall castle, struggling to stay warm in the cold, wet, winter’s night. He turns towards Kristina; he is silhouetted in the window, his form a muscular shadow.

I will leave tomorrow, she says without getting up from the chair.

Where are we going?

"We are not going anywhere, she says solemnly. Melphore, Kazpr, Kotaro and Moloff are heading north and east, the first three to Orphoigne and Moloff back to his home. I want to go with them and I do not want you to come."

I thought you might be thinking something like that, responds the man-elf.

Do you understand? You and I, it was what I always wanted, thought about as a young girl. But Iduard changed all that, made me mistrust my own feelings. I am glad that you were there, to help me overcome his death, but I need to—I do not know—have some space.

Pharos’s thoughts move to Iduard, the knife throwing, oriental-sword wielding, bard enchanter. He remembers the bard’s body lying at the foot of the wall of the broken citadel. His bones were all broken and shattered from the fall, and there was a gaping hole in his body, where the demon-wizard had driven his staff.

Do you think that there will be space in Orphoigne? he asks with dark humour.

I will at least have a purpose, she responds half-coldly, to help them in their war, rather than stay here in Avienne until the winter passes.

I know what you mean. Ever since Ariadne was taken, we were left with no mission, nothing to do. I know that Ralphius ran off to try to save her but it is futile, marching right into the mouth of the Serpent. She is probably dead already. I can understand that you want to go to Orphoigne, the front line, but I do not think that Grimlindus will be defeated there.

Perhaps not but it gives me a purpose and will give me time to think.

He walks over to her and bends forward in the darkness to kiss her. She looks up towards him, accepting his kiss, feeling his warm lips on her cold ones. He grabs her hands gently, leading her up from the chair to standing.

Is their nothing that I can do to change your mind? he asks as he pulls her close, his arms surrounding her nakedness. Her breasts push against his chest and he feels his hardened groin push up against her brunette pubic curls.

No, I will leave at first light, she says as she presses her cold body against him, her mouth nuzzling into his neck. She bites him on the fleshy part of the neck, her fangs driving deep into his throat.

Kristina! he exclaims. What are you doing?

She looks up from his neck, with yellow eyes and sharp teeth. Blood covers her lips and drips down her chin.

Your vampyre friends visited me earlier this night, she says woodenly.

*     *     *

Why do I not just kill her, Ezmerelda? asks Grimlindus. He is talking to an elf-lady. She is five feet tall, with a slim frame, pointed ears and skin as black as newly mined coal. Her golden hair falls seductively onto her shoulders and down her naked back. She is dressed in a thin, white, backless, short tunic, which hugs her dark curves. Her blue eyes stare into his.

Grimlindus is dressed in his red chain-mail hauberk and black cloak and boots. The Sword of Death is sheathed at his side; the carved bull’s head at its crosspiece stares menacingly into the darkness. He and the dark elf are standing at the top of a pit, looking down into its cold depths. All they could see from below are the scared, defeated, golden eyes looking up at them.

You humans are so linear, says Ezmerelda. She is a powerful totem, a symbol of resistance and the central piece in a grand-wizard’s spell. Just killing her would not stop Myrlwndus’s Rhyme from bringing about your downfall. It would merely make it harder to find its source. No, you must unmake the Rhyme, destroy its strings and steal the power that is within and around the girl.

She is just a girl, Grimlindus protests.

Do you really think so? Do you think that the destruction of your plans in the Westland, the killing of Francois and Haestig and the banishment of Beztodius the gargoyle were just coincidences. The Rhyme is playing. Are you prepared to stop it?

Grimlindus sighs. We are almost there, he says. The Dark One and Nahorre are preparing their conjurations, while Baichyz, Katharina and Moch are researching the necessary rituals. Bellshival and Hellius are obtaining the materials for these rituals. It is a pity that the Priests of Decay are too busy killing each other to find a necessary replacement for Francois. But we can complete the task without them. That just leaves you and me to learn the relevant incantations. We can perform the ritual in three days, on the morning after the night without a moon.

Then let us go and prepare, says the dark elf.

*     *     *

The knucklebones fall on the cow-skin mat. The old, grey-bearded man squints at the visions that appear before him. The light from the small fire flickers against his black and white cow-skin clothing. The finger-bones that hang from a string around his neck sparkle against his chest.

I cannot see her, he thinks, or Diarmuid, my elfling apprentice, taken with her by the demon-wizard and that snake-dragon. Grimlindus’s power blocks me. All I can see is her past.

He sees the golden-eyed princess spirited out of her palace by the dark-robed Ralphius, to be delivered to the Canrolinquian spies. He sees the massive knight, Hank, dressed in full battle armour, destroying the force of zombie-ghouls and scaring off the necromancer and assassin that controlled them. He sees the bard, Iduard, and the fire-sword wielding adventurer, Coltello, battling the evil oriental knights, as Wai Chung Lee, the good oriental knight, kneels with a mortal wound.

There are the adventurers, Pharos the man-elf warrior armed with long sword and crossbow, searching for a missing elfin king. The visions show Pharos, Hank, Firebinder the red-clothed wizard, Kristina the sexy swords-woman and Wynddstiip the little elfkin, battling demon wolves, while Ralphius spirits the princess away; then there is Ralphius destroying the demon wolves with a magical tornado and chasing away a two-headed hound with lightning. The vision moves to a battle with gypsies who turn into jackals, with Moloff, the Highland hunter and archer, wounded by the fangs, and with Diarmuid and Ariadne rescued by a scholastic monk, Brother Pietro.

The visions move across Terramereau, to Pharos battling a cyclops in a colosseum and then being rescued by the superhuman, ebony-skinned gladiator, Riothamis. There is a wedding, where Riothamis spirits the princess away to the Enchanted Forest, and where Firebinder and Kristina capture an enchanter ambassador, Ralphius defeats a storm-wizard demon-worshipper, Moloff and a sprite kill a shape-shifting raven-girl, Diarmuid and Wynddstiip assassinate an assassin, and Brother Pietro, Kotaro the oriental monk, Hank, Pharos and Iduard defeat a band of highly skilled monks.

In the Enchanted Forest they meet Silver Hawk the druidess and her husband, Behrtygha the steppe warrior. Another vision shows a gargoyle capturing Diarmuid and, in a dungeon, the elfling healer making a potion to save Rhaecyl, a star witch, from a curse. The old man sees Ariadne and her party captured by vampyres and handed over to Grimlindus’s agents, then shows Pharos escaping a faerie-grotto, rescuing Ralphius and Iduard and killing two of the vampyres. There is a meeting with an elf and a gnome, before this band of five scales the walls of a citadel.

It is here that the visions start to fade, moving from past to present. The old man watches as Riothamis, Brother Pietro and Wynddstiip defeat first a gargoyle and then a death-mage. Firebinder kills the black dragon and destroys the citadel in the process. Kotaro throws the knight-general from the wall, to be followed by a gliding monk-general, chased by elfin arrows. The last vision is of Hank and Rhaecyl, defeating the warlock Haestig.

But that is only her past, thinks the old man. Where is her present?

He rolls again in a vain search for the girl. But all that comes up are two visions, showing different persons. The first is a dark-haired, fur-clad barbarian and a giant wolf, bidding farewell to the barbarian’s sword-master, the semi-barbaric prince of the Borderlands. The second is a dark-clothed assassin, moving lithely and determinedly, slipping over the walls of Nuthollia, the capital of Neuthonia.

I guess that I must cease my search for the girl, says the old man out loud. She is beyond my divinations. Instead, I think that I will seek out her former companions.

He stands up from the ground, pushing on his bone-staff as he does so. He quickly gathers up his belongings as he prepares to leave the cave.

*     *     *

The guard at the city gates does not attempt to stop the stranger entering Nuthollia, for his job is to keep people inside the city and no person would enter the city voluntarily unless he were an agent of Grimlindus.

Nuthollia, the capital of Neuthonia, is no longer a trading metropolis. Its remaining inhabitants are usually hiding indoors, trying to escape Grimlindus’s violent soldiers—the tall blond northerners, bandit warriors and Knights of Destruction, as well as goblins, hobgoblins, kobolds and ogres from further east on the steppes. While contact with these soldiers is dangerous and unpredictable, the soldiers do keep the city’s economy moving, the trade continuing. So Nuthollia’s inhabitants, the original Neuthonics as well as countless released prisoners-of-war, attempt to earn a meagre living in fear and dread.

The stranger is Ærnwulf, the tall barbarian who had been learning sword-skills in the cold hills of the Borderlands. He is dressed in heavy furs. His long, straight, black hair is tied back by a broad cloth that completely conceals his forehead and from which hangs three beaded feathers. His heavy broadsword is strapped to his back, partially buried within his fur coat, while a number of knives are strapped to his chest and belt. A two-headed tomahawk hangs from his belt. He is accompanied by Caleb, the huge wolf that is as large as a small pony and which has a thick mane of grey fur.

Man and wolf survey the cold, snow-covered streets, looking beyond the unhappy houses to the dark palace standing on a hill near the centre of the city. They turn away from it and head into one of the darker and less inviting neighbourhoods, where even Grimlindus’s soldiers would think twice before entering. The houses are closer together than elsewhere; the streets disappear into narrow alleyways and blind corners. Open doorways and boarded windows show that many of the residences are empty of normal occupation. However, a quick survey inside would reveal hiding squatters, ruffians, thieves and muggers.

The man and wolf stop in front of a building that is deep within this neighbourhood. This building is similar to all the others, dismal and grey. It has a heavy steel door with a small window at face height, covered by a shutter. The man thumps on the door and the shutter is pulled back, revealing two dark, slanted eyes.

What do you want? says the bouncer.

Where are your mistresses? asks Ærnwulf, with a heavy, northern accent.

They are busy. Who wants to know?

I was sent by Cleosius the warlord, to purchase something which was stolen from him. They are expecting me.

The shutter is slid shut and Ærnwulf hears muted discussions behind it. The shutter slides open again.

You are early! snaps the voice and the shutter slams closed.

Ærnwulf thumps on the door again, his blows echoing inside. The shutter is pulled back again.

Can I wait inside? he asks. The door opens, revealing a seven-and-a-half foot monstrosity, which bends over inside the small front room; its hairy frame fills up the doorway.

Bugbear! thinks Ærnwulf, staring at the hairy giant-goblin, which would tower over one of its smaller goblin or hobgoblin cousins.

Come inside, it snarls, but the wolf stays out there.

After re-locking the door, the bugbear leads Ærnwulf along a dimly lit corridor, before arriving at a small room, furnished only with a hard-backed chair.

The mistresses are busy, the bugbear growls, but I will send someone to fetch them when they are, um, finished. Would you like a drink while you are waiting?

Ærnwulf waves the bugbear away and sits on the chair. In a moment, he becomes completely motionless, his keen eyes surveying every inch of the room. He waits, becoming tenser as he looks at the low ceiling and the walls. After a short time he stands up, goes to the door and tries the handle, finding it locked. He draws one of his knives, attacks the hinges to the door and pulls out their screws. Once the second screw falls to the ground, he uses the knife to slip the door forward, pulling it inside and off its lock.

Seeing the corridor empty, Ærnwulf strides up, away from the entrance, towards the building’s interior. He hears laughter and moaning up a flight of stairs. He springs up the stairs, coming to a doorless doorway, covered by a silken curtain. Gently pushing the curtain aside with his knife, he sees an opulent room filled with silken cushions and wall hangings. Grey light flows in through cracked tiles in the ceiling, enveloping the two naked figures lying in the middle of the cushions.

The two figures are women. One is dark, probably Zachynskian, with full breasts, straight black hair, olive skin and full curves. Her partner is Neuthonic, with mousy brown hair, dark brown eyes, lily-white skin and a muscular body. They writhe in the cushions and silks, their lips and hands exploring the other. The Neuthonic lady is on her back, while the dark Zachynskian is above here, her waist between the other’s legs, kissing her lover’s rounded breasts.

I cannot believe how stupid he was, says the Neuthonic lady as she arches her back to push her hugely erect nipples further into her lover’s mouth. He actually handed us the jewelled knife without first getting the gold.

Her partner looks up from the breasts, into the first one’s eyes.

Men are foolish, she says. Why would he not believe that I was an eastern princess, trying to recover my family’s heirloom? She pushes herself up and kisses her lover on her lips, their lips and tongues passionately working together.

There is a crashing sound of tiles breaking; shards fall from the ceiling, onto the cushions and around the naked women. The women scream and Ærnwulf tenses, ready for combat. Two figures drop lightly down from the ceiling to land on the cushions near the women.

They are a man and a woman, both small of stature and dressed in black, soft leather armour and grey hoods. The woman is five feet in height, with slim, elfin features, piercing green eyes and short golden hair tied back from her face. Small stilettos and wicked curved knives are sheathed in her belt or are strapped around her torse. The man is taller than the elf woman—almost five-and-a-half feet tall—and has thick, toned muscles. He has blond hair and carries an assortment of small knives and three heavy-bladed daggers on his belt and clothing.

You owe us some gold, Tara, says the man to the Neuthonic lady. Or should I say Thiarre?

Flunerk! snaps Thiarre as she pulls a cushion up over her breasts. How?

It is not hard to find two women thieves in this city. Your reputations precede you. If you do not have the gold, you can return the dagger to us.

A door on the other side of the room flies open and a hobgoblin rushes inside. It is armed with a heavy club. It charges at Flunerk. Thiarre throws her cushion at the elf, while her lover flicks around on her naked hip, kicking the elf’s feet out from under her.

Flunerk circles away to the side, from the hobgoblin, towards the opposite wall, with two daggers held out in front of him. The hobgoblin follows, waving its club in front of it. Behind Flunerk, the elf rolls over and springs to her feet, a curved knife drawn.

Flunerk sidesteps out of the way of the hobgoblin as it reaches out its left hand; even so, it catches his hood and tears it. The hobgoblin then brings the club around. Flunerk backs away towards the wall, away from the spinning the club. When he reaches the wall he jumps up onto it, as though running up to the ceiling, and kicks himself off and to the side. The advancing hobgoblin strikes the wall near where the man had been standing, as the acrobat lands behind it. The small thief immediately leaps onto the hobgoblin and drives his daggers into its kidneys. The hobgoblin screeches and falls forward to the ground.

The elf slaps Thiarre on the side of her face, causing her to spin around. She then grabs Thiarre around the waist with one arm, while sliding the other hand, the one with the curved knife, under the girl-thief’s armpit and up to her neck.

Stop! shouts the naked Zachynskian girl. Don’t hurt her!

Where is the dagger? asks Flunerk as he turns from his fallen opponent.

Over here, says the Zachynskian girl as she crawls over to the corner of the room. She works a floorboard loose with her fingers and pulls it up. It’s down in there. She crawls back away from the man as he approaches the hole in the floor.

Ærnwulf turns at the sound of footsteps behind him. The bugbear is running up the stairs, attracted by the sound of combat.

What are you doing?! bellows the bugbear at Ærnwulf, seeing him standing at the entrance to his mistresses’ chamber. Ærnwulf immediately jumps at it and hits it with his shoulder, and both man and huge monster fall down the stairs.

What was that? says Flunerk as he stuffs a jewelled dagger and two purses into a pouch in his belt. The elf shrugs.

We should go, Flunerk says.

The elf throws Thiarre to the ground. They dart for the door where the hobgoblin had entered.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ærnwulf jumps to his feet while the bugbear struggles to rise. It is just on its feet, with its hands still supporting itself on the floor, when the fur-clad barbarian grabs the bugbear by its shoulders and propels it headfirst into the wall. The wall cracks and breaks, and the massive beast slides unconscious to the ground.

Ærnwulf springs back up the stairs and bursts into the mistresses’ room. The two women spin around.

Who are you? asks the Zachynskian girl. Ærnwulf ignores her and runs over to the body of the hobgoblin. He reaches down and plucks out the cloth that is caught in its dead claws, the piece of cloth that it had torn from Flunerk’s hood.

I will take that, he says with satisfaction. He then turns to the naked women. Good day, ladies. He runs from the room, after the fleeing thieves.

*     *     *

Flunerk and his companion huddle in a cold cellar in an abandoned mansion, sitting around a tiny fire of twigs.

Well, at least we have gold and jewels, says the acrobat. It is a pity that we cannot burn them.

The elf’s hands move quickly, changing shape, making various signs to the man. Any person who knows the sign language would interpret her hands as saying, You always complain, Flunerk. Tomorrow we will buy some food and fuel from the soldiers.

I suppose, Flunerk says.

The elf springs to her feet, holding the index finger of her right hand to her lips. Her left hand pulls out a curved knife.

What is it, Aflen? he asks. The girl points to the door, the only entrance to the cellar.

There is someone there? she signs. Flunerk draws a heavy dagger and both thieves melt into the shadows of the cellar. The handle turns and the door swings inside, revealing the even deeper blackness of the stairway. Ærnwulf enters, moving silently, looking around the room. He turns to face Aflen, his hands hidden below his fur cloaks.

It looks like I have found the den of thieves, he says. He is looking directly at her into the shadows. I can see you in there, so you may as well come into the light.

Behind him, Flunerk slips silently out of the shadows, his dagger ready to strike the barbarian in the kidneys. There is a growl from the doorway and Caleb steps inside, baring its teeth at the short man. Flunerk hurriedly backs away.

He will not hurt you, says Ærnwulf without turning to look behind. Just come and join your friend, little man.

Flunerk scampers around the room to join Aflen. The two thieves watch as Ærnwulf sits on a box near the fire. Caleb lies down in the doorway.

My name is Ærnwulf. I was watching you in Thiarre’s and Implita’s room. It was an interesting display.

How did you follow us? asks Flunerk. We were very concerned about leaving no tracks.

You left a piece of your garment, Ærnwulf pulls a torn piece of cloth from his belt. It was no problem for Caleb to track you. I have some gold that Cleosius intended to be used to repurchase his dagger. It was given to him by his uncle and he wants it back. Cleosius was very impressed by the thieves, breaking through his sophisticated defence systems. He assumed that it was Thiarre and Implita. From the scene in their den, it was actually the two of you.

You came to buy back the dagger? says Flunerk. We could sell it to you.

Thiarre mentioned that you are Flunerk. Who is your friend?

I call the girl Aflen, says Flunerk.

Does she not talk for herself?

She never has to me, says Flunerk.

I did not actually say that I was going to buy the knife back, says Ærnwulf. I met Cleosius’s courier on the road north of here. He was very talkative but he will not deliver the knife back. I was also impressed by the story of the theft. I came to hire the thieves.

Really, says Flunerk. Do you want something stolen?

No, I want you to get me inside a certain palace. Your housebreaking skills will be needed. I am not used to cities.

Which palace?

Grimlindus’s palace.

By Rhaggadock! exclaims Flunerk. Why do you want to get inside there?

I intend to kill Grimlindus.

*     *     *

He walks over to her and bends forward in the darkness to kiss her. She looks up towards him, accepting his kiss, feeling his warm lips on her cold ones. He grabs her hands gently, leading her up from the chair to standing.

Is their nothing that I can do to change your mind? he asks as he pulls her close, his arms surrounding her nakedness. Her breasts push against his chest and he feels his hardened groin push up against her brunette pubic curls.

No, I will leave at first light, she says as she presses her cold body against him, her mouth nuzzling into his neck. She bites him on the fleshy part of the neck, her fangs driving deep into his throat.

Kristina! he exclaims. What are you doing?

She looks up from his neck, with yellow eyes and sharp teeth. Blood covers her lips and drips down her chin.

Your vampyre friends visited me earlier this night, she says woodenly…

Kristina! Pharos shouts as he sits up straight in his chair, his neck and shoulder stiff from sleep. He rubs his throat and finds it woundless. He looks around the table. Silver Hawk, Behrtygha, Rhaecyl, Firebinder and Hank are all watching him curiously. Rhaecyl wears a black dress with silver stars sewn into it. Behrtygha has a thick bandage encircling his throat, around the bruising caused by the warlock, Haestig.

It is nice of you to rejoin us, says Firebinder. Kristina is not here. She left a few days ago, remember.

I am sorry, says the man-elf.

Is it still the same dream? asks the big knight.

That Kristina is a vampyre? Yes.

Don’t worry, says Firebinder. It was daylight when she left. The sun shining through the clouds would have weakened her if she were a vampyre. Melphore would have sensed it, in any event.

I know she is not a vampyre, says Pharos mockingly. My mind is playing tricks.

My potion, it did not work? asks Silver Hawk. I am only a druidess, not a healer like Diarmuid… She stops at the mention of the kidnapped healer and looks away. They all avoid each other’s gazes.

Where are we up to? says Pharos.

I am returning to Cair Mwydden, says Rhaecyl. It would be helpful if you would all accompany me. We can do much work there.

Like what? asks Hank.

The war will not be won alone by Canrolinquian’s rebel margraves. The rulers of the Westland must be convinced that Grimlindus is a threat and that they should mobilise against him.

They will not mobilise until such time as he attacks them, says Pharos. And since there is no single power in the Westland, he can easily attack the independent nations in a piecemeal fashion.

Then they should prepare for an attack and be convinced that he will continue as a threat, says the cosmic witch.

We will travel past Cair Mwydden to Aelf Mwydden and the Elfinwoods, says Silver Hawk.

Why? asks Pharos. What do you seek there?

The Great Druid, says Behrtygha hoarsely. He was not in the Enchanted Forest, so the Elfinlands are the next choice.

You will not be able to enter the Elfinlands, says Pharos. You will need a sponsor.

You can enter, says Firebinder. Can you not?

Should we not be doing something more pro-active to stop Grimlindus? asks Pharos.

There is not much that you can do without allies, says Rhaecyl. Prince Moloff is already attempting to mobilise the Highlands, while the Duke d’Avienne is on our side and uniting his baronets in this region. We should look beyond these, to the elves and the Mwydden Dukes.

I feel that we should do something more, something more direct, says Pharos.

As we rightly told Kristina and the others, says Hank, lending our swords to Orphoigne would be of little value. We are but six persons and would not enhance their ranks greatly. Alternatively, it would be futile to attempt to rescue Ariadne, if she is not dead as yet. And staying here would not help any more than returning the Duke’s daughter achieved.

As he is speaking, the door bursts open and a man strides into the room. He looks like a giant bear, with a thick, grey-streaked beard and a massive frame as large as Hank’s.

And it was a good thing too, booms the man.

Your Grace, says Pharos as he jumps to his feet. The others do the same.

Sit down, sit down, responds the Duke d’Avienne. It is I who should stand in your presence. You and your handful of friends achieved what a regiment of men-at-arms could not.

Lady Margeau, says Firebinder as he bows to Margeau, who is standing at the door, watching the proceedings. It is an honour that you are in our presence.

Thank you, Sir Mage, says Margeau, curtsying to the fire wizard.

Some friends of yours have arrived, interjects the Duke.

An elfkin? says Hank as he jumps to his feet.

I am sorry, no. I do have men still scouting the ruins, but there has been no sign of your friends. Your new friends are a centaur, a dryad and a faerie-sprite. They are in the main hall. They claim to know you. Come with me and I will take you to them.

He turns and leaves, closely followed by the party, Silver Hawk, Behrtygha and Rhaecyl, then by Firebinder and the others. Margeau waits at the door, dropping her eyes as Firebinder approaches.

Walk with me, Sir Mage, she says, still looking at the ground. Firebinder smiles slightly and holds out his arm, allowing the young girl to take it. The two walk side-by-side.

That is interesting, says Hank softly. There is evil afoot when magicians, not knights, attract the young girls.

He did slay the dragon, Hank, says Pharos.

They walk down a large corridor and arrive at the great hall, a large rectangular room with a long table running through the middle. Gruncha the centaur, who had first attacked the party at the Terramarine wedding and then accompanied the friends to the Enchanted Forest, stands at one end. He has his double-curved, thick, asymmetric wooden bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows thrown over his shoulder. His long hair falls over his shoulders and down his back, forming a thick mane. Lympna, one of the two surviving miniscule sprite sisters, hovers near his horse rump, her purple wings a blur. A dryad stands next to Gruncha’s shoulder, her long legs bare despite the cold weather. Silver Hawk has already arrived at the trio and embraces the dryad fondly, before kissing Lympna on the forehead. She is introducing them to Rhaecyl, the Duke and Margeau as Pharos and Hank begin to walk down the hallway.

It is Kotaro’s dryad, says Hank. She turns up everywhere.

I know, says Pharos. The last time I saw her, she left me trapped in a faerie-grotto.

But you escaped, calls the dryad across the room as they approach, and claimed an enchanted sword while doing it. And if you had been with your companions, you would have been captured with them and you all would have been killed.

Possibly, the man-elf says. What brings you here?

I needed Silver Hawk’s advice on a, ah, a spiritual matter, says the dryad, and Gruncha and Lympna decided to accompany me. Where is the eastern monk?

Kotaro? says Silver Hawk. He has travelled north, with four companions, to Orphoigne. Why do you ask?

He should not travel there. It is in the Westland that your war will be won. The trees have told us.

So are you coming with us? asks Gruncha of Pharos. Silver Hawk needs your contacts to get us into the Elfinlands.

Are you coming as well? says the warrior. I am not sure. It is in the wrong direction.

And it is also further away from Ariadne, says the knight, and my mission.

When I gave you your mission, says Rhaecyl, I said that there would come a time when you could no longer protect her. Ariadne’s path has strayed from your own and she must find new protectors. I think that I will now replace your mission with another.

What would that be? says Hank.

To come with me to Cair Mwydden and assist me in rallying the Westland.

If that is what you want of me, then I accept. My sword is yours, priestess.

*     *     *

Why do you not just kill me? asks Ariadne.

She crouches at the bottom of the cell, in the far corner. Grimlindus sits opposite her, on a small stool, his hand on the hilt of the Sword of Death, his green eyes surveying the young girl. She looks at him defiantly; her golden eyes stare into his, looking deep inside. He feels the urge to look away. He fights this desire and the snake-crown that wraps around his forehead flares, reaches out and takes control of Ariadne’s mind. She instead looks away, her head moving against her will.

You are a strong girl, princess, says Grimlindus. You have a certain bearing, a certain power to you. If the situation were different, if you were not the lynchpin to the Rhyme of Myrlwndus, I would take you as my wife. Well, as my second wife, my concubine.

I would not submit to you, she says, spitting the words at him.

This crown says that you will. It is academic, in any event. I have to destroy you, destroy your very existence.

You did that already, when you killed all of my family.

I cannot take credit for all of that. True, I did kill your father and your brother, driving a lance through each of their chests, and your mother and younger brother, Antonius, slicing them in half with this sword. But my ghost knight killed Marcus, froze the heart in his chest…

You demon-scum! shouts Ariadne as she jumps at Grimlindus. She stops after one pace, her limbs frozen, as Grimlindus’s crown again flares.

The crown bound your father as well, he says mockingly. Just sit down.

Ariadne sits down, cross-legged, opposite her archenemy.

Then why do you come here? she says. Is it just to taunt me?

I plan to impregnate you. He stands up as he says this, his hand on his belt buckle.

No!

Grimlindus stops and looks at her cowering at the side of the cell, his huge form menacing her. He laughs, a soft, calm laugh.

All right, I will not. He sits down again. "You are right, I am taunting you. You are not my type, too small and bony, and Ezmerelda told me that taking you would be as bad as killing you, as you would be impregnated with evil and that you would cease to be the ‘Last Hope’. Do not worry; yet. You should worry in three days time. Not now."

Ezmerelda, says Ariadne, the Dark One, the Sword of Death, the serpent crown. Alone, you are nothing, just a mere prestidigitator, a trickster. You have merely surrounded yourself with others who are stronger, with baubles and talismans. I remember the stories of you told in our court. They said that you were bullied and beaten by your peers. You needed to be protected by your brother Orlindus, who was twice the man as you.

Grimlindus’s eyes flicker with annoyance at Ariadne.

I earned my baubles and my talismans. And those that assist me know me as their leader.

You are no leader. You are just a petty warlord that sucks the blood from his slaves. You are a pawn of Azlov and of those mages around you.

And what are you, my little Nameless One—a refugee, a character in a poem, nothing without your heroic protectors? You have power but you know not how to harness it. It is an insult that Myrlwndus would even consider that you could be my primary foe. He stops for a moment, his hand on the Sword of Death. Oh, I see what you are doing. Do not try to make me angry and kill you quickly, for it will not happen. In three days time, you will be unmade and your soul will be raped by the demons of the Thirteen Hells. This bores me.

Grimlindus stands up and strides from the cell, leaving the angry princess behind.

*     *     *

The palace is just the keep, sitting on the hillock, says Flunerk. The hillock is surrounded by a huge ditch. The keep is made up of eight buildings, with interconnecting doorways and halls, surrounding three courtyards. There are a number of windows and doorways in which to gain access to the buildings. Once you get to the keep, it will be no problem getting inside. It is getting there that is the problem.

Do guards patrol the surrounding hillock? asks Ærnwulf.

Not ordinary guards, says Flunerk. Grimlindus is a necromancer. The sides of the hillock, the ditch and the surrounding neighbourhoods are filled with ghosts, skeletons and zombies. They haunt his cellars during the day and his gardens at night. The only real way to avoid them is to go on the road, which is exposed and easy to observe from the keep. We will therefore need to pass through the undead.

These are just stories, to frighten the locals, says the barbarian.

Perhaps, but we should not take chances. Aflen is visiting a black-market alchemist, buying as many protection charms as is possible. Hopefully they will be enough.

And when we are inside, what next awaits us?

"Assuming we do get inside, there is Grimlindus himself, his bodyguards and his henchmen. His personal bodyguard is a ghost knight. His ordinary bodyguards are led by a half-ogre of superhuman strength. His pet is a two-headed hound, who stalks the halls at night. Then there are his spell-casters, who all reside in the palace. There is one principal mage, a conjurer called the Dark One, and several sub-mages: Nahorre, the Dark One’s sorcerer acolyte; Nykhze, Nahorre’s necromancer acolyte; Moch, the Grumochian High Priest of Azlov; Bellshival, a demon-mage; Ezmerelda and Baichyz, the husband and wife dark-elf counsellors; and Katharina, Grimlindus’s fire-witch wife.

But that is not all. I have heard that his two northern generals, Osborne and Goldmunde, are currently residing in the palace, preparing for the next conquest, while his chief assassin, Tomen, has finished a mission and is presently reporting to Grimlindus.

What do we do with them?

We avoid them as much as possible. Flunerk unrolls a map. Here are the floor-plans of the palace; we come in here, near the coal-cellar. Flunerk points to the map. Then we move through the corridors here.

Where did you get this map? asks the barbarian with suspicion.

This city will sell you anything for gold.

They are silent for a moment as they study the map.

Can I ask you one question? asks Flunerk at last. Why do you want to kill Grimlindus?

I have my reasons, says the young barbarian. I just wish that I knew what they were.

*     *     *

Pharos and his companions (including Pytr, the boy that had accompanied Rhaecyl on her mission against Haestig) stand on a hill a mile from Avienne, their heads bowed and eyes closed. Gruncha, Lympna and ‘Kotaro’s dryad’ are with them, as is Margeau d’Avienne, wearing a green and purple dress and standing close to Firebinder. Two men-at-arms stand behind Margeau. A small cairn of stones rests at the top of the hill. Three small clay figurines sit on top of the cairn, shaped vaguely like humans.

Rhaecyl stands in front of the cairn, her eyes looking upwards into the sky, her arms outstretched. She has given up her dress and is instead wearing a black tunic, onto which are sewn silver stars and planets. The tunic covers a silver chain-mail suit underneath. The chain-mail hood is thrown back from her head, to fall down her back over the tunic. A small mace lies at her feet. She is chanting, her musical voice invoking powers greater than the ordinary, floating off the hill and into the surrounding woodlands.

At length she slows, brings her arms down and looks at the companions. She finishes softly, with a final prayer, Dear Aetoile, lord of the sky and the stars, protector of travellers both living and dead, please protect the souls of our friends, of Riothamis, Wynddstiip and Brother Pietro, whose bodies we could not recover and bless. Although their bodies are buried beneath the collapsed citadel, allow their spirits to forever roam free. When she finishes, she brings her hands onto the figurines. Starlight flows from her palms and the figurines turn to dust at her glowing touch.

She stops and lets the silence envelope them, so that the only sound is the soft whistling of the wind.

That was most beautiful, Ancient One, says a voice near the side of the hill. They turn to see the grey-bearded old man, Diarmuid’s master who saw visions in his knucklebones, walking up the hill. He is dressed in his black and white cow-skins, and using his massive bone as a walking stick. Various bones hang from a string around his neck and from strings around his wrists and ankles.

Who are you, to intrude on our sacrament? says Rhaecyl abruptly.

I am merely a wandering soothsayer, nothing more. I heard your chanting from within the valley. I was travelling to Avienne.

We are returning to Avienne, says Rhaecyl, if you have lost your way.

The companions turn around to leave, casting sideways glances at the newcomer. As they turn, Margeau brushes against Firebinder, touches his hand slightly and slips a small piece of paper into his palm. They walk down the hill with the rest of the group, towards the valley. Rhaecyl is last. The old man shuffles after her.

What do you call yourself, Ancient One? he says.

Why do you call me that?

You are the successor to the Head of the Order of Cosmic Mages, are you not?

Rhaecyl stops and turns to the man. Pharos and Hank, who are in front of her, also stop. How do you know that? she says.

The old man opens his hand, palm faced upwards, revealing eight knucklebones.

The bones do not lie, he says. There are many mages who are looking for you.

Not many who succeed, she says. How is it that you can? Who are you?

I am called many names by many people. Why do people always want to label everything?

What are you called? says Hank abruptly.

My latest name was Lailoken.

That is ‘stranger’, in the language of the Abantes, says Pharos.

You are a linguist, says the old man with a smile. Yes, they called me ‘stranger’.

It could also mean ‘liar’, ‘thief’ and ‘enemy’, depending on the context, continues the man-elf.

They were very economical with their words.

I am surprised that your divinations discovered my identity. I am Rhaecyl, of Cair Mwydden. To whom do you serve, Lailoken?

I serve no-one and am allied to no-one; not yet, anyway. I am merely interested in whether the Rhyme will actually come about. Do not fear. I am not an enemy.

Rhaecyl considers the old man’s words, before saying, Oddly enough, I believe you. Pharos nods in agreement.

We are leaving Avienne later this morning, the man-elf warrior says.

I know, says the old man. I am travelling in your direction as well.

*     *     *

Avienne is a castle with high walls surrounding a number of smaller buildings. Within the walls are housed the tradesmen, blacksmiths and other professionals whose skills are necessary for any leader. Narrow streets wind through the small buildings, separating them from the Duke’s large lodge and the walls of the castle.

Nine horses are standing near the gate of the castle, three loaded with packs and the other six with saddles. Pharos, Behrtygha and Hank are preparing the horses and the packs, ensuring that everything is ready. Silver Hawk and Kotaro’s dryad—with Lympna sitting on Silver Hawk’s shoulder—stand near the gate and talk softly. Rhaecyl and Lailoken are conversing near the side of the yard.

Where is Ralphius? Lailoken asks, referring to the black-robed storm-wizard that had been accompanying the group. He is an old friend of mine, but my bones cannot locate him.

Rhaecyl’s eyebrow raises at the mention of the man. He left, after Ariadne was taken. He travelled alone and was heading for Neuthonia to rescue her.

As they talk, Gruncha walks out from the stables, leading a thin donkey behind him.

Old man, the centaur rumbles. This is all that the Duke could spare.

It will suffice, is the response, as the old man shuffles over to the bony beast.

Goodbye Silver Hawk, says the dryad, and to you, Lympna.

Are you sure of this? asks Silver Hawk.

Yes, I must find Kotaro, says the dryad. Something happened that night in the Enchanted Forest, something that connected me to the strange man and disconnected me from the land. I thought it would change once he left, but it did not.

I understand, says Silver Hawk. "A dryad is not the same once she has given her rôzbüd to a human. You will need to see him again and deal with this matter. Are you sure that you need no accompaniment?"

I am sure. I will keep to the trees. Gruncha and Lympna would be safer in your care, rather than alone in the human towns.

Margeau watches the companions’ preparations from a window high up in the Duke’s lodge. She turns around to look back into the room, a small room with a table in the middle and low chairs around the edges. Firebinder is standing there with his back to the closed door.

You came, she says softly. How did you get past my guards?

I sent some smoke billowing up the staircase, so it looked like there was a fire. They rushed to help the maid. Why did you want to see me?

Margeau walks towards Firebinder, her long dress rustling on the ground. I wanted to make a proper goodbye, she says with a smile. I could see how you looked at me, knowing your hidden desires. I imagined your warm touch on me. I wish that you could stay.

Would you like me to stay?

My father would not allow it. He noticed our glances and does not want us liaising. While he is happy with you and your friends for rescuing me, and will gladly support your mission, he will be happier if you were not staying within the walls of his castle. He has me betrothed to a foreign count.

She is up to Firebinder, standing six inches from him, her intense eyes looking deeply into his own. Even though they are not touching, they are so close that Firebinder can feel the heat emanating from her body.

Can you then not come with us?

She laughs. The life as a fugitive on the road is not for me, Sir Mage, she says as she lifts up her hand to touch his cheek. Besides, it will turn one of your allies into an enemy. We just have the stolen glances and the thoughts. And perhaps, we may have a little time to… He bends forward, leaning into her, and his lips envelope hers. She can feel his fire and presses her body against him. She wraps her arms around him and pushes her breast and groin through her dress.

You are burning! she whispers.

His hands fumble down her back, grasp her buttocks and pull her close to him. He turns her around, slips in behind her and pushes his chest against her back, while his hands roam around in front of her.

You have a fire yourself, he says, as his hands loosen the front of her dress and slip inside to massage her soft, round breast. She moans softly as his palms scrape against her nipples, feeling them go erect at his burning touch. He kisses her on the side of the neck, as she pushes her body back against him, her soft butt-cheeks driving into his hard groin.

His left hand traces down her hip and pulls up the front of her dress, lifting it above her waist to reveal her silk-covered legs, the yellow stockings held up by black ribbons, and the triangle of brown pubic hair on her naked groin. His hand slips down and massages inside, feeling the soft inner thighs, before moving up into the centre, to slide through her blonde curls.

Come inside of me, she whispers as his fingers penetrate her wetness. Quickly, or your friends will leave without you.

He turns her around and pushes her backward, walking her over to the table. He pushes her backward onto it, her buttocks on the edge, leaning backwards with her hands on the tabletop to support her weight. He pulls her skirt above her waist. He massages her belly and down the outside of her legs. He then pushes her legs apart, opening her completely, and pulls up his long, red tunic. He gropes his long member and guides it towards her. She gasps when he thrusts into her and falls back onto her elbows, while lifting up her legs and wrapping them around his hips. He bends forward, curling his back, with his hands on the tabletop next to her waist, his lips on her breasts, licking the erect, burning nipples, and his hips driving forward while she thrusts herself up against him.

Where is Firebinder? asks Hank. We have to go soon.

They look around, searching the alleys and the streets. Presently Firebinder appears, scuttling out of a side door in the Duke’s lodge, as he straightens his tunic and breeches and buckles on his hardened leather cuirass.

Where have you been? asks Pharos.

Nowhere, is the curt response.

They all mount and turn their horses to leave. Firebinder looks up into the window and nods slightly to Margeau, who stands there with her dress still partly undone at the front, revealing the top of her breasts and the start of her cleavage.