                         DAWN OF THE BLACK SUN     
A Novel by Steven James, 70 Campsie Road, Wishaw, Strathclyde, Scotland, ML2 7QG. I declare I am the legal author of this work and ask all readers to respect my copyright and moral claim to this work. Apart from that feel free to distribute this if you wish, providing my name remains attached to it. This book was started in 1985, long before recent works with similar titles, just been difficult finding a publisher. Check the glossary at the end for more info.  Enjoy my friends! Visit the world of Erynavar...

                                         PRELUDE




Wind from the stormy sea blew the warlord's dark hair out behind him as he took off his massive, flaring helmet and sat it on the sandy beach. Captain; general; admiral; he was all three and more besides, but he was tired and wished to rest his soul this dismal night.
Far overhead, Duihn, the black moon, could be seen as a ghostly hole in the star speckled sky. Thin clouds raced across the heavens as the tempest rose from the ocean's depths, gathering force until it smashed against the island, blasting and scouring it with the wrath of the gods.
The warlord was waiting for this to happen; his hands resting on the shiny blade stuck in the sand beside him. Made from adamantite, the ancient sword was so rich and deep a blue, that it was almost black. A noise came to the huge warrior, and suddenly, the razor edge of his weapon was slicing the air around him as he turned to face the danger.
Screams? Here? So far from civilization? He was off and running, the sand flying as his powerful legs drove him on, for the cries were those of distress. No armour he wore, and thus no sound betrayed him as he raced over the dunes.  
An ogre was about to smash the brains from a beautiful, red-haired woman, who was frantically trying to cast some powerful magic to slay her attacker. The ogre's terracota-coloured skin was covered with dozens of blue, runic kill-markings, showing that the brute was a veteran of the battle-pits.
Blue shiny metal erupted below the monster's crude belt, followed by a spurt of blood--then the sword's terrible power showed itself. The ogre screamed in fear and terror as its very soul was sucked through the gaping wound, and into the blade. Red flesh turned to grey, and the corpse collapsed in a shower of dust.
Proudly, the woman, a mighty enchantress, stood up as her benefactor approached, but the words of thanks died on her lips as she beheld the warrior's face.
Two great fangs protruded from his bottom lip, broad and sharp and angled strangely towards each other. The features were hard and arrogant, but the eyes! Around each was a tattoo, a strange pattern made up of minute, obscene magical runes that filled the brave woman's heart with loathing.
Sevegar the Destroyer, Sea Lord of the Formorian Horde, and damned butcher of countless innocents. How many had he killed in his fifty centuries of corrupt, hellish life?
The warrior scowled as he saw the red haired woman's look of contempt. Wrenching a flask from his belt, Sevegar thrust it into her unwilling hand, which he held in an iron grasp that could easily shatter bone.
"Algandian brandy. The liquor is rich in healing powers, for it was brewed by the monks of Saint Deskar's Abbey." he explained, pointing to the numerous small wounds that crossed the woman's flesh. "Take them!"                   
Defiantly, she threw the bottle aside. But before the enchantress knew what was happening, fiery, spicy liquid was pouring down her throat.
"I don't poison people, especially women!" Sevegar snarled. "I kill my enemies face to face, no matter what you might think of me!"
But centuries of evil fact and legend couldn't be ignored for the sake of one kind act. The woman reached for the silver wand that was strapped to her thigh, but weakened from recent battles, she was slow, and Sevegar's clenched fist knocked her cold.
Angry, and cursing his fate that doomed him forever to be hated and feared, the warlord bound the enchantress's many cuts and bruises, his hands showing not only skill with violence, but with healing as well.
The last of the group who had descended into the ancient caverns on this desolate, deserted spot, emerged from a concealed entrance in the dunes. Twenty miles it was through the twisting canyons to their home, and to help, for four of their comrades still lived, prisoners of the undead wizard whom they had come to slay. But where was Teminay?
Battered armour clanked as he swiftly followed her tracks, and those of an ogre!
"My lady? Enchantress! Teminay!" The young warrior called out, and then he spied her. What? Who was that? And what was he doing?
"Release her...!" But the angry command died on his lips as he recognized her molester, Sevegar the Destroyer!
Swords flashed and sparked in the night, and the youth was left with the stump of a broken, smoking blade.
"Evil swine! May the go--" Groans followed as a flurry of precise blows thudded into his arms, deadening them, and a final one between shoulder and neck dropped him. There was no blood, for the blows had been delivered with the flat of Sevegar's sword.
The storm played out its eerie majesty of eldritch powers; lightning and hail hammered the beach, the hills behind it and eventually, the distant town from which the two, bound and helpless prisoners had come.
Sevegar enjoyed the fury of the winds, the rage of the lightning bolts as they furrowed the ground and splintered stone. As the storm died away, he allowed himself to think once more. The woman would be freed, for she had spirit, which he admired; but the man? He had the feel of a paladin about him, and those self-righteous warriors could greatly annoy the huge, and very evil warlord.
There was also, the Scroll. Had Chiasmus found it? He better have, or Sevegar would personally skin him alive, then put the necromancer back together again, piece by piece. Unfortunately for Chiasmus, he wouldn't die during the process, nor when the bits were reattached, in the wrong places.

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                                        CHAPTER 1
                                           Arrival in Pyzag  




    "Look out, ya goat futtering bastards! The gangplank! Are you blind as well as dumb?" The ship's captain screamed in rage.
The merchants, stevedores and trinket-sellers on the quayside fled in terror as the gangway suddenly thrust itself from the ship, and smashed down where they had stood. The harassed looking wizard by the captain's side completed his conjurations, and the oaken plank was suddenly secured by chains of invisible force--the spell anchored the vessel against the treacherous tidal currents better than a mile of rope, and would also rescue people from drowning, deaths were bad for business. Satisfied, the wizard then bustled away to help with the unloading. Meanwhile, the captain was simultaneously encouraging his passengers to leave and the cargo-handlers to work, by showering them with oaths vile enough to bleach a bishop's ears.
This was the first voyage of Spring, and the captain was too busy to throw the passengers ashore or attack the stevedores, as much as he would have liked to. The holds were full of swords made from dwarven steel, and the Lords of the North would pay a pretty penny for the blades, if he could get his cargo to them early enough. Thanks to the unusually warm weather they'd be at each others throats long before Summer, and the first Lord to get equipped would slaughter his neighbours.
"Bloody Albans, couldn't they have battles after harvest time, like everyone else?" the captain swore, wishing he was back home in Ilanker. It was still only the month of Essene and the Winter's gales still lurked, hungry for shipping.
One of the descending passengers surged through the rest, and a small crowd followed in his wake. The huge, red-haired Highlander kept roaring and bellowing, as the somewhat smaller man behind him kept jabbing his backside with a battleaxe, using the gigantic brute in front to clear a path. When they reached the bottom, the big fellow whirled around, only to find the spike of the axe shoved against his nose.
"What now, drunkard?" The axe-wielder was around six feet tall, but very broadly built, and clad in plate mail armour. Although the face was mostly hidden by the helm he wore, the dangerous glint of his dark eyes gazed into those of the Highlander.
"I...I apologize, I never..." Shame suffused the larger man's face, which was also covered in livid, angular bruises.
"Don't start a fight on board a ship again, especially when enemies are near. Do not insult ladies, nor call an elf by such names. And never call me 'Formor Face' again!" The axe shook as its owner bawled out the big trouble-maker.
An elf, a dwarf, a white-haired gnome and a grinning halfling stood around the armoured man as the giant Highlander slunk off. The battleaxe was quickly sheathed in a boot on the human's back, alongside a shortsword.
"Ve should have keel hauled him!" said Dorn the dwarf, flatly. The Highlander had tried to throw him over the ship's side last night, and he was still angry about it. The bearded folk hated deep water as badly as they did orcs, but orcs at least didn't frighten them. Dorn spoke the human tongue with an odd accent, and it was the first sentence in more than two days that was neither a string of curses, nor incoherent demands for a bucket.
"Well Karven," The elf put his hand on the shoulder on the shoulder of his human comrade. "What now?" he said, and shrugged his shoulders in a graceful way no human could match. Camrae, he was called, and his smooth, angular features, and delicate, pointed ears showed his race. However, he was as tall as a man, and had long, straight hair that was a marvellous shade of metallic red-brown, a colour similar to polished bronze which indicated that he was a glessairou elf. The tresses at the side of Camrae's head were tied in a pair of braids, fastened with silver clasps. All of his clothes were of fine, dark green linen, and it was not difficult to imagine him walking silently amidst groves of ancient oaks.
Karven looked at his four friends. Dorn was busily strapping his armour on, now that there was no fear of drowning, while Arolith helped him; the gnome was busy muttering under his breath at the same time as he worked, and occasionally stroking his long, elegant moustache. Arolith's clothing was made entirely from grey buckskins and covered in numerous pouches, while the pack at his back bulged with uncountable objects. Camrae was studying the city with a slight look of distaste, combined with anticipation. But it was Gyrus the halfling that brought a smile to Karven's lips, the small fellow was dancing a jig, his face beaming in delight with the thoughts of urban pleasures.
With a sigh, Karven took his helmet off to cool down and admire the sun warmed view. As he brushed up his flattened hair with his fingers, an unpleasant tremor ran through him as he accidentally touched one of his ears. Damn! he thought. Can't I forget it for one moment? I'm a grown man now, and if people don't like the way I look, to Hell with them! But he replaced the steel helm, for the sake of protection and ease of carrying, not for obscurement.
His gaze was caught by the huge fortress that sat high above the city's skyline, dominating it like a craggy fist--Gaur Castle, home of the High King of Alba.
"Come on, we'll walk up Spears Loan to the Battle Square in front of the castle." Karven turned to Camrae, and pointed to a wide street nearby. "My father said that the Hall of Glamours is on the right hand side of the square."
"At last!" Camrae replied. It was obvious to the wise that the bronze elf was a wizard, although he carried no staff, nor wore robes embellished with runes. His belt was hung with many pouches, used to store vital components for spells, as well as two daggers, and the slim pack upon his back was flat and rectangular, shaped by the vital spellbooks needed by all wizards to cast their magics. What was slightly unusual for a wizard, was the fact that a dagger was in each of his boots, and another pair strapped to his thighs. Camrae, like all elves, was amazingly dextrous, even more so than most of his kin, and the fluid nature of his movements allowed him to throw knives with matchless precision. The elf's father had warned him that wizards could only cast so many spells, while a warrior's blade could slash a hundred times, and thus it was always a good idea to have a weapon handy for emergencies. And now, if he could pass their tests, he would have his name written in the Silver Tome, and be accepted as a fully fledged wizard by the Guild of Glamours.
"Ah, Karven, I'm away for a wee wander. Meet you at the Adventurers Inn tonight?" Gyrus Pickett, the halfling member of the group, had the smiling face of a cherubic weasel.
"All right, but remember, no stealing!" Karven replied with a sigh.
Gyrus winked, and tapped his nose as he decided what to acquire, legitimately or otherwise. He already had an excellent green silk waistcoat and jacket of Royal-green cotton, hmm, his green three-cornered hat with its grey feather was also splendid. Oh well, I'll think of something. What about small, octagonal, golden objects, stamped with royal faces? he thought, and disappeared with that startling ease so often used by halflings.
His face peered out from under a wine merchant's wagon as he watched his departing friends, and gazed fondly on Karven as he wished them all well. Gyrus thought of himself as a sort of big brother, well, small uncle to the less well travelled, and younger human. It must be a bit of an embarrassment for a paladin to have a thief for an uncle. he mused, and then set out on the trail of a nasty looking drunk. Beer made you liverish and violent, so if the fellow couldn't buy any more, he'd be doing everyone a favour. Even though the fellow was drunk, it was best if he was robbed by a caring professional. Gyrus believed that his ''robbee's'' were not victims, but donators to charity, and patrons of the arts. A true thie--artist, takes only so much gold, leaving the donator with enough to live on, and an interesting tale.
Similar thoughts troubled Karven as he pushed through the crowded street. Although the law in Alba wasn't overly harsh on thieves, it often turned a blind eye to the victim battering the Hell out of them. It was totally against his nature to rob or steal, and Gyrus and Arolith could really give him problems with their larcenous behaviour. The young man remembered with shame the night he had been conned into standing guard for Gyrus while the halfling stole his latest girlfriend a rose from the mayor's garden. The incident had bothered him for weeks, and he had been compelled to go and speak with Brother Marlin about it. The old priest had chuckled and admonished him, "The safety of a friend is generally more important than the honour of the law, and anyway, you shouldn't put a fence around a rose, that is a crime!" But the problem was, what's Gyrus stealing now? The smell of food stopped him dead in his tracks.
The great length of Spears Loan, as it ascended towards the castle, was littered with stalls, and its sides packed with shops and taverns. Karven walked up to a fish stall which was surrounded by a tantalizing aroma.
"Excuse me," he suddenly realized the stall was run by a halfling, and hoped he wasn't one of Gyrus's many relatives. "How much for some shrimps?" Hunger gripped his throat after the trip. They had eaten little since they had boarded the 'Wave Singer' two days ago in Port Parrick.
The short sea journey to Pyzag, the capitol city of Alba, had let them by-pass the silent unease of the Gore Loch Moor. After a week of travel from their home town of Will' Ash, the five friends hadn't wanted to chance the land route alone, as they had missed the only caravan travelling on the Southern Highway by a couple of days.
"Four coppers, sir." The owner quickly wrapped the shrimps in a basket of mint leaves.
"Vat the Hell! He said shrimp, not the King's own trout!" Dorn swore, not amused at the price, which was a copper more than normal. It was common knowledge that most dwarves were rich, and it was almost as well known that they intended to stay that way, unlike the greedy, and generally broke, humans.
"That's the price in the city, sir!" The stall-owner was looking worried, the human was okay, but he wasn't too sure about the other three--especially the dwarf.
With a jingle of steel, Karven pulled the coins from a pouch on his weapon belt, which secured the straps of the baldric that held the pack and blades on his back, and paid with a rueful smile.
Arolith tapped Camrae's hip, and pointed to the stall owner's name, which was painted in bright green letters over the counter: Arubudd Picket, Esquire. Camrae laughed, it was typical, another Pickett! Arolith wondered whether he had ever been burgled by his relative.
And so they continued up the slope that Spears Loan was built on. Near the top, Karven turned round to examine the lower part of the city. The huge harbour was packed with fishing smacks, ready for the yellow flag to be hoisted over the harbour citadel, the sign of fair sailing for smaller ships. The blue flag for larger vessels already waved in the breeze; the weather and currents would have been foreseen by an oracle or diviner. A huge curtain wall enclosed the harbour in a wide ellipse, its towers anchored to the thin peninsula which had helped create this natural port. Of the two exits, the one to Karven's right, the natural entrance called Narmon's Gap, was both the largest and most used. The Citadel had been built into the peninsula to defend it, the star-shaped building was over a hundred feet high with thirty foot thick walls, and from its heights burning oil, rocks and deadly spells could be unleashed against any who dared force passage.
A low, grating rumble echoed over the harbour just then, and a row of massive spikes emerged from out of the water like a dragon's backbone, blocking Narmon's Gap. Karven felt an odd chill at the unearthly sight of the twenty foot long iron blades sliding out of the water. The harbour was closed, and safe, until the Wave Singer and the just-docking elven windship chose to leave. And then he looked upon the Southern Gap, that region was blocked off by a double wall and massive chains of bronze from the main harbour. In it could be seen longships, galleons and two massive trimarans; these were the King's ships, one of the main Alban battle squadrons. The South Gap itself was protected from seaward assault by a double line of the giant iron spikes, all of which were raised by powerful magic. Centuries ago, the narrow channel had been gouged out by wizard's spells and dwarven picks. There was reason for such elaborate defences, for out there, beyond the Bass Rock and the guardian whirlpool of Corrlvassy, far to the South-South-West, were the Formorians. Last night aboard ship, a silent watch had been enforced as Cho Bearch, the legendary sea dragon, had arisen from the waters and warned the captain that Formorian blackships were slicing the waters to port. But the drunken Highlander had stirred up a racket that carried over the unusually still and warm waters, and so Karven had laid about him with a sounding lead. Despite the problems of the voyage, he would never forget the wondrous sight of the noble dragon, that had made the trip worthwhile by itself.
"Vat's up, see a frog?" Dorn asked sarcastically, while rubbing sweat from the large scar than ran from above his left eye, straight down across the cheek and eventually ended in his raven black beard; numerous other scars and a broken nose were legacies of the dwarf's love of battle. It was unseasonably warm, but Dorn was used to far greater temperatures found in the depths and around the forges of his clan, even so, he was glad he was just wearing his scouting armour. Made from small rectangular plates of blued steel, riveted to a leather backing, the special alloys worked into the metal made it non-reflective and quiet. The cut of the armour let him proudly display his muscular arms, which were massive and thickly knotted with veins. A simple helm protected his head and neck, but it was small, of a style favoured by skirmishers who didn't like their hearing interfered with. Besides a cutlass, he had a pair of hatchets in his belt and a dagger in each boot for armament.
In the great mines of his clan, Dorn had had an unusual job in his youth, he had been a Corlis ore carrier. Corlis was a rare metal, used to make magical steels, but it had to be worked within half an hour of being mined, as air corroded the unrefined ore at an amazing rate. So Dorn, being young and very fit, ran with it strapped to his back up the lifts and staircases to the forges, far from the mines and their flammable gasses. The dwarf's father, Aral the Axe, was well pleased with his son's work and abilities, and thus allowed him to travel with his friends far from their home town of Will' Ash. It was also a test to see whether he could successfully complete some minor business with Yohestus, the famed gnomish alchemist.
Apart from the ship, Dorn had loved every minute of the journey, though he would never admit to anyone, especially not Camrae, that he preferred being above ground. The dwarven halls were home, but they had become monotonous after living in them for sixty years, even with Arolith's almost constant presence, which was why Dorn had volunteered to become a scout when he had come of age. That had brought him into contact with Gyrus, as the Clan Elders had hired him and Arolith to instruct their scouts in the arts of stealth. Who better to teach them the ways of stealth than a pair of thieves?
Well, admittedly, Arolith wasn't actually a thief, but he held no objections to stealing everything he could lay his hands on that belonged to orcs, and especially goblins, their stunted kin. That was a civilized way of grinding their noses in the dirt, and much better than the dwarven practice of cutting them off, as Arolith put it. Dorn liked his gnomish companion's saying, as it was based on an old joke that orcs had gotten their snoutish looking noses when Varheim, the dwarven god of the forge, had caught Garshog Firefang, the orc god, sniffing around his anvil; Varheim grabbed him and jammed Garshog's nose into a spinning grindstone. A favoured dwarven insult for orcs was "Harbara gunnshi!", which, when politely translated into human terms, meant "Manure sniffer!"
Just before they came to the city's main square, Karven saw what he was looking for: Howell's Emporium of Time, and pulled his friends to it. The huge windows were of thick glass, and it was a sure bet that due to the value of the contents behind them that they were strengthened by spells that would make them as hard and tough as solid iron. There were clocks, not merely water clocks, but chronometers, the finest spring and magically driven time pieces money could buy lying behind the glass, all resting on the richest red velvet. Made from highly polished brass and silver, the mechanisms spun on ruby bearings, and their springs were made of the finest steels, mithril and even the whiskers of dragons. Each was probably worth ten times their weight in platinum, if not more, and several of them had been made by Karven's father, Aldren. Whether it was a ship's captain spanning the great oceans, or a mage who had to keep second by second track of a moving star that was vital to his incantations, clocks were in great demand.
Aldren was growing old now, and had asked Karven to go to Pyzag and sell his new timepiece to Howell the dwarven clocksmith. Karven's father had decided that his son could do with seeing more of the world now that he was twenty-one years old, a full grown man, and there was less chance of someone robbing Karven than himself. Ardlen may still have been strong, but age was taking its toll on his joints. As he had sent his son off, surrounded by his friends, the old man had remembered his own youth, when he had been a soldier in the 14th War, then had studded magic as he had always wished under the tutelage of Camrae's father, Halakiss of the Giants Doom. A chance meeting in a forest had started a friendship, and had shown Ardlen the way to make a good life for his family.
"Shall we split up here then?" Karven asked.
"I'll come with you for a vhile. Vhat about you elf, off to the home of the deranged?" Dorn smiled at Camrae, mocking the odd ways of the eccentric wizards who inhabited the Hall of Glamours.
"One day Dorn, I'll petrify that beard of yours so that it will go with your brain! I will see you tonight, if you can find your way there?" the elf sneered at the dwarven scout, who stuck his tongue out in return. Camrae walked away, thoroughly exasperated. Arolith turned round, winked at Dorn, and set out after his wizardly friend: the gnome's white hair shaking as he laughed.
"Why are you two always arguing?" Karven asked for the umpteenth time, although he was well aware of the real reason.
"He's an elf, vat better reason?" Dorn smirked, and walked into the shop. A passing cleric did a double take at the sight of the grinning dwarf, normally, the bearded warriors only smiled when covered in gore and their axe was about to fall on an enemy's neck. A smiling dwarf was an ominous sight.
A little hesitantly, Karven followed him in, he was always a bit unsure of himself, but the presence of the brash dwarf helped overcome his intrinsic shyness, which was one of the reasons he liked him so much. The bickering of his two friends got on his nerves at times, but he knew that Dorn and Camrae constantly argued because they actually liked each other, something that they weren't too keen on anyone finding out. Elves and dwarves held each other in a casual sort of disdain, though they would never harm or refuse to help one another, the old memories of the Necronian Wars and the Dawn of the Black Sun were too great for petty grievances to wipe the slate clean. Even so, Camrae and Dorn had been brought up to distrust each other, and the naturally sarcastic dwarf hadn't helped any. Several times Karven had pulled the pair apart, but at least they were getting along better now. Actually, their tussles were just in fun, Dorn could snap his friend like a twig if he wanted, and they both knew it. Now and then, the elf got his own back with the aid of  magic, such as the time when he'd put mystical runes on the dwarf's armour, Dorn couldn't see them, but everyone else could, the runes had said "I am an idiot"!
Thinking of the Black Sun, Karven looked up at the sky just as he entered the glass door, and saw the nacressant shape of the black moon, Duihn. Even at noon, its dark shape, highlighted by slashes of grey scars, hung like a shadowy, floating pearl, a pearl bigger than a man's fist, and of darker heart. Karven shuddered, and entered to the sound of chiming clocks that tolled out the hour.

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                                    CHAPTER 2
                                              Halfling Justice



Battle Square was almost deserted as Camrae and Arolith reached it. Blackened cobbles, long worn flat and smooth, echoed to the sound of sandalled feet, as though all things were in awe of the place, and went in a worried hush. There were far fewer people in the square than either expected, berobed wizards and armoured clerics mostly, and a troop of guardsmen returning from the long night watch. Standing tall and proud in the centre of the great square was the statue of Cal Gedrass, the leader of the mysterious Picts, the wild men of Misty Law. The Picts had suddenly appeared in Alba around 1,900 N.W.E., and almost immediately flung themselves into the 3rd Formorian War. Cal Gedrass had stood against Sevegar the Destroyer, and though the Formorian had killed the Pict, the invaders had been forced to retreat. The statue portrayed him as he flung out his famous challenge: "Come wet my blade, beast of iron!" The giant bronze figure thrust an enormous sword at the harbour, and its face blazed defiance.
High over the statue's head was Gaur Castle, its massive cliff a natural backdrop for Cal Gedrass, and a further blunt statement of Alban resistance. Pennants fluttered from its towers, and the golden dragon on a field of blue gave comfort to the city--the symbol of the High King's presence at court. Alba's flag--the white unicorn on a green field--flew from the highest turret, and it hung over the roofs of many houses in the city as well. The castle's main curtain wall began across the square on the east side, and the huge, round tower of the keep of the High King soared over three hundred feet above it.
Arolith cautiously surveyed the rest of the square, and nodded as he saw that the main temples of the Just Gods were on either side of him, forming the Western side of the square. To his left was the low-walled garden of Heijaniss, and dozens of trees and shrubs could be seen growing over the walls of the temple which was dedicated to the goddess of nature and healing. On the right, across Spears Loan, was the turreted fort dedicated to Catha, the deity of battle and freedom. The two holy places were opposite and apart, though symbolically linked. Beside Catha's temple was the famed Tusiaross Library, the abbey of Gecnawa, the god of magic and wisdom. Naturally his place of worship was built next to the Hall of Glamours, which stretched along the square's Southern side. There were several other temples beyond Heijaniss's, but Camrae and Arolith's gaze fell upon the central gathering place for wizards in Alba.
The Hall of Glamours was a strange looking place. At each end of the impressively long building was a huge tower, oddly shaped and covered in ornate runes. Camrae knew that these were where the wizards lived. The tower closest to the castle was used by females, the other by their male counterparts, but the building which ran between them was more normal, though still somewhat peculiar. It was a large, rectangular palace, made of white granite around five storeys high. Built into it were eight towers, all seven storeys tall, four on each side of the building. Although the huge parliament building lay to the North, neither the elf nor his gnomish companion gave it a glance as they walked up to the simple doors, beyond which lay Camrae's future.
A pair of guards in white-robed chain mail stood in the doorway, which was surrounded by four statues of impressive warriors. Camrae looked at the humans, and deduced that they were clerics of Gecnawa from the book-and-sword medallions they wore, but the statues worried him the most. It was a certain bet that they were golems, magical sculptures animated by a viciously hostile form of elemental spirit that was unharmed by weapons or fire. One word from the sentries and they would come to life, ripping flesh apart in their desire for revenge at being bound into servitude, but the elf refused to show any fear of them, he was a wizard, and the servant did not control the master. Meanwhile, Arolith concluded that the simple looking doorway was nothing of the sort, he'd bet on an orc's warts that much of the portal was concealed by illusions; still, it looked grand.
"Sirs, your business?" one of the young clerics asked. They were initiates, and this was a test of their patience, to stand guard for hours at a time. It was well known that the wizards inside needed no guards, for who would be so stupid as to attack a building crawling with archmages? However, they did have to divert the merely curious, inform genuine seekers of knowledge what the place was about, and deal with the odd drunk. Their duty could test the patience of a saint.
"I am Camrae of Leah'Meahnssen. I have come to be accepted into the guild." The elf's heart hammered with pride and hope, after twenty years of study, he would be an apprentice no longer!
"I'm Arolith, I'm his friend, and I'm going inside. Okay?" He rubbed his large nose, daring them to defy him.
Both of the guards were a bit taken aback by this. The elf, yes, but a gnome? Gnomes, as well as being inquisitive, rash and inventive, were also the worst pranksters in existence. A combination of talents that was sometimes useful, and generally exceedingly dangerous. A gnome could wreak all kinds of havoc inside a place filled with magical devices, and the Hall of Glamours was home to many of the more lethal varieties.
"Ah, are you a mage sir? A spellcaster?" the older of the pair asked Arolith, while running a nervous finger around the chain mail at the side of his neck. Things were not always as they seemed around the wizards' guild, and he had no intention of provoking a transformed sorcerer. They did that now and again, changed their shape with a Polymorph spell, and then forgot to change back when they came into town. Also, it was not unknown for a wizard's shape-changed victims to turn up, demanding that the magic be removed. For all the guard knew, the gnome could have been an enchanter, or a malevolent giant that a spellcaster had reduced to a less dangerous form.
"Yes, you, you, you, goblin!" The affronted gnome spluttered. "What did you think I was? An orcish wet nurse? Do I look like Kara the Assassin, or Valmarghin 'Liver Eater', King of the frost giants? Buzz off and let me in!"
The other cleric hastily let them through, he had checked them out with his Ring of True Thoughts.
Both clerics looked at each other with long faces. "Gnomes!" the older one said softly. Wizard, giant or gnome, they all meant trouble. Besides, nobody knew what Kara the Assassin looked like!
"I heard that!" Gnomes also had good hearing.
Beyond was a long hall, and two mages stepped out from hidden alcoves. Camrae knew that they would have been keeping an eye on them at the entrance, via illusion hidden arrow slits, ready to paralyse them with a spell if their magics had detected danger.
"You are expected, Camrae of the forests," the female wizard said, using the standard honorific to greet an elf.
"But you are not, Arolith the gnome! By what right do you enter here?" Her companion was obviously displeased, and was stroking his beard with a fierce vigour. His demeanour and red robes suggested he was an evoker, and thus inclined to vapourize intruders, rather than just paralyse them.
Arolith glared back at him. "Step back, fool, and see my magic!" Quickly, the gnome pulled a small carving of a bear from one of the many pockets on his jacket, and began to mutter soft words under his breath. The two mages looked on in wonder, curiosity was more of a concern to wizards than common sense, like retreating when a stranger cast a spell, especially a gnomish stranger.
"GRAAH!" A huge bear suddenly leapt at the male wizard, who frantically tried to reach for his wand to destroy the beast! "No!" he screamed, and the bear vanished!
His compatriot was guffawing hysterically, laughing at her colleague's stricken face. Camrae had to turn away and stifle his own mirth, even though he was worried by the gnome's antics; a vengeful wizard could influence the Guild against him.
"Let that be a lesson to you! Oh doubter!" Arolith stood glaring at the human with folded arms, looking for all the world like an imperious archmage.
"Shengal's Summoning, he was bringing a creature to his aid!" The wizard pointed at the gnome as he got up on his feet once more.
"Oh, Belritt!" the woman said through her laughter "it was a simple illusion! A Minor Glamour of Sight and Sound." By the gods, she was loving this one! Belritt always had been so stuck up.
"But, he had a figurine to summon the living creature?"
"Ah yes, but look what I had in my other hand!" Arolith shoved his left hand under the wizard's nose, and the bear's head emerged from it, roaring and raging! The gnome was pleased at the effect his illusionary powers were having.
Belritt recoiled, and then grimaced in enlightenment. "Now I understand," he said angrily. "You held the statue in your right hand, so I assume you've seen Shengal's Summoning being cast, but spoke the words for an illusion. So you are a wizard, sir gnome. You may pass." He didn't want to admit that he knew little of the spells of summoning, as he spent most of his time learning evocation magic. 
He turned to Camrae, shaking his head, while trying to ignore his friend's continual laughter. "The Hall of Glamours is just behind us, look for the door with the green star, it should be on your right, but they change it now and again to confuse thieves. It leads to the initiates hall." Belritt was furious, but most of it was self-directed, the first thing any wizard learned, was that all was not as it seemed, and that especially applied to gnomes.
Actually, Arolith wasn't a normal wizard, but a thaumaturge, he didn't see any point to informing the stuck-up twit of that little fact. Gnomes, in general, could be either thaumaturges or alchemists (a few kept trying to be evokers, and everyone thanked the gods they lacked lacked the necessary abilities.) Thaumaturges could use any form of magic that didn't cause direct harm, harness great forces, rely on necromancy or summon powerful creatures, and so they were the work-a-day wizards most folk knew or employed. Their spells could dig wells, paint illusions on walls and do all kinds of useful things, but they couldn't kill. It was a kind of magic well suited to the pacifistic gnomes. Some wizards viewed thaumaturges as weak runts or hedge-mages, but then again, thaumaturges were better accepted by normal folk, and while their magic couldn't kill enemies, it could make life down right miserable for them.
The Hall of Glamours was a strange corridor, where doors appeared seemingly at random along its sides--the magical guild had been named after the famous passageway. As the elf and gnome walked down its odd length, Camrae thought, who would be stupid enough to try and rob the wizards' guild? They would have to be very confident, very stupid or very desperate. Or a halfling....

               *                 *                   *                *                  *

Pyzag was a huge city, the third largest in Alba, and controlled all of the trade to the North and Western parts of the huge island. Its streets were crushed together in the Southern quarter, where most of the inhabitants lived among narrow winding streets that huddled for desperate protection behind the ribbon of the encircling iron wall. The Southern area was divided into two, distinct halves by the Shlath river that flowed through the city, and down into the harbour itself. The Northern, more prosperous half was called the Upper Warren, and its pleasant streets were set with large houses, which were lit at night by spell globes that hung at every corner, and in front of the richer homes. The magical lamps and patrols of guards were because the well-off locals, who were mostly shopkeepers, artisans, officers and owners of the harbour's many ships, were afraid of the things that came over the river from the Fish Warren. Not unhallowed things from beyond the grave, but their fellow citizens.
Gyrus had crossed over Thugman's Bridge, and entered the Fish Warren, trailing a suspicious looking drunk. Although the fellow wavered in his gait, and had thrown up over the bridge, he seemed too shifty for Gyrus's liking. When the four guards of the Scarlet Watch on the bridge had taken his crossing toll, the fellow had appeared perfectly sober, but then he had suddenly turned and vomited over the spiked parapet. An enraged scream floated up from the rock-enclosed river, as a barge-man had been deluged, so one of the soldiers had disgustedly dragged the sick fellow from the bridge, and flung him into a pile of horse dung in the street beyond. The rum-smelling sot had looked up with a viciously glazed stare, and threw horse muck at the sentry, who had then hammered the drunk around the arms and legs with his lead-weighted baton as he tried to run away. The beating was short and swift, and the guardsman quickly returned to his post, confident that the fool wouldn't get ideas about throwing other, more lethal objects.
As the corporal of the Scarlet Watch scraped his red tabard clean, the halfling had climbed by him, using the spikes that were supposed to stop toll-dodgers as handholds. The fact that he was seventy feet above the canyon-like river didn't deter him, as the idea of paying a toll to cross a bridge was totally abhorrent to his nature. Gyrus's grey-feathered hat popped into view as he surveyed the bridge, then he jumped over at the halfway guard tower (there was a difference between bravado and stupidity which he occasionally acknowledged), and dodged beside the legs of a passing horse. The mounted captain of the Watch took no notice as the halfling dived away, and jogged after the inebriate.
Water dripped down on Gyrus from drying clothes strung out between tenements. House wives were swearing at children and overdue husbands. Carts were being pulled by their sons, bringing home the family's rations for the week. One, small, mournful wagon made its sad way up the hill, a tiny coffin on its back. A thin, worn looking man was pulling the funeral cart, helped by a priest in the black robes of Dauthos, god of death and the dead. As they made their way to the Highland Gate, and the Fort Cemetery beyond, people stopped and the men doffed their caps in respect. A heavily pregnant woman held her bulging stomach in fright, and fled indoors, afraid for her unborn child. But the strange drunk payed no respect, nor showed fear, and Gyrus thought to himself that this was an odd fellow indeed.
The halfling was not a callous thief who stole out of greed, it was just his nature, the challenge and the skill, but most importantly, it gave him a vicarious sense of pleasure to take a few coins from a rich man's purse. Once, he had been as poor as these humans, worse in fact, but his nimble fingers and quick mind had saved him from slavery and death. But one thing he had vowed, he would never steal from his own kind, not fellow halflings, but anyone who had lived on the pale side of existence. Thievery was in his blood, and so was suffering, and the more he looked at this odd rum drinker, the more he disliked him. It wasn't merely that his clothes were of a finer cut than those he passed, but the wrongness of the fellow; he didn't belong.
Gyrus trusted his gut feelings, and they said that this human was a bad one, and he was proved right when the drunk knocked down an old man, a veteran of the last war judging by the stump of an arm and the battle-badge on his hat. A soft snicker came from the supposed inebriate as he hurried on, and a pair of lads gave chase with cudgels pulled from their belts, enraged at the cowardly attack on their grandfather. Suddenly, the stranger whirled, and lunacy shone in his eyes as he lunged at the boys. The leading brother skidded away, crashed into a wall, and lay spasming in a doorway, blood pouring from a smashed face, and a gutted stomach. Before the startled survivor could react, the drunkard-turned- madman grasped his neck in a weathered hand and ran his wet blade across the top of the boy's throat. With a giggle the murderer wiped his mouth, and ran on, his footsteps unheard against the cries of the harbour gulls.
"You bastard!" Gyrus swore as he carefully ran up to the boy lying in the street, he knew that the last cut was designed to cause a lingering death as the victim suffocated in his own blood. Hurriedly, he pulled a thin glass vial from his belt, and cracked its wax seal with his shirt button, then poured the thick, greenish fluid over the ghastly wound. The flesh bubbled and hissed, and the terrible injury diminished as the magical potion took effect; but the huge wound did not close, and death was delayed, not prevented, as Gyrus had no more healing potions.
"Quick, a healer, someone get a priest or physician!" Gyrus shouted at the people emerging from doors and closes. "Murder! Get the guard!" As folk began to crowd around, Gyrus ran past their legs, and emerged beyond the mob that was forming, and sped after the killer. The man was no normal rum swiller, and he was not mad, at least not in the normal way. The angry halfling knew what caused such bouts of lucidity, speed and chaotic death--Derag', that abysmal drug from Kalik.
So it was a drunken Derag' addict he chased? Gyrus pulled Lullaby from the concealed pocket inside his jacket. The cosh was over a foot long, and made from hard rubber, the end fitted with a leather bag weighted with lead. Gyrus pressed a small yellow gemstone imbedded in its black leather handle, and the flexible shaft transmuted into solid iron, as did the leather end, which from which grew spikes of glinting, dwarven steel. The magical weapon had come from a Kalik slave dealer, and now thought Gyrus, it would be used on a Kalik drug addict, how apt....



             *                   *                 *                   *                 *


                                           CHAPTER 3
                                          Different meetings



Across the city, unaware of the havoc that was about to be unleashed by a halfling thief seeking justice, Karven and Dorn surveyed the inside of Howell's Emporium of Time. The place moved to the steady beat of a hundred clocks, measuring out the world in clicks of seconds, and the place smelled of wood, brass and oil.
Dorn crossed the soft carpeting to gaze at the centre piece, an elegant clock built around a skeleton of golden wires, enclosed by walls of glass. Inside, thin tubes of crystal carried liquid silver up and down its length, and dripped into measured containers in its base, which were lit by a pale, violet luminescence. The plaque in front read: "Howell's Hydragarium Chronometer. 4,354 N.W.E."
"A three hundred year old clock?" Dorn muttered. Considering that it was four thousand six hundred and seventy five years since the Necronian Wars Ended, the clock was actually three hundred and twenty one years old, but the dwarf hated always being precise, like Camrae.
Karven was busy examining the silver runes inscribed around the doorway, and on most of the cabinets. He had studied spellcraft for several years with Camrae's father, and greatly appreciated magic, but the young man would never call himself a wizard, although he could cast a couple of simple spells. And thus he was pretty sure that if anyone except Howell removed one of the clocks, they would get a rather unwelcome surprise. I wonder if frogs have ears? the young man thought to himself.
Looking at the beautiful pieces, Karven considered why he hadn't taken up wizardry. Halakis had told him that he lacked neither the intelligence, nor the strength of will that could make him a formidable mage. He enjoyed the precision and the wonder of using magic, but his heart wasn't really in it. Strangely, Halakiss was not angered when he had decided to quit his regular lessons beside Camrae, though he often came back at odd intervals. The elven archmage had said that Karven had the potential to be almost anything he wanted, but was fortunate to lack the burning ambition for power that drove some humans to great heights, and often great folly. And the ancient elf had pointed out that Karven could study wizardry again when he was older, if he wished, as magic did not rely on muscles that weakened with age, but on the mind, which was increased by it.
At the sound of a soft cough, the pair turned to see a white bearded dwarf at the side of the shop. Seeing as he was indoors, Karven took off his helmet, and tried to ignore the sensation of the steel touching his ears. Halakiss had known that Karven had no ambition for power, but he had something else, but the elf in his ancient wisdom knew that the young human had mastered his own, personal demon. Whether it was hatred, love or revenge, most people let such things rule them, and let it drive them, but Karven would be ruled by nothing but himself, and his great strength of will had turned his rage at brutal injustice into a tool that he used as he wished. Halakiss knew that made Karven exceedingly dangerous, but Gyrus had confirmed his suspicions of the youth, and the elven archmage knew then that while Karven was no less dangerous, he would never harm those of good heart. As for the hearts of darkness, they were in serious jeopardy if they ever met this particular human--for he was a paladin!
Howell looked through his multi-faceted glasses at the customers.
"Well," he muttered. "they don't seem to have any powerful magics, or my glasses would have shown it up." In the view of the enchanted spectacles, the two visitors were surrounded by shimmering auras of bright colours, the human's was brilliant and sharply defined, which showed that he had a strong sense of compassion and ethics, while his dwarven companion's aura was wavy and red, indicating that he was a decent sort, but inclined to violence.
 Howell was nearly five hundred years old, which was an impressive age, even for a dwarf, but his mind was still sharp, even if it tended to wander slightly. The magical glasses  helped him not only create the minuscule parts for his clocks, but also judge his customer's ethics.
"Excuse me sir, you're Howell Hard Axe, the King's clocksmith? My father sent me, I'm Karven of Will' Ash." Karven reached out and shook the dwarf's smooth, dry hand.
"Oh aye? You're Ardlen's lad, eh? Quite right!" He looked around at Dorn, who was staring at him. "Wait a...you're Aral's lad, ain't ye? Could tell with those blue eyes o' yours. Your dad sent me anything for me springs lad?" The old dwarf looked happy, and a slight smile slid across his worn features at meeting a distant relative. The Hard Axe clan were reputedly the best fighters of the eight dwarven nations living in Alba; indeed, the clan's king, Ferlagh, was 'nameless'. In dwarven society, an individual's status could be judged by the length of his full name, which was comprised of the appellation he chose upon being declared an adult, the clan's patronym, and any famous deeds and ancestors accredited to him. Thus Dorn's full name was: Dorn Hard Axe, Ogre Killer; Son of Aral the Axe, Forger of Dark Rune, Slayer of Gabadak the Ogre Chieftain; Grandson of Wolkon Grey Beard, the Far Walker, Foe of Derscalimarh, the Red Dragon of Highmorn. However if a dwarf's deeds were truly legendary, such as Ferlagh's, he was said to be 'nameless' as the list was so long.
Nodding, Dorn opened the sealed leather pouch at his belt, and took out an object wrapped in thick cloth. He unwrapped it, revealing a shiny metal ingot, and very delicately put it down on the counter.
"It's Corlis steel!" Howell cried out in joy. The ingot had a weird, oily pattern of blues and greens on its surface, but the real proof was that the block was almost impossible to hold. The magical metal was frictionless, it was like trying to hold onto wet ice. In the view of his glasses the ingot had a yellow glow, proving that it was magical.
"How much!" Avarice shone through Howell's attempt at disinterest. Corlis steel hadn't been sold in quantity for over a hundred years, as the metal was so rare and hard to work. The springs and bearings he could make from it would last for centuries, and its worth?
"You know Yohestus, the gnome alchemist?" Howell nodded assent at the question. "Aral the Axe vants five potions of Fire Shielding, he says they're to be Recipe Three." said Dorn, with typical dwarven reticence. His father needed the potions as Corlis could only be alloyed with steel at temperatures so great that even the dwarven furnaces would melt if they were not magically protected. But there were some things you didn't tell, even to fellow clan members, and one of them was the making of Corlis steel.
"Hm, I'll see Yohestus tonight." Dwarves didn't haggle with each other much, they knew it was pointless as they were such a stubborn race, humans had no patience though. Howell looked at Dorn with a speculative air, wondering whether Aral the Axe had found out his secret. Howell had spent a great deal of money on rejuvenation elixirs created by the gnomish alchemist, which was why he was still so sprightly. Unlike most dwarves, he was terribly afraid of death and not aversed to magic, and thus the alchemist's expensive potions were a godsend.
Meanwhile, Karven withdrew his own treasure from its pouch, and handed it to the old dwarven clocksmith.
Howell stared with his mouth gaping at the item the big human had given him. It was a clock, but it was only an inch across! The face was bright blue, made from a polished dragon scale. An aura of green and yellow surrounded the clock, displaying its magic in the spectacles' eerie view.
"Five thousand gold pieces!" Howell gasped.
"Ten!" Karven managed to say. His heart raced in amazement as he said it. The young man's father had said five thousand, but Karven knew that his work was far more valuable. Ardlen's main fault was insecurity and he tended to under value his work.
"Twenty thousand! And if that old crook offers you less, we'll go to Uisich or Tomark, those Southern twits would lick an orc's arse for that clock!" Dorn butted in. His face remained stony as Howell glared at him. Clan was clan, but gold was gold.
"Eight and a half!" The clock maker realised that this piece was a work of art--a portable clock!
"Ten!" Karven was determined, after so many years of poverty he could hardly say the words 'ten thousand'. The most expensive thing that he had ever owned was the plate mail upon his back--it had cost over two hundred gold pieces, which was only a fifth of its normal value. The Elders of the Hard Axe clan had sold him the armour at such a low price as he was a good friend of Dorn's, and they owed him a favour.
"Okay, ten." The old dwarf capitulated, he had seen Karven's aura flash with the red fire of anger, there was no need for trouble. He didn't realize that the rage and the dangerously smouldering eyes that towered above him were not directed at a dwarf named Howell, but at a human named Vardiss. The arrogant swine's face had floated into Karven's mind for just a second as he thought about money, armour and friendship. The five companions had a common bond: the bullying  man known as Jal Vardiss.
"If you don't mind, I'll pay you in Aschentium trade pieces. Much easier than carrying a hundred-weight of gold?" Howell motioned, and a swarthy fellow with a sabre entered, the guard who always lurked, ready to defend his master. In a moment, the dwarf reappeared, and put ten small objects on top of a glass cabinet.
Darn picked up one of the glinting rectangles of platinum. "Vell, it looks real." Howell squinted at him, shocked to the marrow. The Aschentium Merchant Guild cut the left leg, arm, eye and ear from anyone who dared forge its trade pieces, then branded them on the forehead with the guild's rune, leaving them as a living warning. The old dwarf shuddered at the thought.
The trade pieces were about four inches long and three wide, made from platinum, heavier than gold with a bluish sheen like silver. Upon each was the design of a dragon with tiny red stones for eyes that surrounded the guild's rune. It was stamped with the value: 50 pounds of pure gold. Karven knew that although that meant it was nominally worth a thousand gold coins, the trade piece could be exchanged for much more, it depended on the gold content of the coinage it was traded for. The small plaques made merchants dealings far simpler, and Karven took them, aware of the ease which he might carry and exchange the trade pieces. Obligingly, Howell gave him a small cloth bag in which to wrap them.
"Ve stay at the Adventurers Inn tonight, the potions tomorrow." Dorn's tone held just a hint of warning, and he kept a close eye on the bodyguard as his friend put the trade pieces in a stout leather pouch, which he buckled tightly.
The pair waved goodbye, and left the shop of a thousand clocks. Outside, the air quivered to the rolling sound of the harbour's bell, tolling the first hour past noon. Well satisfied with their business, they took a narrow side street off to their right that would by-pass Battle Square, and lead them up to the Salt Market, where most of the better shops were.
Gaur Castle appeared at regular intervals to their left as they followed the winding streets, past houses that belonged mostly to magic-users; the wizards and clerics who lived here generally had families, or rented rooms to young initiates and novices. One whole row was owned by sailors who were probably captains of trawlers or barges, the richer ones would stay in the East Ridings, the area beyond the castle and the GreVale Park where the gentry lived.
The people they passed were strange and various, and unlike their home town of Will' Ash, none stopped to greet them, or wish good day. Three warriors, wearing the dark, highly polished banded armour favoured by the Messenik Legions, walked before them for aways, laughing about something that had happened in Metza, the enormous and depraved capitol city of the Messenik Empire. Further up the street a half-ogre strode by, clad head to foot in a suit of scale mail that glittered in the sun, while a huge warhammer bounced on his shoulder. Darn bristled, and Karven held him as the seven foot tall behemoth passed; he could tell the fellow was a half-ogre as he had human-like eyes, instead of the black, murderous slits of a full bloodied ogre, but he had the usual ogreish skin--coarse and dark rusty-orange in colour. Women walked by, and Karven admired their swaying forms, though in one case it was impossible to see her true shape as she wore a suit of steel plate chastened with gold; her face was strong and pretty, but the eyes had a deadly, flashing glint. That was how Karven often knew a person's intentions, by their eyes, which as all knew revealed, in part, the soul. Thinking of beautiful women brought an image of the lecherous halfling to mind. He didn't care if Gyrus thought he was strange, but surely there was more to love than bed?

               *                *                *                *

The circular room seemed full of wizards, each reclining in an ornate throne of yellow Aa wood. In truth, there was only ten, but several were surrounded by powerful glamours that seemed to shift and move them from place to place. Cautious folk indeed. They wore robes whose runes and colours showed which sphere of magic they studied. The defensive spells worn by some made it hard to look at them, but naturally, the red robed Evoker didn't bother with such protective frippery. Evokers relied heavily on offensive spells of extreme power, and as a group, they tended to settle problems by incinerating everything in a large area. If they weren't blasting monsters or each other, they were usually causing trouble for the blue-robed sorcerers, whom they viewed as cowards. In return, the sorcerers went out of there way to find the most loathsome beasts they could summon, and set them on the evokers.
But in the main throne, directly facing the door, and between his colleagues who surrounded him, was the most powerful wizard in all Alba. Unlike the others he did not specialize exclusively in one sphere of magic, but could use any one he wished, though with less skill than those whose career was a single, well studied art.
The great archmage was the most potent spellcaster of any kind living across the face of the land, and thus he was not only the greatest mage, but the Ard Cumacht, the master wizard who lead the guild and had the King's ear. Camrae looked at him with a mixture of awe, fear and wonder, for this human would have the power to make, or break him as a wizard.
"Camrae, elf of the Tall Willow Forest, son of Halkiss the Archmage of Leah'Meahnssen; tell us what you're made of?" The Ard Cumacht wore a simple silk shirt of white, together with a dark green kilt. His long black hair was shot with thick streaks of white, and his face was craggy, and held a speculative smile. They had already watched with appreciative interest as the elf had cast the various spells he knew, until the drain on his mystic powers prohibited further demonstration, however, they were examining more than his magical abilities.
"Mostly carbon, hydrogen and oxygen, with many other elements." The elf had saw through that one. Above all things, a wizard had to be perceptive and precise; the Archmge's question was a test of these skills. The answer was not, as most laymen would have said, flesh and spirit, for flesh was an ill-defined term, and spirit is what you are, and not even the high-necromancer, for all his wisdom, had an answer for what spirit is.
"I have heard that bronze elves, such as your self, have a taste for bedding young boys. Is this true? I ask purely for the sake of reference, as I'm studying the controversial works of Almariak of the 2nd millenium: the treatise on the elven soul?" the high-necromancer enquired with a patient, almost friendly air.
Camrae was white lipped, for it was a well crafted insult, but it was also a test. Some fools believed elves had an incomplete spirit that died with them, thus denying them existence after death. As for bedding human boys...! Even a river elf wouldn't do that! They would copulate with just about anything else though....
"We elves most certainly have a soul, we know this, but you, alas, do not." Camrae knew that a wizard hated ignorance, it was good jibe. "As for bedding human boys, the females of your race have all but thrown themselves at me from time to time, and I find that disturbing enough. Is there some mystic benefit from pederasty? I'm sure you know more about it than I." He knew the necromancer was trying to provoke him, but a wizard had to remain calm and detached if he was to be of any use, emotion could cloud reason and lead to disaster.
Many of the faces smiled at the elf's rebuttal, even the necromancer; it showed control, wit and intelligence.
"Why do you wish to become a wizard?" The old illusionist poised the question with a calm air.
"Because that is what I truly desire." Camrae answered with simple honesty.
The Ard Cumacht took his silver staff from beside his throne, the great ruby in its tip glowed with a sparkling brilliance. Camrae stood with his heart pounding. Will the tip be towards, or against me? the vital question ran through his mind.
Ruby light played on the ceiling, then descended towards him. Joy rushed through him, he had been accepted! The warm light bathed the young elf, and he would have gladly embraced those in the room if he hadn't been so in awe of them.
"Camrae of the Tall Willow forest, you are accepted into the ranks of the Guild of Glamours. " The Ard Cumacht's face smiled, although he had carried out this ceremony a thousand times, he still remembered his own triumph with youthful joy.
Tears formed in the elf's eyes, but he would not let them fall, not yet anyway. How he wished his friends were here!
"Camrae the Wizard? Not the Abjurer or Evoker?" In response to the archmage's question, Camrae answered that he preffered to study all branches of magics as they were all important. 
"Good, it's the best choice. The mercenaries' guild pays better rates to wizards anyway, as we tend to have less arguements than our brethren." The other mages glared at their leader's jibe, then shook their heads at his humour. He always made fun of the rivalries that existed between the various specialists and the more common, un-specific wizards. Besides, he could get away with it, not only was he a friend to most of the leaders of the guild, he could probably fry them and half the city if he chose. His even temper was the main reason that he had been chosen to lead their guild.
Camrae's apprenticeship was over, he could honestly lay claim to being a wizard. His father had made this a last test, a trial of coming of age. Halakiss had no real power over the Guild of Glamours, indeed the elf had been lucky to succeed in arriving on the three day period when the great wizards were examining initiates. From now on he could take whatever direction he chose, and he envisioned journeys, research, and the noble uses that his powers could be put to.
The Ard Cumacht detailed the rules of the Guild, which were simple, for short of open warfare or treason, the wizards weren't really bothered by laws or regulations. Wizards as a group were taught to be polite and truthful, as these qualities were important to the power of spellcasting, but anyone who thought that wizards were meek or honest was very naive. Violent duels flared up on city streets between arguing wizards, devious metaphysical backstabbing went on in private behind guild walls, and criminals trafficked with demons. In most lands, wizards were not forced to join guilds, but they did it anyway, so they could meet intellectual equals, exchange spells, and have opponents worth bitching about. One thing about the guilds though, they had the power to put wizards to death, for magic had once nearly destroyed the world, and a mage lost in his art could do it again.
A massive glowing book appeared suddenly before Camrae's delighted face. The elf took the quill that rested on the book, and signed his common name into the Silver Tome, alongside those of nearly every wizard who had lived in Alba for several centuries. The book vanished, and a silver ring appeared, inset with coloured stones, it gently slipped onto the third finger of the elven wizard's right hand.
"The ring's gems, you will find, seem to move and change, but always remain within the circle, just as there are many forms of magic, but which are still part of the great circle of magic. May you enjoy your long life, and the pursuit of your destiny."
As the delighted Camrae left, another hopeful youth entered.

                *                 *                *                  *               *

Oh, wait till I get this to my contact, the riches will be enough to drown in! the Derag' addict thought, his now addled brain forgetting the awful consequences if he failed to deliver the slim scroll tube which lay against his chest. The drug made the world appear as if it were three heart beats slower than normal, and the unnaturally sluggish people who populated this universe he could slip by with ease, or slay if he chose. Several of his compatriots had died beside him in the quest for the scrolls' recovery, and the daily draught of Derag' helped blank the awful memories, for even a professional killer had a soul that could be shocked. Today, rum had helped to dull the mental terror, but it caused him to misjudge the dose that normally brought speed, and instead brought lunacy.
He walked down an alley that led eventually to the Cattle Market, which nestled against the city's Southeastern wall; there he had a contact who would arrange passage home, and there his masters' waited to reward him. Shrill whistle blasts told the murderer that the hunt was up, but he feared these barbarian buffoons not at all, and he dodged into a quiet lane, piled with crates from the nearby tannery.
An iron mace smashed into his right ear, tearing the appendage free in a shower of blood and gristle, he fell against a hitching post where wagoners tied their horses, and slid to the ground.
Gyrus jumped down off the barrel he had waited on, and watched in a sort of resigned horror as his victim got back up from a blow capable of killing an ogre. Derag' was normally used to diminish pain, and an addict was infused with demonic speed and strength, as well as the ability to casually ignore wounds. It was little wonder the princes of Kalik used the magical drug to enhance and control their slave battalions.
The halfling was prepared for this, as he was no stranger to the ways of depraved Kalik. A small hand flung a spray of thick liquid from the dregs of a barrel into the drug-killer's eyes; the man screamed and flung himself to the ground in an agony even Derag' could not block out. The tanner's mixture of horse urine, salt and vinegar burned him blind.
Blows from the magical mace rained down, and the killer collapsed. With a grim smile Gyrus rifled through his belongings, taking everything except the man's bloodied dagger and two copper vials of Derag', those he flung into a crate. The halfling pushed the rest into his shirt, and stripped two emerald-studded rings from the addict's bloodied fingers, then put them onto his own: one was a perfect fit. The battered thug groaned.
"HELP! MURDER!" the little thief bellowed to attract the guard, and ran for his life. The caustic mixture had lost its potency, and red rimmed eyes of hate glared up. Gyrus was extremely brave by halfling standards, but he wasn't a fool, which was why he had called for the Scarlet Watch. The city guard would be able to stop the maniac, permanently.
Swaying, the man stood up, thought for a minute, and smashed his hand through a barrel. He wrenched the stave lose, then unsteadily chased after the halfling.
Through the streets they raced, Gyrus using his small height and agility to make up for his short stride. Under wagons and horses he rolled, dodged through open doors, jumped from windows and landed on privy roofs. The killer dashed a woman's brains out against her door as he rushed after the thing which had stolen all his lovely drug. As they pelted down Sword Market, the man's abnormal speed helped him gain on the halfling's flying heels, he ploughed into a bunch of customers, and grabbed a thin, curved scimitar they were examining in the sunlight.

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                                          CHAPTER 4
                                        Honour and arrest



Karven and Dorn froze as they heard whistles blowing over the city, and blades appeared all around them. In Alba only fools went unarmed as the Formorians could descend at any time on a coastal city, never mind the more common brigands and the various orcish races. Unsure of what was happening, the pair drew their weapons, Karven stood ready with his battleaxe held up by the right shoulder in a two-handed grip, while Dorn spun his dwarven-cutlass through the air a few times to limber up. The dwarf's sword was similar to its human counterparts, but wider of blade with a narrow brass guard that protected the fingers, and was studded with steel for use as a knuckleduster. Another difference was that the the end of the weapon was formed into a needle-like point as the back of the blade had been cut away in a narrow crescent shape, allowing it to be used for thrusting. Generally, only dwarves used the heavy blades, since the wielder had to have extremely strong wrists.
"It's the guards' signal for trouble. The citadel's bell would have rung if it had been Formorians," a fellow replied to Karven when he asked what was happening.
"Help!" a panting voice cried, and a small figure flashed by Dorn. His human friend stared bewildered at the familiar shape of the runner.
"Ahh!" A screaming lunatic sped towards them, blood saturated his face and clothes, and the man's eyes held the unforgettable vacancy of the deranged. The up-raised scimitar gave clear warning of his intentions.
Without caring for consequences or explanations, Dorn launched himself at the man's knees, and a hundred and sixty pounds of densely muscled dwarf blasted the man up into the air, and spinning towards Karven, who turned and shoulder-smashed the maniac with his armoured bulk.
Dorn walked over to his friend, who had been knocked five feet backwards by the collision, though he remained standing. Both stood amazed as the stranger reached out a bloodied hand, grasped the scimitar, and stood up, his head a ruined mess after several impacts from steel and stone. Bones showed with a pink ghastliness over much of his face.
"AAH!" The disfigured man screamed again at the sky, and the curved sword flashed down.
His right arm numb from the collision, Karven still managed to clumsily parry the attack, sparks flew as the scimitar bounced off the battleaxe's broad head. Spinning on his heel in a display of acrobatic speed, the mad-man's blade sliced open an onlooker's leg as he turned, and his out flung left fist cracked into the younger man's jaw. Karven blacked out for a second; the fellow's strength was incredible!
Dwarven steel bit deep into the maniac's leg, and blood showered in the afternoon sun. Surprised that the man was still standing after such a blow, he continued his attack, which the man avoided by spinning away on his good leg. What the Hell was this fellow? Panick caused the crowd to scatter as Dorn hewed away. 
Insane eyes burned into Karven as the man lunged out with the scimitar for his stomach, but he turned, and the edge skittered off the hard steel of his plate armour. Strength returned to the right arm, and the battle axe's curved blades flew over the scimitar's useless thrust, sheared through the lunatic's neck, and slashed out along the collar bone in a spray of bright arterial gore. The man spun with the impact and went down onto his knees, blood sprayed from the horrendous wound as he tried to say "My drugs?". With a wet smack, the remains of the maniac's face shattered against the cobblestones as he died.
Swaying, Karven stood in a state of sickened shock, for it was the first time he had ever killed a fellow human, it was not like slaying a goblin.
"Ah, Karven, give us a hand? I'm all out of healing potions."
He turned to the voice, and saw Gyrus lying on the ground beyond the dead man. The halfling's leg was split open from above the left knee to just under it, and blood covered the small hands that were trying to staunch the wound.
Dwarf and human rushed to their stricken friend, Karven hurriedly ripped the halfling's trousers to make a simple bandage. Beyond the crowd, the jingle of armour heralded the approach of the Scarlet Watch. The cloth darkened with blood, and he knew that his small friend could be crippled for life from such a blow, as the scimitar had been incredibly sharp. Holding the sodden bandage, the armoured man concentrated, Dorn watched as his comrade's face smoothed into calmness, and deep concentration.
The wound on Gyrus's leg started to warm, gently at first, it quickly turned to a maddening itch. In Karven's mind, he envisioned the open wound cease bleeding, and poisons being expunged from torn flesh, which slowly started to knit together. A hand jerked him back into reality, but his heart warmed when Gyrus removed the cloth, to reveal a much smaller cut which only dribbled blood, where once had been a six inch, flowing gash.
"Ah, see! You are a paladin!" The halfling beamed.
The hand belonged to an officer of the guard, and he was surrounded by dozens of his compatriots who were streaming to the scene from several directions.
"Right you three, drop yer weapons or get skewered!" The officer pointed significantly to the loaded crossbows and spears that his men carried.
Two soldiers turned the dead man over, and the captain nodded at the almost severed head. "Remind me not to annoy you." he said to Karven. "Right, get a cart for the carrion." With practised hands he checked the blood soaked belongings of the killer the guards had been after.
"Dwarven steel scimitar." A shout from a just-arrived civilian informed him that it was stolen. "And that's about it."
Panting heavily, a squad sergeant gave the officer a pair of thin copper tubes that had been found near a pool of blood. Warily, the captain twisted the corks out, poured some of the contents onto his hand, felt, then sniffed and tasted a little of the grey powder. The numbing sensation on his tongue and sudden euphoria told him all he needed to know, but the effect of the drug swiftly faded as he wore an amulet specially blessed against poison. "Derag' !" He spat the remains out.
"Sir, we also found this." The sergeant handed over the dagger the halfling had flung into the crate along with the copper vials. It was an ordinary looking weapon, but the soldier had noted that it was actually a superb piece of craftsmanship.
A look of recognition appeared on the Scarlet Watch captain's face as he examined the blade, so he told a man to bring over a piece of wood, then ordered the patrol's cleric to heal Gyrus. Each squad of twelve men had a cleric or a wizard for back-up, and the armoured priest held the crossed sword, axe and shield symbol of Catha engraved on his armour as he prayed, then touched the halfling's leg. The remaining wound vanished.
The officer warily stuck the mad-man's dagger into the dry piece of cordwood, at the same time depressing a tiny stud. A yellowish fluid suddenly poured out of the blade, and where the liquid dripped onto the log, it silently dissolved holes deep into the wood. "Idanth poison!" he screamed, and dropped the knife, then jerked away from the hideously deadly toxin which had run from a hidden reservoir in the knife's handle. A magic talisman was no use against that stuff! Oh, this was not good at all.
"Right, bind these three. The big one's a paladin so you shouldn't have any trouble. Take them to the guard house, not the jail. Don't let any idiot come near that dagger, one touch of that stuff and they'll jerk so hard their bones will explode!"
His squad leader looked at him sceptically.
"They use Idanth poison to kill giants and dragons in the Black Delta, and the only folk who use it and Derag' regularly are the Sable Earls of Kalik. Derag' weakens the venom's power, and stops assassins talking."
Gyrus and many others in the crowd felt fear come tapping at their spines at the name of the hired killers. Started by the sable merchants to protect their interests, the Sable Earl assassins had grown to become the most feared band of cold hearted payed exterminators that had ever existed outside of a nightmare. Somehow, they had managed to kill no less than three Messenik emperors, two Algandian kings, an entire army in one night, and the gods' knew who else. Quickly the soldiers bound the three friends, and surrounded them as they double marched towards the Battle Square.
"A paladin?" Karven thought confusedly. The man's death had retreated to that dull area which would cause nightmares in the future, and Karven had come to the conclusion that he must have been an assassin, therefore an evil man who would have gone on to kill others if he had not been stopped. The young warrior had heard of Derag' and the vicious frenzies it produced, his dark eyes looked to Gyrus as he wondered the halfling's part in it; his small friend might at times pick pockets, bu the Sable Earl had been badly injured before he attacked them. What had Gyrus done? Karven pushed these thoughts to one side until he could do something about them, but the question remained--a paladin?
Last Summer, the conlict with Jal Vardiss had reached a head, the swaggering bully had been tormenting Karven for years, getting more vicious with each incident. Vardiss was one of the reasons that they had banded together and become such friends.
Jal Vardiss was the local hardcase, a particularly nasty piece of work who controlled a large gang. They quickly picked on Karven for a number of reasons: he was shy and wished no one any harm, and best of all, he had a physical deformity. Karven had been born with pointed ears like those of an elf, and large canine teeth, which earned him the appelation 'Formor Face'. The ancient and terrible Blight which still caused many birth defects had also twisted the Formorians, who were originally a race of human warriors, into horrendous looking monsters, and thereby given rise to the common insult which caused Karven such pain.
Fortunately, the young lad had found several companions. Halakiss, the elven comrade of his father, often came to visit with his son, and Camrae and Karven fast became cronies, the young wizard had helped his human friend try to learn magic. Gyrus Pickett, the hafling who lived next door, had been one of Karven's few friends until the elf showed up, and Dorn and Arolith were always in the kind-hearted thief's burrow-home when they escaped into town. Thus Karven had grown up with them, and felt far more comfortable with the four demihumans than he did with most of his own kind. One other thing made their relationship special--although his companions were older in years, they were similar in maturity, as each of them were not long into adulthood. Camrae was one hundred and twenty years old, and Dorn was fifty eight. Arolith, being a gnome, kept his age secret. Gyrus was the 'oldest', in human terms he would be nearly twenty five.
One other good friend Karven had: Brother Marlin, the old priest who taught school. From the war-weary man he had learned not only to read and write, but patience and Tahljzohn, a bare-handed fighting style from the land of Malgorn, home of the minotaurs. Another of his father's confederates, the kindly man had taught him how to fight back against bullies like Vardiss. It was Marlin and Gyrus's stories he had grown up with, and to them he turned when in despair. While Ardlen was a gentle man, he was hard for a young lad to speak to, and Liza, his mother, had been dead for several years. That kind, bossy woman had ordered the halfling to keep an eye on her son before she passed on.
With cruel malice, Vardiss always made sure he was surrounded by at least a half dozen followers when he pounced on 'Formor Face', as he had seen the deadly look that grew in Karven's eyes when he erupted in a couple of fights, going berserk and flattening several of his gang. As the others were becoming too dangerous, the halfling had made an excellent scapegoat, until Vardiss realized that the small thief was an excellent shot with pebbles, especially when he fired them form his sling. The slings used by halflings weren't the ancient variety, but 'Y' shaped pieces of metal equipped with a strange, elastic material that could hurl missiles with a lot of force. Adult halflings used a sling so powerful it could fire a lead projectile hard enough to dent plate armour, or smash a man's skull.
Seeing Gyrus being attacked had driven Karven into a furious rage, and he decided to go on the offensive. Together with his four best friends and a bunch of others who had had enough of Jal Vardiss's gang, they hammered their enemies in a huge fight in one of the big wood seasoning sheds in Will' Ash. Vardiss as usual had avoided the main battle, but the evil hearted young thug had his revenge as the conflict raged in the dusty barn. Somehow, he had managed to get hold of a dwarven Blasting Crystal, the deadly things used by the bearded folk to blow orcs to bits. With a frothing face suffused with raging blood, Jal Vardisss had thrown the devastating prism into the middle of the combatants, and cheered when it exploded, tearing people to shreds, mostly his erstwhile friends. Karven and Dorn had been wearing armour--fortunately for them--but even so, a splinter had sliced the young man's flesh, leaving a scar that split his left eyebrow and ran up into his hair, and the tough dwarf had gotten partially scalped, which was why he had a small bald spot. Gyrus and Arolith had escaped much injury as they had been behind a pile of logs firing slingtones, but Camrae had been badly injured beside them, a shard of wood had opened the side of his head, and he had been dying when Karven held him, and prayed for his friend to live. Amazed, he had felt his hands grow cool, and the torrent of blood pouring from the elf's temple slowed.
Three people had died, but Brother Marlin's clerical magic and potions healed the rest, even the still deadly wound that Camrae had suffered. Afterwards, as the futile manhunt for Vardiss got under way, the old cleric had explained to the puzzled Karven that he had the powers of a paladin. The young man couldn't believe this, as he had always thought that paladins were holy knights, heroes who devotedly worshipped the gods, and were thus given the ability to cure the sick and heal injuries by laying on hands. In the tales of the bards, paladins could also drive away the coldly unnatural beings that refused to die, such as ghosts and vampires. Brother Marlin had patiently explained to his ex-student that he had those powers, or would in time, and that a paladin did not have to worship a god like a cleric such as himself, but an ideal. In his heart of hearts, Karven wanted peace, justice and mercy, but for everyone, those were the ideals of a paladin. Years of bullying and hatred had not made him bitter, and wanting the emptiness of punishment and revenge, but determined to see such things stopped. He would fight if he had to, and his rage at injustice would unleash itself violently, yet there was always a degree of control, unlike a berserker.
In the fight in the seasoning shed, Karven had known that he could easily have killed several of the roughnecks who had abused him for years. It never happened, his quarterstaff smashed faces, broke hands, but never struck lethal blows, much as he had been tempted to do. Dorn had been using an axe handle to terrible effect, and it had been luck, rather than intent, that the dwarf hadn't killed someone. Still, their attackers deserved the beating, they had been armed with knives and hatchets. Karven was appalled at their use of edged weapons, most of them would have been quite happy to commit murder, but they were just thugs and their nerve had broken when several of them had been smashed to the ground. Vicious evil had not been a match for righteous anger that day.
It had taken a long time for him to come to terms with the fact that he was a paladin, but as Karven, his friends and the guards crossed the huge Battle Square, he accepted it, aware of the responsibilities the status brought. There were few things harder to live up to than an ideal.
As they tramped over the small bridge which was the only entrance to Gaur Castle, Dorn looked doen between the iron-studded railings, into the abyssal looking trench which surrounded the fortress. It was with a certain pride that he knew that dwarves had dug the furlong deep gap, and built most of the defensive walls. But it didn't stop him from swearing at the bloody idiots who had manacled him for killing a murderer who used a poisoned blade. Gyrus had told him what had happened as they walked along, and Dorn informed his troublesome friend that in the halls of the Hard Axe clan villains such as the Derag' addict would have been thrown into the lair of a quartz slime. The dwarf gruesomely explained that the survival rate of such criminals was nil.
While the dwarf and the halfling were unpeturbed by heights due to their familiarity with them, one lived among underground canyons and lift shafts, and the other could race up a wall like a spider, Karven was deathly afraid as he looked down into the dark canyon which the bridge crossed. He felt himself sway towards the gaping depths, and forced his gaze upright with a violent shudder. While swords held little terror for him, heights could scare the young paladin worse than anything else. Everyone is afraid of something, and with Karven heights were his particular nightmare.
The castle's barbican was covered in an odd pattern of carvings, and the dwarf suspected that they hid dozens of arrow slits. Footsteps echoed flatly as the group entered the gate keep, past the double set of doors, under a murder hole where the smell of molten lead still hung, and into the parade ground.
Mounted cavalry men of the King's Greys were practicing with sabres, while archers were having a fast firing drill in the pleasant warmth as the prsioners were taken left to the guard house, which was comprised of three large towers that were used as barracks by the Scarlet Watch. Inside, they were seated in the grand entrance hall used by the officers, it seemed more prudent to the sargeant than the cold hall used by other ranks. The walls were hung with the various flags, decorations and trophies the Watch had won over the years.
A hurried conference took place between the squad leader and the company sargeant who was seated behind an important loooking desk. Naturally the older soldier had picked the most comfortable place to sit in the great draughty hall, veteran campaigners had a cat like ability to find such places.
For a while the prisoners sat almost forgotten, and the halfling once again explained what had happened. They agreed that Gyrus had been right in attacking the assassin, but all three shared his fears as to what would happen, in this place which beat with the steady crump of marching feet.
The captain of the guards who had arrested them turned up, along with a pair of clerics. One was an old man who reminded Karven of Brother Marlin, he had the same twinkling eyes, although the newcomer still had a thick growth of hair, and was a follower of Tymaril, not Catha. The priest carried a heavy staff set with gems and silver at each end, it was obviously designed to be used as a weapon, not as a prop for the infirm. His companion was a woman dressed in green, around her neck was the silver tree symbol which denoted that she was a healer of Heijaniss. If it had been made of wood it would have shown her to be a druid, the goddess's worhsippers who revered her nature aspect. There was a statuesque beauty to the woman, and a frank gentility to her eyes which Karven found attractive. From the way the two walked with linked arms, it was obvious that they were more than friends.
And so the questioning began, with Dorn just managing to control his temper during it. The halfing thief kept an eye on the cleric's valuables, the healer had no weapons, naturally, and she wasn't really his type, so he looked to the old fellow, who stared right back at him while shaking his head and smiling. This knowing gaze unnerved Gyrus.
He must have some kind of mind reading spell working, the halfling reasoned. Your mother's an orc kissing bearded dwarf! That thought aught to start something!
Switfly the man turned away, not in anger, but to hide unseemly chuckles.
"Well," said the woman, who had introduced herself as Sister Egeria. "My friend and I can detect no lies or evil in your hearts, as Sheriffs of the city we declare you innocent of murder, you acted in self defence and on goodly intent." She stared at the halfling for a moment though, Gyrus gave her a pious look in return. Of all the races, why did the hairy footed, home-comfort loving small folk cause so much trouble?
"However," she continued, "We might want to speak to you later, where can we find you?" Asking was easier, and besides, her informants would keep an eye on them anyway.
"At the Adventurers Inn, vhere else vould ve stay, hm?" Dorn barked.
Captain and clerics looked at each other with a jaundiced trio of eyes. "The Burst Frog? Typical!" the soldier said, using the tavern's proper name with the tone of disgust that an officer was supposed to use in regards to that establishment. Actually, he quite liked it, as the guard hardly ever got called to the place, this was basically due to its famous owner who could pacify a rowdy crowd with a ruthless finality that the soldier wished he could use at the weekend fair.
Camrae and a very disgruntled gnome met them in the parade ground, where they had been waiting for the gaol birds, the elf had been studying his spellbooks and meditating to restore his powers. Arolith was fuming, calling the wizards inside the Hall of Glamours names that even Dorn hadn't heard of before. Sensibly the mages had kept him under a sort of house arrest, watched by an illusionist who was unfortunately neither a gnome, nor very interseting. They had almost come to blows when Arolith made a desperate bid for escape into the exciting palace of magic beyond. Perhaps he should have joined the guild, humans just had no sense of adventure!
It was with a sense of shock that Karven realized it was dark, and Duihn could be seen in the night sky, highlights of grey amidst a circle of blackness. Beyond the castle walls, a thick harbour mist had flowed across the city, and had risen to make a thin gauzy film across the silent square. And down the hill they walked, and disappeared into the fog, Gyrus leading the way to the famous tavern while singing an extremely bawdy song, until a shout from a window told him to shut up and stick his head in a slop bucket! Gyrus replied to the fellow that it sounded like he ate the contents of slop buckets, 'cause he talked a pile of crap. His friends grabbed him and hurried on, for the insulted man was standing in the window, screaming hysterically, and was now holding a harpoon.

               *                *                 *                 *

A little earlier, a meeting had taken place that concerned the five travellers from Will' Ash.
In a dingy alley way hidden by swirling vapour, a well dressed man was talking to a scruffy looking individual. Normally this might have been a prelude to a robbery as the unkempt one was armed with a cutlass, which he fingered nervously.
"Loric, you have served me well, continue to do so and you will be well rewarded." The man in satin robes of ebony hue jangled a heavy purse in front of the others' face.
"Yes, your gold is good." The true nature of what was happening could now be seen, the swordsman was a servant of a mercenary nature. One thing was apparent, as much as he tried to hide it, he was afraid of the unarmed man facing him. "Who do you want killed? You obviously wish to leave no traces of magic, Chiasmus, so it's to be the Feast of Flesh and the remains get flung in the sea with bricks and sail-cloth to weight them down?"
"That is right," the calm voice of the one called Chiasmus spoke into the fog. "Five I want killed, all in a group." His eyes gleamed in the night, boring into the assassin's like a surgeon's probes.
Loric hissed, but had to turn away from the power of that gaze. "Five! If we get caught it's the stake and flames for us!"
"Idiot! Think I would use you against a powerful foe? You are too useful to be treated thus." The wizard's need of the dark band was for more than just murder, as had been the Sable Earls. Five of Kalik's finest assassins had went down into the nether deeps below the city for the precious scroll, and the only fool to survive had been a Derag' crazed orc rutter!
"There are over a dozen in your bunch of twisted flesh eaters, surely enough to defeat only five fools from the country!" Will' Ash was notorious for its violence and roughneck inhabitants, but why deter a friend from a feast?
"You should have no fear, they have neither magical weapons nor high magics. The platinum coins in the bag are worth a hundred gold. You'll get ten times as much when they are dead and you bring me the scroll case, but do not open it!" Chiasmus hissed. "One look at the parchment inside, and you will welcome the fires of Hell, rather than the torment induced by the guardian runes. The magics are not for such as you, understand?"
"I understand." He didn't much like the job, not for the cursed scroll, but for fear of the coals burning around his feet. Still, Loric would kill his mother for a thousand gold pieces, but he had eaten the slut years ago.
"Where are they? We'll no go near the temples, that's suicide for such as us!"
"Hold your prattling and I will find them!"
The alley was in the worst area of the docks, hidden among the streets of the Fish Warren. It was blocked off by crates and bales, and armed figures lurked in the dark to prevent anyone from interrupting their leader's discussion. If things went well, there would be a fine feeding for them all before the bodies were sunk in the sea.
Looking upon his followers, Loric drew strength, he shouldn't be so afraid of a mortal! But the wizard was of a chilling turn of mind that could even frighten the damned.
Chiasmus opened his black robe, and took something from its impossibly deep pockets, something that gleamed white against the dark cloth, something made of bone.
With distaste Loric looked at the strange creature which the wizard now held, a skeletal bat whose undead wings beat the fog into curling eddies.
"Afraid of my little pet, eh Loric? Or are you hungry?" He added the last with a sneer that made the swordsman wince.
Flying like some obscene, fleshless nightmare, the thing took off into the night, coasting over smoking chimneys and misty streets. A sorcerous link between the skeletal bat and Chaizmus allowed the evil wizard to see through its eyes, and he saw the travellers abroad in the night. The halfling was invisible to this strange kind of vision, but that was to be expected, for the little one had the Scroll--not for much longer though.
Words were spoken, and more travellers went out into the night--wereghouls!

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                                        CHAPTER 5
                                         Pyzag by night



A faint, wandering light spilled its warmth through the encroaching harbour fog, and two pairs of booted feet caused damp echoes in the darkness. Naturally the elf and gnome's tread was far softer than that of an armoured man, while the bare footsteps of the green clothed halfling made not a whisper. The dwarven scout could walk with stealth through the caverns of the Greydepths, but he was venting his frustration by stomping along and kicking the odd crate to bits.
"Vere the Hell are ve Gyrus? You're supposed to know the city! Ve're probably valking into the bowels of the Abyss knowing you!" Dorn said with heavy sarcasm. " 'Don't  vorry, I know vere I'm going' he says. But vhere do you think you're going, hmm? Hades? It's as dark and smelly as an orc's arsehole!"
The halfling sighed in exasperation. Despite the dwarf's claims that the only places Gyrus knew in Pyzag were the jail and numerous pockets, he had a good idea where the Adventurers Inn was from here. The small rogue had hurriedly made his way there several times in similar conditions after encounters with beautiful women, who were unfortunately married at that time to ugly husbands.
The murky conditions were caused by the fact that street lamps were few in number around the docks; like most wizards, Camrae knew the common spell of Light and had cast the dweomer on a coin which he now held aloft, creating a soft luminescence around them.
An uneasiness filled Karven, and he peered around in the gloom as ice caressed his spine. Who would believe you could be lonely and afraid in a city of over a quarter million souls? The flesh on his back crawled, and with a frightened certainty, he turned to the dwarf at his side.
"Something's behind us."
Looking up at his friend's face, Dorn nodded, and readied his cutlass, its engraved blade shimmered in the mage's glow,. Many times had Ardlen's son warned them of danger, his intuition of such things was uncanny.
Arolith's keen hearing heard the conversation, and the whisper of steel as the paladin drew the battleaxe from the sheath on his back. The gnome grabbed the pick-hammer from his belt and alerted the pair in front. With a soft curse about human cities, the elf drew a spell component from his belt, and a sharp 'snick' quivered in the air as Gyrus's magical cosh, Lullaby, transformed into an iron mace.
A presence filled the chill, misty air, of things unhallowed and hungry it felt to Camrae. His race had deep empathy with the land, and things unnatural were an abhorrance to the elves of the clean forests. 
Sitting in a warehouse doorway was a pale rat, and Karven's eyed it with distaste, and a growing alarm--the thing's eyes had an intelligence where none should be. Silently he passed his battleaxe to the puzzled dwarf, and drew his own dagger from its belt sheath. With a silvery flash he spun the dirk, caught it by the blade and hurled the weapon at the white-furred rodent.
Squeals filled the air as the heavy knife sliced through the rat, and pinned it to the wooden doorstep. And then the terror began, for the squealing animal pushed at the handle with its small claws and head, and the blade worked free, and finally fell from the creature with hardly a trace of blood! Hatred gleamed in the tiny eyes.
With a terrified cry, Karven retrieved his axe, and stared in shock as the rat grew, and grew, and changed in form. Paws transformed into hands with inch long, bony claws; fur vanished to reveal pale flesh; and the rodent's skull slimmed to become almost human, except for the lolling tongue in a mouth filled with jagged teeth, and eyes of the damned.
Shrieking, the thing leapt at them, but a dwarven cutlass slashed the cold flesh of its leg, and the night-fiend fell to the ground. Awoken from a shocked stupor, Karven slammed his blade into the foul thing's back, shattering ribcage and spine assunder.
The monster writhed, and jerked to its feet, the wounds vanishing as Dorn swore in disgusted horror.
Camrae saw dark shapes rushing at them from a side street to their right. He deftly dropped the magical light coin onto the top of one of his moccasins, and began to close his hands together, seemingly with some effort, as if he was crushing the air between his palms. Words were spoken hurriedly. Shrieking snarls erupted from the side street, as a faint glitter appeared there, and the air seemed to thicken. The shadowy shapes were slowed to a crawl as they tried to push through the enchanted barricade.   
More humanoid creatures rushed from the front and rear, and howls resounded as one of the fang mouthed shape-shifters fell to the ground, clutching its shattered knee in agony. Gyrus's enchanted weapon had scourged the beast's unnatural flesh, unlike the normal steel of his companions' weapons.
Hissing blasts of lightning erupted in the fog, and a huge reptilian head peered down at the pallid fiends in front of Arolith; with a shriek, they ran screaming from the dragon! Cho Bearch, the mighty sea wyrm, smiled at the gnome, who winked back at the illusion his magic had created; in the thick mist it had seemed almost real. A clank came from beside him, and a sewer grating started to lift up; and then slammed shut when the grinning thaumaturge jumped on it, leaving a pair of severed fingers wriggling on the cobblestones.
At the rear, Karven and Dorn were fighting a losing battle, having neither spells nor magical weapons. Three more white-skinned demons had joined the first, and their claws and fangs tore at the two warriors. The paladin drove them back with a mighty slash that tore reaching hands to shreds. Beside him, the dwarf's short, brutal swings knocked the third off its feet, and drove it into the way of the fourth.
The defence was heroic, but futile, for the deadly injuries disappeared moments after they were inflicted. A claw gouged a burning furrow over Karven's hand, and then ice spread through the limb, the axe began to fall as the paralysed limb went cold.
"No!" Karven screamed in rage, and thought of Vardiss's sneering face. Anger burned through him, and swept away the freezing numbness in his arm as he went berserk, the paladin's honourable soul offended by the loathsome aura of rank, murderous evil that surrounded the monsters. Steel tore flesh apart, and bones were shattered by the edge of his wrathful axe, but theses were not mortal beings....
The battling dwarf noted that while these creatures were unharmed by normal blades, they still felt pain from the momentary wounds his cutlass inflicted. The things were forced to retreat under the whirling blades of Dorn and Karven, but it was only a matter of time until their strength waned, and the fiends' claws bit into them with their deadly chill.
Seeing the peril they were under, Gyrus did the sensible thing. "Run!" he screamed, and ran like the thief-catchers from Hell itself were after him.
Camrae recognized the monsters caught in his Viscous Air spellspell: wereghouls! The halfling had the right idea! But Karven and Dorn were in trouble, and he thrust two fingers down the alley towards them.
"Mar Heesh!" The elf cried in the tongue of wizardry, and his Mage Blade spell created a vaporous, green-glowing dagger. He gestured, and the blade flew with incredible swiftness, slicing one death-fiend's arm to the bone, and then ploughing into the guts of another. 
Being a dwarf, Dorn would have preferred to stay and fight, but against these things? He yanked hard at the human's belt to bring him out of his battle fury, and swiftly followed the sprinting elf and gnome ahead of them.
Through streets filled with pale drifting clouds of vapour they charged, slipping and sliding on damp cobblestones. Shouts from the halfling led them the right way, and they caught up to Gyrus, whose small legs were going like a fiddler's elbow.
In the faint starlight they raced for their lives, the fiends following behind them, slobber flowing from writhing tongues at the scent of hot flesh. Fortunate they were, for the unnatural beast's bounding strides were no faster than a normal man's.
Karven's heart raced as he felt the evil presence just a few yards behind. Never a great runner, the young paladin's fear gave him speed which his armour couldn't slow. He wished he had the incredible endurance of the dwarf, or the swiftness of the elf. 
Malicious glee filled the small thief as he saw a dim, red phosphorescence ahead. His sense of direction had been right, The Burst Frog lay dead ahead, the last place on Erynavar the things that followed them should ever approach!
The heavy oak side doors to the bar burst open, and the five comrades dived into the warm tavern known to most as the Adventurers Inn.
"Formorians!" the canny halfling shouted the ultimate battle warning. "Behind us!"
In the couple of seconds it took Gyrus to push his friends away from the doorway, Karven looked in astonishment at the dozens of staring folk who were grouped around a pair of tiny flying creatures; the small ones ignored the warning and continued thumping away at each other with a pair of wooden spoons!
A forest of glinting steel appeared in response to Gyrus's cry of alarm, and when half a dozen of the pale monsters which had assaulted them rushed in, a clashing hail of metal enstormed the wereghouls. Shrieks and severed limbs testified to the fact that many of the knives, hatchets, daggers and marstars were enchanted. A silver wand fired a stream of blue, magical pulses of energy; and then everyone in the bar was deafened by a blast of thunder! Four glowing balls of red light flew across the tables, accompanied by a pressure wave that pushed against eyeballs and shattered eardrums. Moving seemingly with a slow grace, the projectiles flew faster than arrows; short shafts of crimson light emerged from them as the globes revolved, and then impacted into the leading monsters.
Bodies exploded and gore sprayed across the room as the projectiles detonated. A shocking concussion flung men to the ground, and the remaining fiends back out the door, where they dazedly scattered for cover. 
"Hammers o' Hell, what's goin' on?" a voice like rolling boulders asked from behind the bar, which was wreathed in smoke.
As the miasma cleared, Karven could make out the speaker, and wondered whether the receding deafness had scrambled his brains. He (it?) was nine feet tall and muscular in the extreme, a burgundy coloured jerkin clothed the ogre-sized frame, and the face, with its thick features, glared at the paladin, who was staring at the fellow's oddest feature. On top of the strange creature's head were a pair of short, inwardly curving horns, which grew from bosses like a buffalo's
"Ah, hello Blood Guts!" Gyrus wore his most charming look, while he skirted the smouldering corpses. "They were after us--"
"And you came in here as usual." the giant interrupted, "Oi! Obelus! Check the mess out, see what they was, though I've a clue it was Loric's lot."
A thin, half-elven wizard--who was clad in a garishly patterned turquoise shirt--nodded, and began to examine the remains as the newcomers picked themselves up from the floor.
"You're right, they're undead--Loric's wereghouls. Here, give's a hand to check the bodies?" A rather dubious looking fellow reluctantly agreed, and swore in disgust as the dead fiends writhed and twisted--and resumed their human appearance.
With a frantic jerk, Karven took a tiny, white shield with a silver rim from the chain around his neck, and touched it to the wound the filthy creatures had inflicted. He'd heard tales of the children of Waylen Dean, the ancient cannibal; his offspring had been cursed to change when the black moon was high, into the things their flesh-eating ancestor had resembled: ghouls, the corpse eating undead who desecrated graveyards. He had touched the wound with the small shield, which was a symbol of Tymaril, a wise and kindly god of paladins and justice, in case he was cursed with the damnation of the undead.
With a reassuring grin, the brightly clad half-elven wizard told Karven that unlike a werewolf, the wereghouls could only infect a human with their curse if the victim died and wasn't cremated, or eaten.
The pub's cronies watched to see what would happen when the huge innkeeper literally strode over the bar, and towered over the halfling, the weapon he'd just used still in his hand; Arolith was desperately examining it from as close as Dorn's restraining arm allowed. Made from four tubes of mithril bound together to form a square, the device had a stock akin to that of a crossbow, and the giant's fingers were hooked over a pair of brass triggers similar to those found on the dwarves favoured bows.
"Do you know how much it costs to get Obleus there to recharge this damn thing? And I've just used four charges ya blasted goblin bodger!" A fist the size of a shovel grabbed Gyrus, and lifted him up to the wrathful face of the owner of the Burst Frog.
"Ah, four coppers?" The halfling held out four tiny coins with a hopeful smile.
Karven was thinking of going to his friend's aid when the giant swore, smiled and hugged the halfling in an embrace which nearly killed the bare-footed rogue. The two flying things were still battering away at each other when the barkeep spoke to them, "Ozzie, Jozzie, fight's over, get us some booze for me and my friends."
The combatants stopped swinging their spoons, smiled, nodded and flew over to the bar. Gyrus was man-handled over to it as the giant returned to his accustomed place (still holding the halfling by his waistcoat), and aided by the grey-skinned hoverers, set out a round of ale for six.
With a grimace, Dorn looked at his small friend with the large streak of luck, and walked over with Karven and the others in his wake.
"Karven; Dorn; Arolith; Camrae; meet Blood Guts, tavern-owner, barkeep and ex-adventurer," Gyrus said, before guzzling down his pint.
"Folks call me Blood Guts 'cause there's plenty o' both when scum like wereghouls come in me tavern. Nice to meet you." the horned giant spoke with an amazingly friendly voice, and shook their hands.
There was no sense of evil from Blood Guts, so Karven couldn't help wondering what the big fellow was--certainly not an ogre, as his eyes were deep green, instead of dark slits. A minotaur? The Southern ones were civilized, but less human.
The halfling turned with an unusually sombre expression towards his compatriots, who he knew were eager to find out about the big barman. "Rynan here, that's his right name, but he likes Blood Guts best, was an honest," The giant snorted at that. "everyday human, believe it or not. Him and his four brothers were adventurers, and they found a magic crown that granted Wishes."
Gyrus looked to Camrae, the elven wizard having already guessed the conclusion. "So Blood Guts's younger brother, Lechan, wished that he and his brothers would be the toughest, strongest, meanest bunch of hardcases around. The Wish worked, they could out-fight a giant, but it also made them all look like, well, an ogre with horns, except better looking." He added the last seeing his big friend begin to scowl, which on his face, was very intimidating. "Wonder where the horns came from though? I still think that Wish was granted by a minotaur god. Minotaurs have a lot of gold, I wonder..."
As Blood Guts later told them, he eventually got fed up fighting with everyone, and being stared at like an exhibit in the city zoo. So with the money he had won in dozens of scrapes and adventures, the big warrior bought the Burst Frog and made it a place where fellow adventurers could come for a good pint with folk like themselves. It gave him the chance to meet and talk with folk that he could respect, but would think little of his looks. After all, if you've spent three miserable nights trying to bargain with a dragon for your life, what's the big deal about buying a drink from a guy whose favourite trick is opening beer barrels with his head?
"Gyrus, Loric's lot are wereghouls, and they kill for food then hide in the day as normal folks, can't find 'em then, 'fact Obleus says wizards can't track 'em at all. But they attacks you, five o' you. They have to be wary lest the Scarlet Watch catches 'em and burns 'em at the stake, they normally grab drunks off ships, not warriors. Heard a halfling got a Sable Earl killed the day, like it was you? What you up to?" Blood Guts eyed the other four speculatively.
"Ah, we'd better go into your 'office', safer in there."
Taking off his helmet, Karven followed the halfling into one of the pub's many booths, although this one was built into the bar and had an aquamarine draw curtain. No one seemed to notice his features, indeed, a female wizard gave him a suggestive wink that caused his face to burn. As they took seats, and Arolith drew the curtain, which the elven mage believed to be ensorcelled, the paladin thought with pity and a certain gladness about Blood Guts, his tavern offered him a haven and a world all his own.
Camrae understood his human friend's worry, but knew that Karven had little to fear. With the long hair covering his ears and the wry grin the paladin generally wore, he was, by human standards, handsome, though his eyes held a glint which could change in an instant from friendly warmth, to a dangerous rage that had once caused an orc to run in fear.
The barman's huge head appeared in a gap cut into the booth's side, and his enormous forearms rested on the ale-soaked counter.
"Ah, well you see," Gyrus began to explain the day's happenings to Blood Guts. "I saw this drunk, and he was kind of odd, so I followed him, then he goes and kills a couple of boys, so I said to myself, he's not going to just get his purse cut! He was on Derag', you know? So I gave him a good belting with Lullaby."
The magical cosh appeared in his hand, and became its alter ego, the steel mace.
"To cut a long story short, the goblin kisser chased me, and Karven, he's a paladin by the way, cut his head off."
There was no look of pride on the young man's face at this, only resignation. A life ended was a life unredeemable, and killing was never, ever a good thing.
"So maybe it's revenge, because his stuff wasn't worth much, few gold coins, couple of rings, and Idanth poisoned dagger--"
"You're bleedin' lucky he ne'er cut you! Obelus said they'd somebody cleaning the street with magic, didn't believe till he told me it was Idanth venom." The tavern-owner shook his head at the thought of the deadly stuff.
"As I was saying, a dagger and this scroll tube, which I can't open."
"Well 's all right. OBELUS! Get your scraggly bum over here an' get working. What's magic o' that lot?"
With a surly look at his boss, the half-elven wizard cast a detection spell through the gap in the booth.
"One ring's magic, I think, the reading's fuzzy, mace's magic, dwarf's armour is slightly magical, scroll's not." Orders carried out, the mage went back to break up a fight, his sorcery was better than a bouncer's fist, and it didn't give valuable customers black eyes, unless he got really mad and turned them into frogs. 
"Let's see the scroll tube, Gyrus?" Karven asked, aware that Arolith would probably saw it in half to find out what was inside. The cylinder was made of some kind of thin ivory, and its silver lid opened easily in his hand. Inside was a piece of rolled parchment, he gently pulled it out, and then very gingerly put the scroll on the table as a nasty thought struck him.
"This could be cursed you know?" The magic detection spell could be negated, and the King's couriers carried messages which were know to be lethally dangerous to highwaymen.
Gingerly, the others left the booth, while Karven once again got stuck with it. With a resigned shrug, he unrolled the vellum.
"You can come back in, I'm still alive."
"Ah, what's it say?" Gyrus looked cautiously at the writing.
"It's in Elvish." Camrae looked at the two lines of silver runes which ran across its middle. "Treasure seekers short and tall, take me to the farthest hall, the greatest bounty of them all, take me to the Dragon's Fall." the elf spoke slowly, and a worried frown crossed his face as he did so.
"It's a joke, isn't it?" Gyrus looked at everyone, but Camrae's troubled face made him anxious.
"No, it's a map," a large finger rubbed a tooth while Blood Guts talked. "Treasure Seekers are two mountains to the East, start o' the Highlands, beyond 'em is Far Hall, full o' your kin." He pointed at Dorn. "An' the Dragon's Fall 's the biggest bleedin' waterfall you'll 'er see. Right next it lives Cho Bounty." People often confused size with stupidity, but the barman had once been an educated fencing master.
All in the group had of course heard of Cho Bounty. Cho was an ancient appellation used by very powerful individuals, generally wizards or dragons, and Cho Kell Bounty was an extremely potent archmage who had single handedly defeated Blood Scale when the huge red dragon had attacked the Monastery of Pearls. Typically, the cunning wyrm had survived, and he still laired in the Highlands.
"It makes sense," said Karven, who was very aware of all the expectant stares. "The scroll must have been some message that's meant for Cho Bounty, and the Sable Earls had stolen it. If he fought for it, he may have been injured, which was why he had taken so much Derag' ?"
"Ah, do you think it's valuable?" Instead of an almost blank parchment, Gyrus imagined it as a secret map to hidden treasure.
"Probably, don't think the Sable Earls do jobs for a bit o' silver! Probably a new spell or somethin'. But I know's Cho Bounty." A happy smile widened Blood Guts's huge face. "Nice sort, gentleman. He's bound to want the scroll back if it's his, if not, he'll be interested in it."
"I think there is a lot more writing on this parchment, but it is hidden by magic, perhaps by a Lonely and Secret Script dweomer. And no, I will not interfere with it!" Camrae had seen the pleading look in the halfling's eyes once too often. "Cho Bounty could have put warding magic on it, I have no wish to be Polymorphed into an orc, or turned to stone!"
A muttered comment from Dorn suggested that it wouldn't make much difference either way.
Gyrus jerked his fingers back from the parchment in alarm. "Bad hand! Look what you've went and stole this time, wizard troubles!" He slapped his left palm in mock chastisement.
"Not me, not me, was right hand did it!" the halfling's thumb said!
Blood Guts bashed his head against the ceiling as he recoiled, then looked at Arolith, who was grinning ear to ear. Idiot who created the Glamour of Dislocated Sound should sit in a room full o' the white bearded little maniacs! he thought, referring to gnomes and one of their favourite spells.
"How far is it to the Dragon's Fall?" the paladin asked. "Maybe we should take the parchment to Cho Bounty?"
"Be about five days, but that's if you cross the Gore Loch Moor, it's two weeks through the other passes."
Something still worried the elven wizard, and Camrae asked about the Moor's danger; he had seen the soulless place once before, and feared it.
Apparently, the marsh had been quiet for some time, apart from a few troll attacks, but the dreaded marbh dragons were keeping themselves scarce after two of them were evaporated by a warlock whom they had foolishly attacked.
"Well, what do you think, we're not expected back for a month? We were going to walk any way, and the Moor should be safe," Karven asked of the other four.
"Ah, well, he's a wizard, must be worth something. Maybe oodles of boodle he wants swiped from a dragon? I'll go!" Gyrus's imagination was running overtime.
"I would like to meet Cho Bounty, my father has."  At this Camrae realized that the human archmage must have powerful magics, as Halakiss had first met the other wizard over two hundred years ago.
"Why not?" Anywhere was as good as somewhere to a gnome, and Arolith wouldn't mind seeing a big waterfall. Be an adventure, with lots of new things to study.
"Bunch of elf-brained idiots! Assassins, vizards, dragons: sane person vould be barricading his doors, you're all nuts! Crazy human assassin try's to kill you, big deal! Rat ghoul things try to eat you, so vhat? If ve are not cursed, vho is?" Dorn fumed, pessimistic as ever.
"Halfling," he rounded on Gyrus. "if ve die, you better hope ve don't end up in the same Hall of the Gods, because if ve do, I'm going to rip out every single hair from those furry feet of yours!"
A wide grin plastered itself over the face of the cocky thief; the dwarf was coming with them!
"But Karven leads, he reads maps! I don't vant to crawl up a dragon's backside vith you telling me it's a nice varm cave!"

                     *              *              *              *                   *

On a small island just off the coast, not too far from Pyzag, a man in a wide circular room dimly lit by candles, watched the huge obsidian mirror on the wall in front of him fill with a grey mist, and his reflection slowly vanished as a vision appeared in its polished depths.
"Has the parchment been recovered, Chiasmus?"
Although this was a mere sending, a picture in the enchanted mirror, the wizard felt fear to the marrow of his bones, though his iron will refused to show it. A mighty spellcaster he may be, but he was as naught compared to the person who had appeared in the scrying room.
Aboard a Blackship, far out to see hung another mirror, it let Chiasmus see a darkened room, gently rocking in the ocean's swell; atop a dais in its centre stood a throne made out of shimmering opals. Upon the regal chair reclined a massive figure, a picture of barbaric malevolence.
Thickly muscled arms were bound by silver bracers, and a heavy belt encircled the hips, all set with the same precious stone as the throne was carved from. The man's skin gleamed like bronze across the enormous chest and legs, but those who dared look to the face, it was obvious that in fact, this was no normal man.
From the bottom lips protruded thick, inch long canines which curved towards each other. The facial features, strong, heavy and glowering. A disturbing symbol was tattooed around both eyes, composed of tiny runes woven together by a mystical, green ink. The pupils themselves were surrounded by darkest blue, and burned with the fires of a hate, rage and malice that had smouldered for five thousand years. This face all on the world of Erynavar knew: Sevegar the Destroyer, Sea Lord of the Formorian Horde!
Finally, Chiasmus forced an answer through his lips.
"No, the Sable Earls failed."
"You failed." The voice, which had been rich and powerful, dropped to a hush, like a slowly rolling bed of gravel.
"No lord!" The wizard was terrified of the meanings inherent in Sevegar's last words. "The assassins recovered the parchment from the Greydepths below Pyzag, as you ordered. Only one returned, but the fool lost his mind and aroused a hue and cry. A young group of adventurers defeated him and took his belongings. The Watch captain apparently thought they deserved them!"
"After this, I sent Loric and his band out to slay them, the fools had little magic or power, but the wereghoul let himself be led to the Adventurers Inn, where they were driven off. The adventurers have unseemly luck, and I suggest some skill beyond their years." The report was as ever, cold and methodical, unmindful of the tightrope that the wizard walked.
"For many years, necromancer!" Sevegar spat. "I have searched for this scroll; the five Sable Earl assassins cost me a boat load of slaves, their skills rare combinations of magical abilities, blade craft and drug addiction which guaranteed success and security. Now these yokels have it! Give me a good reason why I shouldn't gouge your eyes out with my thumbs." The last words were spoken with a casual air which actually made it sound more disturbing.
"I will endeavour to return the Scroll to you?" The Alban renegade knew that the Formorian had an exceedingly volatile temper, and servile whimpering only made it worse, but obsequience was never a trait possessed by Chiasmus.
Thinking for a moment, Sevegar toyed with the huge fire opal that hung from a chain of gold around his neck. The wizard warily viewed it through the mirror, fearful of enchantments. But the gem held none, except memories for the warlord.
"I will leave it in your hands then. I wish to show you something later, I'm sure Loric is there with you, bring the corpse eater along, he might enjoy himself. Let us say, half an hour?"
"Fortunately for you, the bodies of the Sable Earls are lost in the Greydepths," the Formorian continued. "And the one they have will reveal little, even by magic. That is the advantage of hiring drug-using assassins, their souls will be so chaotic that the King's spellcasters will learn nothing from their spirits. At least the Scroll is found, and should be easily recovered. I will consider the bargain almost complete, to help you fulfil your side of the arrangement, as promised, the spells you required. With their aid I am sure you'll get the Scroll even quicker."
A wizard clad in grey robes crossed the throne room and gave a heavy book to the warlord. Sevegar showed his own magical powers, and with three words the tome vanished, and reappeared before Chiasmus's feet. The traitor could hardly contain himself, but he bowed as the image dissolved, leaving him alone with his new treasure.
The Formorian frightened him in ways hard to describe, but this ambiguous statement of leaving it up to himself didn't seem right, the bastard was up to something; Sevegar was notorious for his devious plots. Still, he had the spells now!
All his life, Chiasmus had really wanted to be a necromancer, and study the art which generally involved the undead. But his tutors had steered him away from it, warning that while they were not so concerned with his soul, they were worried about his abilities. Above all things a necromancer had to have an incredibly powerful will, as working with such dark forces could unhinge the mind of a lesser man. Chiasmus was strong willed, but not in the right way, so he had no choice but to become an ordinary wizard, and had been forbidden to study the books of necromancy in the Spiral Library of the Guild of Glamours, as the Ard Cumacht knew his secret desire.
Over the years he had acquired a few necromantic spells, mostly by happenstance and his own, sometimes disastrous experimentation. Then one day while in Aschentium, the great trading port of Ilanker, he had encountered one of Sevegar's agents, who had reported to the Sea Lord that there was an Alban wizard more interested in his magic, than his country. And so he had been helping the Formorian, who over the centuries had acquired probably the greatest collection of spellbooks in existence, most came from adventurer's he had slain. Spell by spell, the Formorian repaid his treachery.
Bound by plates of yellow Aa wood, the thick volume was inlaid with ebony and mother of pearl in curious patterns. Very, very cautiously, the wizard, using one of the candelabras, opened it--the Sea Lord may have decided to get rid of him by turning the book into a Nether Portal, an entrance to Hell itself! Nothing happened, and he gazed at the precise characters and diagrams drawn on the pages.
Chiasmus swiftly studied the tome in growing comprehension and excitement. Ventulis's Death Spell; Creation and Animation of the Greater Zombie of Jotha'...There were exactly fourteen spells and formulas. All the magics he had requested were inside the book, it was worth a fortune!
First he would have a read, then he would get Loric, who was probably going to regret surviving.

                    *              *              *              *                    *

The chilly scrying room gave Loric a pensive feeling, he might be part undead, but he was also part human and knew how to fear.
Once more the huge mirror of volcanic glass came to life, and showed a nightmare scene. Burning torches, held by huge warriors in black armour, lit the darkness of the night time sea , the ship's rigging around them magically immune to the flames which wavered in the breeze. Stepped against the huge mainmast at an acute angle was a curious thing, made of white, jagged blocks--the backbone of some huge, armoured creature. At its top was the skull, fixed to the spine by a series of iron rails which held the skeletal remains together; massive teeth and wide, flaring horns told of the dead beast's nature.
"Behold the Dragon's Bones!" Chiasmus knew that the unseen speaker was Sevegar. "In it's hungry maw sits one who has displeased me, watch his fate!"
While Loric wasn't the brightest of creatures, he was far from stupid, and he began to shiver, for only one person used that dreadful method of execution.
In the dragon's skull was a prisoner, a young Formorian sailor, and sweat poured down his face as the terror bit. Manacles of bone were beyond even his great strength to resist, holding him tight to the ossified seat. But worse than the fact that death was his fate tonight, was the crawling sensation that the bones were somehow still alive.
"Die!" Roared a voice, and with a clank, the skull began to move down the spine, with its huge defensive ridges of razor sharp plates still intact, still pointing sky-wards. The prisoner began to shriek as the bony ridges began to rise up between his legs, for the dragon's head was canted in such a way that as it fell, the wicked plates rose up through it.
Faster it moved, and louder the screams from the prisoner inside the skull as the spine's 'teeth' began to saw through the pelvis, and then gouge through his navel. Death should have now taken him from the ripping torture, yet the condemned man continued to howl in agony as an eerie, violet glow enveloped him, and began to feed off his dying essence. Blood sizzled as it touched the ancient bones, and vanished as it was absorbed.
Abdomen, chest and finally the man's head were split asunder, and the horrid shrieks only stopped when his tongue was severed; the evil spirit in the dragon's skull keeping him alive until the end.
Chiasmus's mouth was dry at the vicious display, and his nose crinkled when he smelt Loric's lack of control.
"He was a spy for my brother, Balor. Being a treacherous bastard, we had to part company, though he had to part with more than me." Sevegar's voice whispered in Chiasmus's ear. The magical words were unheard by Loric, as were certain others concerning the shape-shifter.
At Sevegar's command, the wizard thrust the frightened, babbling wereghoul onto a spot marked in silver. The warlord then cast a subtle spell through the heavily enchanted mirror onto the shape-shifter.
"Loric! You have seen what happens to those who disobey me! Now serve me and Chiasmus well!"
Frightened and confused, the wereghoul agreed, while futiley trying to remember exactly what had happened; the memories of the past few minutes had been wiped from his mind, except for the fear.
When the shaken Loric had left, Sevegar outlined a simple plan to gain complete dominance over the remaining wereghouls.
"Give Loric a draught of Ventulis's philtre, the one of Undead Mastery, tell him to pour it over their next 'meal', say it will enhance their abilities. Then while it is in effect, inform the wereghouls that the parchment contains a map of Chenvar's Tomb. They'll kill anything to get hold of the merchant-king's treasure, but remind them of the Scroll's curse, lest they, or you, get greedy."
Supposedly, the founder of the Aschentium Merchant Guild had been buried in a sarcophagus made from a single, huge sapphire cut from the Kalibar mines' deepest shaft. A widespread rumour suggested that a wizard had penetrated the infamous tomb, and made a map of its horror-infested passageways, but some greedy adventurers tortured him to death. The mage's soul had put a terrible curse on the map that destroyed the eyes of any who read it, for that was how he had been tortured.
The Alban wizard left to complete the arrangements, while Sevegar considered what a fool the man was, no wonder they'd never let him become a necromancer! For a few simple death magics, he was bartering away the map to the NecroSphere, the one object which truly deserved the title Doomsday Weapon; after all, had it not summoned the Black Sun at his father's command? Still, Chiasmus might try for the artifact himself, or the hapless adventurers might defeat him and search for the hiding place, so what? After five thousand years, a few months were nothing, and the scurrying mortals would give him much relish as he watched them battle it out. The gods could not see the Scroll, as its strange powers screened it from all magical scrying, but they'd learn of it; a little chaos would help muddy the waters and give spice to his jaded palate.
A terrible laugh rolled out, as the warlord considered the use he would put the NecrosSphere to. Conquest; domination? No, something simpler, and far, far more appealing to his twisted and bitter soul.

               *                *                *               *

In the Adventurers Inn, the companions were busy talking about what to do if Loric and his kin attacked again. Obelus told them--after Gyrus loosened him up with some cider--that wereghouls could only be killed by magic, and blades of cold iron or silver. Enchanted weapons, such as Gyrus's mace, could also defeat them.
"Hematite" Karven said. Puzzled, the others looked at the paladin in the smoky bar. "Cold iron is pure metal that has never been heated, not even to smelt it from the ore. Hematite is pure iron, that's what they mine back home. So, if we can find good enough pieces, we could use it to make weapons. It makes great sling stones." He nodded at Gyrus, who agreed. "Camrae, could you use your magic to shape iron into a weapon without heating it?"
The elf regretfully said no, but he did have dweomer that could bind items together very strongly, could this help?
"Well, if we got axe handles, we could fix chunks of hematite onto them--cold iron maces! We'll see if those things like having their skulls smashed!"
"Damn good idea!" The dwarf's praise really cheered Karven up, he was sure there was bound to be something wrong that Camrae or Dorn would find. So the friends agreed to make three iron maces the next day, Gyrus had Lullaby and Camrae had his spells so they wouldn't need them.
"Hey you! Big fella, wanna' fight?" A drunken human in a leather shirt studded with brass triangles swore at Karven. The challenger wasn't much taller than a dwarf, but he looked a right mean cuss for all that.
Quickly, Dorn stood up off his seat, and kicked the drunk hard on the kneecap. As the fellow buckled over in pain, the dwarven scout grabbed him by the ears, and booted him hard in the groin; every male in the pub winced. He then yanked down hard, kneed the agonized drunk on the nose, and then let fly with a punch that started at floor level and finished under the man's chin. Dorn had once smashed his fist clean through an oak door in a fit of rage; he didn't hit his victim that hard, almost. The bar's chief trouble-maker was catapulted backwards, unconscious.
"No thank you," Dorn said. The dwarf looked at his friends' faces. "Oh! He vas talking to Karven!"
There are few things in the universe as unusual as a dwarf cracking a joke, and his friends broke down into hysterics, even Karven, who was relieved to see a cleric of Catha heal the drunk, and then fling him out the door. Up until then, they had been trying to keep as quiet and inconspicuous as possible, the place was full of all kinds of roughnecks, and the only reason they hadn't been bothered too much was because Gyrus and Blood Guts were obviously on good terms.
While tucking into a heavy supper, Karven decided that the dwarf's sense of humour was due to Arolith's presence. Dorn and Arolith were actually brothers, but it was something that caused a lot of trouble, so they kept quiet about their relationship. Twenty years ago, Arolith's family were wiped out by goblins who had poisoned their water supply. Seeing as there was none of his kin living nearby, the Hard Axe dwarves decided to take him in, as their races were distantly related. The gnome had been formally adopted into Dorn's family, and while the two quickly became inseparable friends, some dwarves gave the pair the cold shoulder. Prejudice was a snake with many heads, but the bearded folk were never vicious, and more than a few liked the colourful, if troublesome gnome.
According to Gyrus, Arolith had started getting moody and unhappy in the dwarvish halls, a bad sign for the happy-go-lucky thaumaturge. Aral the Axe had helped him get over it by asking the clan Elders to hire his adopted son, as well as Gyrus, to aid in the training of the dwarven scouts, who trailed through the Greydepths and over the mountains in search of gold and orcs. All gnomes, including Arolith, were naturally stealthy and masters of mechanical manipulation--they could easily circumvent goblin traps, or human locks. Arolith seemed to thrive on trouble, and practical jokes were his speciality. Bored with his clan's hall and the attitudes of some of his kinfolk, Dorn had eagerly accompanied Arolith to town, and had soon taken to the young human who was often a guest in Gyrus's warm, burrow home.
While hopes of adventure filled their thoughts, and caused fanciful conversations amongst them, Karven had a nagging worry. While he wasn't that bothered for himself, the idea of his friends being injured or killed twisted the paladin's guts in fear.
A familiar sight dispelled his worries, Gyrus was walking over to a table around which several female adventurers were playing cards. That cherubic smile and charming banter soon had them looking at the halfling in a different light. It wasn't long before he was sitting on a muscular brunette's lap, and joined in their game.
All night, his friends had prevented the gnome from bothering Blood Guts, Dorn had kept his adopted brother's mouth clamped shut in the booth, but finally Arolith managed to speak to the big barman. "What is that thing?" he pointed desperately at the odd weapon that had destroyed the wereghouls.
Smiling, but wary of the trouble a gnome could cause, Blood Guts drew out the potent device, causing the bar crowd to scatter for shelter.
"It's a Sulcan Tube." He pressed a lever and it hinged in half. Taking four red crystal cylinders from the thing's barrels, the innkeeper gave it to the thaumaturge, whose beard quivered with anticipation.
Totally enraptured, Arolith examined it, and asked how the magical device worked. The barman explained that the Sulcan Tube fired spells from the crystal cylinders, much like a wizard's wand did. Obelus, the half-elven mage, had to recharge the dweomers when they were used up. Blood Guts had found the ancient artifact in the lair of an ecatos, a face stealing horror that lived in the ruins of some ancient cities.
Camrae viewed the weapon with distaste as he joined the gnome. Magic was for wizards, not warriors; the thing was dangerous, though he admitted it was useful. The elven mage wasn't surprised when Blood Guts told him that it was a relic from the Necronian Wars, the gnome's interest paled considerably when he heard this. Even the weapons wielded by the forces of Good in that bitter conflict were reputed to have appallingly destructive powers. Arolith hastily handed it back, he had no wish to kill demons, which was what the Sulcan Tube had obviously been designed to do. He was tempted though...it would be a damned good way to clean goblins out of your burrow! KA--POW! Instant goblin stew!
It was well into the small hours when the exhaustion forced them to retire to the large room they had rented together for the night. At Gyrus's suggestion, it was on the expensive, but quiet third floor. The halfling didn't join them, the last they saw of him was a pair of furry feet being carried upstairs by the big, dark haired swordswoman.
"How the blazes does he do it?" Karven asked futilely. While he felt awkward around women, his roguish friend seemed to swim around them like an otter. He could certainly talk to females, but when it came to romance, the paladin always put his foot in it.

                    *              *              *              *                    *



                                              CHAPTER 6
                                   Alchemists and Adventure.



In the bright morning light that poured through the pub's windows, they sat around steaming plates of food. A bleary-eyed Gyrus  explained to the curious paladin and elf that the numerous small flying creatures who infested the pub were friendlins, benign counterparts of the better known gremlins, the vicious little horrors who liked to steal children and commit all kinds of offences against the gods.
Acting as combination garbage disposal and light entertainment, the friendlins helped the barmaids deliver ale, quickly becoming sozzled on spilled drink, and acting in outrageous fashion. They often tried to pickpocket the customers, but as Karven soon found out, they were hopeless at it, and ran screaming in terror when discovered. Dorn gave one a bushy-eyed stare as it tried to approach him, the little fellow grinned nervously at the dwarf, and scampered off.
"Vhy the Hell does Blood Guts allow them in?" Dorn demanded to know.
"They're friends of his." There was a sad, ironic smile on Gyrus's lips as he replied. There were things he knew--how it was that the silly friendlins were honoured guests in the tavern, and why Blood Guts would literally kill those who harmed them. The halfling was a good friend of the giant barman, and both hated everything to do with the land of Kalik; a slave never forgets the whip. Gyrus still bore the scars left by the lash of the man who had once owned Lullaby, himself and Ch'sera--the huge innkeeper's daughter. He only vaguely explained to his comrades about his relationship with Blood Guts, and why he hadn't told them about the innkeeper before, they respectfully asked no more questions, aware that he was sensitive about his past.
But today was strictly for laughter and adventure! A wide grin dispelled the momentary gloom that had troubled the halfling as he watched Arolith sneakily sprinkle firedrake sauce into an elven cleric's wine glass. That's like drinking mulled wine with the poker still in the glass! he thought, and stifled his giggles at the elf's desperate cries for water.
Blood Guts had a friendlin wrapped across his enormous shoulders, and was talking with the little creature as he strode up to them, clearing the roof beams by scant inches.
"Well Gyrus, ya demented cousin to a gnome." The barman laughed at Arolith's disgusted expression. "Yer off! That lad ye helped is a' right, Sister Egeria, one o' the clerics who questioned ye, passed the word on. So here's a wee present for ye, try no to use 'em?"
Four silver vials were held out in the huge man's hand, healing potions he explained. Gyrus took them and sassily asked from which drunk they had been stolen. With a word, Blood Guts sicced Dozzie on him, and the friendlin pounced all over the halfling's prized hat!
Although it was early in the morning, the pub was well occupied, and nearly everyone in it looked with fear at the person who had entered: a dark-elf! Relief flooded the place when the regulars noticed the ebony staff which the styjalos carried, for it had an ivory bird upon its top.
Rage gave way to interest as Camrae recognized the dark elf: Rovian the Archmage of Axe Rock. It was said that the styjalos had sworn to take the name of the first pleasant thing he saw on the surface world, after the long journey up from the Greydepths. Bird song never sounded in the abysmal depths, and their music entranced him, and it was a rovian he first saw, the bird with the sweetest voice, and he had taken the creature's name for his own.
Just as Camrae plucked up his courage, and buried his racial hatred enough to walk over to the well liked dark elf, Howell the Clocksmith entered, accompanied by his bodyhuard. The elven mage easily spun round the dwarf as he crossed the bar to talk to his senior colleague in magic. 
"Vell, it vas about time you showed up!" Dorn's eyes glittered, the old one had better not try to welch on the deal! The dark-elf's presence was giving him nasty ideas.
"Oh stop worrying clan bother! Yohestus has the potions waiting, it's all been arranged. Now I'll be off, this place is too dangerous for the likes of me." Howell gave a contemptuous stare in the direction of Rovian the dark elf, and departed in a hurry.
As they left the inn, the paladin had an odd feeling--the air today felt, different. Talking to Camrae, the only one of his pals who wouldn't laugh at his seriousness, it became apparent that he was not the only one who was feeling edgy.
Dorn stared at the tavern's sign: a green frog split in half by a fiery red flame. There were a dozen rumours as to how the popular pub got its name, and the disgusted dwarf didn't believe any of them.
Briskly walking through the Northern part of the great city, evidence of the day's peculiarity became apparent: the Scarlet Watch were busily mopping up the remnants of a large scuffle between the Silver Spear dwarves (who actually lived under the town), and a dozen soldiers from the Second Marine Legion of the Messenik Empire. It had been quite vicious.
Other small fights had occurred all over the place, and everyone was a little jumpy when they arrived at Yohestus the Alchemist's shop. Built in front of Sildarr Castle, the main entrance to the dwarven halls, the gnome's house was made from massive stone blocks and secured by pierced steel shutters. There was an obvious gap between it and most of the surrounding buildings.
The paladin opened the shop's door very cautiously; from what he knew about alchemists, the reinforced walls and distant neighbours were in case of 'accidents', such as catastrophic explosions (which sometimes vapourized the alchemist and his customers.) The Silver Spear dwarves had presumably little to worry about, as dwarves were rarely troubled by poisons, and their castle had very thick walls.
Inside was gloomy, light filtered through the steel shutters in thin bands, and a softly glowing magical lamp in a corner helped give it a homey atmosphere. However, the odour of dozens of spices and exotic compounds made it smell like a cross between a kitchen and a smithy. A bell tinkled as the outside door slammed behind them.
From floor to ceiling the large room was filled with shelves and cabinets, brass ladders ran up the walls, and odd creatures hung from the ceiling: stuffed drakes; scorpions; dragon skulls and a score of unidentifiable things.
"Just a minute! I'm working!" a voice echoed from beyond the steel door across the room. A plump woman holding a silver wand sat next to the reinforced door, she nodded respectfully at her employer's customers, and stared at the halfling, wary of the rogue. The wizard often wished her boss would put up a sign refusing the little pests entrance.
Tapping on a large bottle at the bottom of a cabinet, Dorn suddenly yelped in terror as the jar's occupant jumped at the glass, writhing its tentacles in rage!
"Vhat the crap is that!" he roared.
"Giant squid," the female mage said, uncaring what they did, as long as it wasn't theft.
"Giant squid? You think I'm dumb?"
With a smirk, Camrae tapped the bottle's label, "Giant squid, 1, shrunk". The wizard knew that the creature's ink was vital in making magical inks.
Meanwhile, Gyrus was intrigued by a drawer near the back of the shop. It was locked, and had a strange skull and star symbol painted on it. Curiosity, or just plain stupidity, overwhelmed him.
A quick fiddle with his lockpicks, and he looked into the black velvet lined interior. Careful of the woman guard-mage, he lifted back the thick cloth, and picked up one of the curious crystals inside. Hexagonal, it was clear with a greenish tinge, and smelled of oranges.
"Gyrus, put that down, very, very carefully!"
Everyone turned to see a gnome in a thick leather apron and black goggles standing in the doorway, then turned towards where he was pointing at, a halfling with an innocent-looking face who was closing a drawer.
"Stupid idiot!" the gnome swore. "Nearly blew us to shreds! Never heard of Blasting Crystal? That's the pure stuff! Even a goblin knows better than to fart on that stuff, never mind expose it to sunlight!"
Gyrus stared at his fingers. "Bad! Naughty hand!"
The others groaned. They had already had an encounter with a Blasting Crystal, but the halfling was painfully slow at learning common sense. Dorn erupted with a string of oaths, he knew the pure crystal was hideously unstable when exposed to daylight, and soundly wished it had blown some into the cretin's head.
"Hey, I was just curious!"
"I am Yohestus the Alchemist," the gnome introduced himself. "and you people are in bad company!" He stared at the sheepish looking halfling, who had given him bother before.
Quickly they settled their business, Dorn's potions of Fire Shielding were in small, steel cylinders; the alchemist told him that they were quite concentrated and would last for many hours.
"Ah, do you have something, lethal?" Gyrus asked, explaining that if they were going out onto the Gore Loch Moor, he'd be carrying more than just Lullaby.
After a bit of haggling over one of the assassin's emerald rings, and a ruby the halfling had 'acquired' during the card game--quite legitimately won he explained to the paladin--Gyrus brought three clay jars filled with Oil of Elemental Fire. The alchemist warned them that, amongst other things, they contained red dragon venom, and would explode on contact with air, hence the fragile containers. Dorn asked why the stuff was so expensive, and Yohestus informed him that the jars' contents was about ten times as powerful as Chenvar's Oil, one jar could burn a house to the ground in a couple of minutes.
Reluctantly, Karven agreed to carry them, the idea of falling on the oil jars wasn't appealing, but at least his armoured frame would have a better chance of survival than the tiny halfling's. Fire was a terrible weapon, but the Moor was home to trolls and worse.
Camrae discovered that the alchemist had several silver and cold iron daggers, as adventurers often wanted them to combat magical creatures, so they each bought an iron blade, except Camrae, who could afford a silver one. Unfortunately, Karven couldn't use the trade pieces he carried, as it was his father's money, otherwise he would have gotten them more healing or fire potions.
Eventually they left, and wandered out of the city through the massive Highland Gate. As they passed through the park where the weekend fair was held, Karven noticed that the strange miasma which had been bothering him and everyone else gently ease, leaving their stride confidant and happy. The Fort cemetery fell behind, and they left the city, headed for the Highlands and Cho Bounty's home.

              *                *                 *                 *                   *

King Chavanne the Brave was listening with interest to the report Sister Egeria and High-Sheriff Fornal passionately expounded.
The High King's tired but kindly face grew grim, many fights and minor riots has started over the past day and night, and the clerics had sworn there was some external force at work, as many people complained of an ill defined malaise. The King suggested that the city's sheriffs take note of this in sentencing the day's offenders.
Standing next to the King in the warm courtyard were his two bodyguards: big Theovar the frost giant, who leaned on his massive mithril warhammer; and Ibar the Assassin. Once a Sable Earl, the innocuous looking man had been betrayed and left for dead, until Chavanne (then a squire in a duke's retinue) had found and healed him. Ever since that day Ibar had served the paladin-king with devoted loyalty. The pair sometimes caused a lot of trouble, but neither was evil, although Ibar often took the law into his own hands when it concerned the safety of the High King he adored.
"As for the other matter," said the King. "Ibar has placed a Tracking Crystal on the halfling as you suggested, he has also learned that Gyrus and his comrades are taking a scroll to Cho Bounty. Something odd though, the wizards seem unable to scry on the halfling."
The two clerics considered this for a moment, neither had knowledge of the scroll, the halfling had been searched but no such thing had been found. They reasoned that the assassins had stolen the scroll from Cho Bounty, and it had magics which protected it from scrying, perhaps making the scroll invisible. But it was more likely that the thief had merely hidden the parchment with sleight of hand.
Something troubled Chavanne. The High Kings of Alba had a mysterious link with the land, the people, the very air; it allowed them to know when invaders set foot upon the ancient rocks where gods once walked, and when danger rumbled darkly on the horizon.
"Keep an eye on the five adventurers. First they killed the assassin, then the wereghouls attacked them; an odd thing for the cowardly monsters to do. All investigations by the wizards as well as yourselves have learned nothing from any of their dead spirits. Could there be some group out for revenge, the scroll, or is it all coincidence? I will alert Cho Bounty, he will tell us of the scroll should they bring it to him. Ibar will get it for you to study if they do not."
The paladin-king turned to the ex-assassin, "There is no need for violence. They have done no disservice to the land."
Ibar nodded. The King's influence had helped tame his lethal nature, the paladin's kindness in saving his life had turned him away from evil, and he was now married with a large family. Chavanne used the reformed murderers' talents wisely, as a personal spy and bodyguard, who better to stop assassins than another of their kind? All this deviousness troubled the king, but the land came first, after all, hadn't it chosen him?

                 *               *                  *                *                   *

Later that day, as the companions from Will' Ash settled into a tavern in Grywall, the small town by the River Shlath that supplied coal to the capitol city, another meeting was about to take place....
"Gentlemen, sit down, you'll be needing refreshments after your trip here." Chiasmus offered chairs to his tired guests, who knew neither the wizard's name nor face, which was hidden behind the cowl of his black robe.
Three men, much of a likeness they were. Solid and broad, and with oddly supple movements for such large frames. Fine scimitars were strapped to their backs, and along with everything else they wore, the weapon's hilts were of an indeterminable greenish-grey-brown. Their clothes his many weapons, poisons and potions, the various tools of the assassin, for that was what they were.
Each of them took a small portion of the fine foods set about on the table before them, and washed it down with a sip of wine. They had little fear of poison, as they were immune to many, and their leader would have their deaths avenged, and the wizard knew this.
Using a Teleportation spell, Chiasmus had went to Ilanker, and had returned with three more Sable Earls. The food had been to replenish them after the journey, which, although it was instantaneous, had a tiring effect due to the distance travelled. Thanks to an odd by-product of the Necronian Wars, while teleportation took no time at all as far as its users were concerned, they still found themselves arriving a few seconds or even hours after they had left, depending on the distance. Chiasmus calculated they had lost ten minutes, it was a long trip.
Still, the renegade wizard thought, it had been worth it. Picking the killers up in Ilanker was safer, as someone might have noticed that he had Teleported, and if he had went to the evil land of Kalik, that someone might have got suspicious. Chiasmus had never saw the point in taking risks, and he wasn't taking any now: Panas, his flesh golem bodyguard stood beside him, and sitting in the chair in the corner was Langanis, a swordwraith, a living skeleton.
The assassins appreciated the wizard's caution, it showed intelligence and wealth. Sewn together from the corpses of dead men, the flesh golem was a seven foot tall mass of brutal muscle. A terrible monster perhaps, but the Sable Earls of Kalik were used to such abominations. Yet even they felt afraid of the swordwraith, and glanced at the undead thing with nervous disinterest; the hired killers could feel his unearthly chill radiating clear across the room. Still wearing the banded armour he had drowned in, Langanis sat watching them with eyes made from tiny sparkles of orange flame, a flame that desired only one thing: Chiasmus's death. Here in this softly lit room, like a ghostly shadow, the features of his once living face could be seen. The centurion had died when the galleon he had been on was sunk by a Blackship, the would-be necromancer had found the soldier's body on a beach, and reached across the Planes with his dark spells, and brought the legionary's tormented soul back to rest in the rotting flesh which he had magically animated. The flesh had gone, but it left behind a vapourous remainder that filled his armour, and gave a frigid might to the bony limbs.
As Chiasmus explained to the assassins what they were to accomplish, he looked at the swordwraith with pride, and a little fear. The necromancer had actually been using a simple spell of animation in the hope of creating a zombie he could experiment on, but the magic-user accidentally unleashed forces beyond his ken, and instead had turned Langanis into a swordwraith. Incredibly hard to destroy, and as skilled with weapons as they were in life; swordwraiths had but one desire burning in their unliving hearts, to kill the wizard who created them, thus releasing their souls and letting them rest in peace. Chiasmus was extremely glad to discover that he had complete control over his creation.
The wizard would send the Sable Earls after the Scroll, and if that failed, he had the wereghouls; Panas; Langanis and a few others to dispatch after it. Magic allowed him to control, dominate and create servants to do his bidding, and he had not spent forty years of his life in study to risk it at the point of some fool's blade; personal intervention was for emergencies only.
It was strange that Chiasmus's greatest creation, Langanis, was also his greatest failure, and a warning he failed to heed. Normally cold and calculating, when he cast necromantic magic the wizard let his repressed emotions, hopes, fears and desires burn through him, empowering his spells with the true energy of a necromancer. Unlike one of the scholars of that dangerous form of magic, Chiasmus lacked control, and the wisdom to realise it. Sooner or later he would make a mistake, and like a spider waiting to pounce, Langanis watched and waited for it.

              *                *                 *                   *                *

"We should reach the Green Moss Inn by night fall," Camrae explained to his grateful friends.
What had started out as a lovely day, with breath-taking views of the craggy Highlands, was rapidly turning into a real nuisance. Grywall was far behind, and a storm had blown in from the Sea of Broken Daggers, forcing them to seek shelter in a tiny cave beside the Southern Highway.
Dorn swore as an enormous lightning bolt sundered the skies, it writhed between the heaven's and the earth like a blazing rope. The bolt zig-zagged down the road at an incredible rate, then hit a tall runestone. There was a glare of super-violet radiance, the bolt disappeared, and the runestone, all three tons of it, was blown hurling through the air for a hundred yards, and it smashed down amidst some trees.
Led by Camrae, they continued once the mini-hurricane had passed. Karven thought that the storm might have come from the Void of Atlantis, so violent had it been, though fortunately short. The elven mage was frustrated in his desire to examine the runestone, for a tremendous aura of magic repulsed him as he approached. Dorn, after much persuading, removed his armour and approached the runestone without the slightest bother (even Gyrus was stopped by the waves of magic force emanating from it), and brought back a few scrapings. The dwarf enjoyed every minute of Camrae's desperate attempts to reach the runestone. Maybe magic was useful after all! Eventually, the elf admitted defeat, and they continued on.
To their left, the road suddenly fell away to reveal the Gore Loch Moor in all its barren majesty. Black peat tufted by reeds assaulted the eyes with a forbidding presence, small pools and scattered bog trees dotted the loveless surface. It was the elf who showed them the real proof of the fen's strangeness: not one bird flew over it.
At its narrowest, here, the Gore Loch Moor stretched ten miles to the foothills of the Highlands; to the South the flat swampland eventually died away; and to the North it spread out for over forty miles, where the Gore Loch itself hid its glinting waters.
"Ah, goblins! We've got to cross that muck?" Gyrus swore in disgust. He had studiously avoided the Moor on his infrequent trips to Pyzag, preferring to take the safer coastal route.
Nodding, Camrae led them to the Green Moss Inn, its palisaded walls giving ample warning of the danger the swamp presented to those close to it. The sun burned low over the trees behind the fortified building, warm light coasted down over the moor, setting the fenland ablaze in a filed of shimmering spender. Beauty cloaking cold death.
"We'll probably find a guide to take us across the Moor inside the tavern," Gyrus said, hopefully.
Sentries in two towers waved them to enter the gates. Dorn shook his head at the spiked wooden walls and shallow fire-trench, dwarves could do a much better job any day.
Inside, several wagons and horses were tied up beneath large shelters, the place reeking of straw, manure and spilt beer. Dorn booted the bar door open, and they strode in.
Merchants sat around the great central fire, drying their cloaks and discussing business. Three warriors armed with heavy swords stared at the dwarf and the others for a bit, then went back to protecting their wealthy employers.
Karven ordered a round of cider from the tall barmaid, who glanced at the armoured man appreciatively. A pleasant, handsome customer on a rainy day was a bit of a surprise. Politely, the paladin asked her if she knew of a guide who could take them across the moor.
"Alleta, she's the blonde half-elf sitting over in the corner. She's trustworthy. Take care pet, too many an adventurer's been lost to the Gore Loch, " the barmaid warmly answered.
Blushing a little, Karven thanked her, and led his friends over to the corner table she'd indicated.
The half-elf who looked up at their approach had short, dark blonde hair, and pale grey eyes which glowed in her attractive face; pale skin and slanted cheek bones was clear proof of her elven ancestry. Scars on her hands and a blade-mark beside the right of her nose suggested familiarity with the stabbing-spears of goblins.
Camrae fell in love, it was as simple, and as powerful as that. A look passed between the mage and the half-elven guide, and a course was set by them both. Comprehension dawned in Karven's mind, and a tiny flicker of jealousy was swept away by gladness for his wizardly friend.
The half-elf guide was wearing leather armour, studded by small circles of brass, a quiver and small bow sat next to her, and a broadsword with a thick, green stained, basket-style hilt was on the table beside a viciously pointed hunting dagger. A warrior, but with mischievous, friendly eyes, Camrae's heart had made a good choice.
"Excuse me, are you Aletta?" the paladin asked.
"Yes, you need a guide, I heard you talking to Suzette, I'll take you across the Moor. A gold piece each, except for you," she pointed at Camrae. "Ten gold for you!"
With a smile, the elven wizard took an ancient platinum piece from a pouch, spun it into the air, and caught the coin on the tip of his finger. Aletta laughed in amusement, but still took the money. The half-elf told them to be ready in the morning, and fully armed.
"I'm a ranger," she explained while they drank, and ate a meal Gyrus payed for. The halfling, of course, bought the biggest portion to fill the largest stomach, namely his own, how he didn't get fat was a constant miracle.
"There are a few of us who keep an eye on the Moor. You'll see watch forts dotted around it when you travel along the road, us and some soldiers use them," she spoke to Karven, pointedly ignoring Camrae. While her heart was telling her to grab the elf and run, Aletta's mind decided to overrule it for the moment. The large vein in the ranger's neck still raced though.
"Aletta, what's wrong with the Moor?" Arolith asked with typical gnomish curiosity.
With a frown, she admitted that no one was exactly sure. According to the elves (who lived for many centuries and thus had better knowledge of the past than most), near the end of the Necronian Wars, Rabon BlackSun, the Suzerain of the Formorians, unleashed the dread powers of the NecroSphere on Alba. Many nations had already been obliterated by its hellish magics, and thus forewarned the Alban wizards had created a defence against the attacks. Only a tiny fraction of the deadly force had touched the land, and formed the Gore Loch Moor.
"It's a Bane Pit!" Karven choked. Those evil places where the NecroSphere had touched were left with lingering traces of its evil might, and caused agonizing death to those who entered the Pits, the flesh literally rotted off the poor fools' bones. Around the Pits were areas called 'Blights', where the foul poisons caused sickness, twisted bodies, blasphemous abominations and plagues which still spread from them, wreaking further havoc. The closest Bane Pit to Alba was to the North, beyond the Sea of Lost Trolls, in the land of Mer On Kav.
"No! It's not a Pit, though it may have been, once." The half-elf wasn't liking the conversation much, especially when she could be talking to the wizard. "Almost nothing lives out there, apart from a few trolls who wander down from the Rolling Moor in the Highlands, and the marbh dragons. The young drakes sometimes lair out there for a while, they like the Gore Loch's morbid nature, but even they move on."
The marbh dragons were often called 'zombie dragons', due to their odd looks and legendary ability to slay enemies, and then animate their corpses who caused yet more death and destruction. Karven wondered what could drive such evil creatures from their lairs?
"So why all the forts, and why to rangers watch over the place?" The paladin knew there had to be a better reason than a few monsters to explain all the defences, even allowing for the Moor's terrible past.
"We just guard against it, that's all. Didn't you feel the damn thing as you went by it? The moor is alive!" she said with a touch of fear.
Dorn scoffed at the idea with a snort.
"You take a walk out on its shifting paths, and see how long you'd survive, tunnel dweller!" The ranger hated males thinking she was some jumpy girl who didn't know what she was talking about. For the past three years Aletta had lived in the wilds, exploring and fighting the monsters which roamed the wide wilderness. Alba might have several large cities, but most of the land was still untamed forest, fen and mountain.
The dwarf growled, but had the sense to see that the half-elf might actually know what she was talking about.
By dint of tactful persuasion and a round of cider, the paladin pulled his friends over to the bar, and left the elf and ranger together.
Camrae began by discussing the moor's danger, then changed the topic to the ranger's life. Aletta was a Karlsen, granddaughter of the famous ranger, Duke Wolfgang Karlsen. Her father had inherited the title, and lived in the great Southern city of Tomark. Growing tired of the courtly life she led, the half-elf went to stay with her mother's people, the elves of Sciahbehl, there she grew to love the wilds and nature.
When a raiding party of gesharns nearly killed Aliasande, Aletta's cousin, the young half-elf had demanded to learn the use of swords so she might slay her relative's attackers. Eventually she learned patience, and became a ranger, one of the ancient order that was dedicated to roaming the land, and making it safer for others to live in.
Their conversation, and enraptured gazes, were disturbed by a screaming man at the bar, whose boots had suddenly burst into flames! With a shriek the fellow was dowsed with a bucket of water, and still the fire burned! Arolith was rolling all over the floor, reduced to painful wheezes by the force of his mirth, the gnome's concentration was broken, and the illusionary flames vanished. Gyrus put the bucket down, and winked at his partner in crime.
It was too much even for Dorn, who collapsed over a table, laughing his head off. The wet human had made a joke about whether it was true that gnomes were merely dwarves who took baths, which was why they smelt better and had white hair.
Tears of mirth were rolling down Karven's cheeks, but when the victim of the gnome's Glamour reached for a blade, the paladin's hand lashed out, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted his arm half-way up his back.
"A joke's a joke friend. If you want a fight, it should be fair. Arolith's a lot smaller than you, what about his brother though?" Karven lifted the man completely off the floor, and swung him around to face Dorn's glaring features.
The dwarf jammed his fingers up the cheeky human's nostrils, readied a punch, and smiled.
"Naw! 't's all right!" the merchant's guard choked, the pain in his arm almost making him shriek, the big man was holding him up by it and his belt!
The fight averted, they went to their rooms, which as usual, they all slept in; it was a form of defensive miserliness. It's kind of difficult to break into a room filled with folk, especially when a dwarf sleeps by the door, and a halfling under the window. Dorn liked to sleep on the floor with a blanket and his weapon nearby, and Gyrus's main comfort was the possibility of a quick getaway. This night, however, it was Camrae, not Gyrus, who didn't join them.
While the two warriors busily cleaned their armour and sharpened blades, Gyrus wondered lecherously what the elf was up to. Arolith meanwhile had sneaked into the cheeky guardsman's room, and slipped a grass snake into his bed.
Outside the inn, it was warm, and Camrae and Aletta sat talking in the twinkling starlight; their elven blood soothed by the night sky, and the crescent shape of the white moon, Gealach. It was the ranger's arms which reached out for the wizard, and their souls met.
A scream resounded across the moor, followed by shouts. The wizard broke off their embrace, worried in case his friends faced danger, but loud voices suggested otherwise, and the half-elf grabbed him once more.
"Who, me?" Arolith's voice floated out a window. "I'd never do that! Anyway, didn't he know it was harmless?"
 
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                                              CHAPTER 7
                                       The Gore Loch Moor



The sun was fierce in the morning, and a warm mist rose from the wet fen, making the valley it crouched in seem as ghostly as a twilight dream.
Aletta stared over it with a watchful gaze. The ranger knew that many beasts lurked beneath the foggy veil, and had neglected to tell the five travellers of some of them. Trolls and marbh dragons were the least of the possible dangers the Gore Loch Moor hid in its unquiet depths, but the snake-in-the-bones rarely troubled native Albans. A secret the rangers knew: the moor truly was alive, a thing with a cold and secretive heart that beat an invisible blood throughout the enormous, peat filled wetlands.
"We'll have to wait until most of the mist's burned off," she said to the nervous adventurers around her.
"Ah, I think you had better give us the jars of Elemental Fire." It was as well the halfling had reminded Karven of the magical potions, he had almost forgotten them. Gyrus gave one to Arolith, whose illusion magic wouldn't be much use against the mindless savagery of a troll, or the penetrating wisdom of a dragon.
Soon, the rocky slope descended the rocky slope that ringed the moor's valley, leaving the comforting presence of the Green Moss Inn behind. Camrae stood gazing back at the tavern, until Dorn nudged him to catch up with the others; the elf had no liking for the vale of the Gore Loch and whispered a prayer to Velithian Sunbow, the elven god of hope and wonder.
Whether it was chance, Fate, the moor, or Camrae's words, Death walked beside them for a while, and took another course to find soul meat for his supper....

                     *              *             *               *                 *

"There, do you see them?" Chiasmus pointed to the five moving dots on the moor, almost lost amidst its infinite desolation.
The three assassins watched the image on the great obsidian mirror, noting the disposition of their prey: numbers, weapons and order on the thin trail. Only two obstacles had arisen that might thwart their grizzly task: the halfling couldn't be seen on the magical scrying device because of some power that rendered him invisible to sorcerous vision; and another had joined them last night, a guide, but she should pose little problem.
It was to be a snatch, the halfling disappearing in the fog that still lay deep in several hollows. Covered by a precautionary diversion, they would grab the small one, locate the Scroll and return to the wizard's isle via the Teleportation Crystals their employer had provided. 
"Now gentlemen, be about your business, while I attend to mine." Taking a thin glass vial, he poured its glittering contents onto the floor around the Sable Earls.
"Begone, go to the Gore Loch Moor. ALHIM'D'ARISS!" The crushed gemstones swept up in a spiral curtain of power, and vanished. Chiasmus's ears popped in the vacuum created by the Teleport spell.
Turning, the evil wizard watched the mirror, and the killer's shadow appeared at a spot two furlongs ahead of the halfling's party. Shadows, only shadows and gently swaying reeds could be seen on the moor, for the assassins were wreathed in sorcerous obscurement, and like the scroll they were sent to get, magic could not perceive them.
A thin smile crossed Chiasmus's lips as he visualized the halfling's disappearance, and his companions' sorrow at his loss in the sucking bog. He hoped the assassins would gentle, he had had few opportunities to dissect a halfling.

                *               *               *                  *               *

Axe at the ready, Karven followed their half-elven guide with great caution. The well-worn trail was wide enough for two abreast, but the deep, black pools that it often crossed had an awful stillness that hinted of greedy depths.
"Superstitious nonsense!" Gyrus mumbled. As they left the inn, Aletta had warned them that the trails across the moor were not to be trusted, that some of them actually moved around. The halfling believed it was a con trick to ensure that no one dared cross without paying for the privilege. It was as well for the little thief that he didn't see what happened a hundred yards behind him.
As the path crossed a hillock, and they vanished over its small sides, the water around the back-trail rippled, and the pathway, moved....

               *              *                  *                 *                *

Hiding beside a thick clump of reeds, the leader of the Sable Earls felt secure. Cloaked in their magical suits, the ambushers were almost invisible, especially when the mist was around, as it was now. Not a frog croaked nor an insect buzzed, the leader of the band liked not this place, to one as emotionless as he, the feeling of being watched was not a joke, but a warning.
Cursed bog! The youngest of the assassins thoughts were troubled as he tried to find passage by a dark, stagnant pond. The halfling was his, and he had to ensure a clean path existed to run with the small one. It must be accomplished in an instant, while his colleagues took out the elf and the dwarf at the rear.
"What the...?"
A pair of large plant stem which lay flat across the pool, twitched.
"Ahhh...shhhhh..." Something hissed, and the water bubbled.
Before the assassin had time to react, the two, fifteen foot long stems lifted themselves up, and struck home into his stomach. Ramming through flesh and muscle, they burrowed into the intestines, where the horrid things began to suck the man's innards out. Eyes bulging in terror, the young killer tried to scream in agony as he felt his guts being dissolved by a jet of acid. Hands clawing at the burrowing, sucking horrors, the Sable Earls' screams died with him as his kidneys were ripped free, and drank down.
The body flopped and jerked in the mist, as the moor-monster drained his corpse. The ground moved, and something pulled the cadaver under the thick, black peat, leaving no trace of victim or slayer.
"Tokaa?" Whispered the one assigned to kill Camrae. Where was that young fool? He should have been not ten feet from him, and the magical cloaks weren't good enough to fool this veteran of over fifty kills.
"Sha!" He swore softly in pain, something had just pierced his boot, and ripped its way into the flesh of his heel! To the murder's horror, he found he could not pull free of whatever had hold of him.
"No! No, no..." Brutal training had taught him silence, which was why the assassin didn't cry for help as he felt the thing go through his heel, and began chewing into the bones of his foot. At the same time, a strange languor spread throughout his body.
"Poison!" the killer hissed, and collapsed as his muscles gave out. This was one toxin he wasn't immune to. Then the torture began for the paralysed man, as the invader began to chew its agonizing path up the bonemarrow of his leg. The assassin's last moments of life were a torment of suffering as he was eaten alive from the inside out, his many victims having a more than full revenge.

                    *              *              *              *                 *

A phantom leapt from the mist at Dorn, but the dwarf had been trained as a scout, and ghosts do not make noises as they stumble into wet peat, or brush against hollow, noisy reeds that seemed to move of their own volition.
Turning swiftly, the dwarf's cutlass stabbed into a mortal's knife wielding hand, and blood coated his blade. "Varheim!" Dorn shouted his god's name as a battle-cry.
Swiftly, the assassin drew a matte-black scimitar in his undamaged right hand as Camrae ran through the mist towards the struggle.
The curved sword lanced for Dorn's eyes, but he turned the scimitar aside, aided by the strength of his wrists and the width of his blade. Growling, the dwarf thrust the weapon forward, slicing flesh from the Sable Earl's forearm, who threw a punch over his scimitar, smacking his smaller foe in the side of the face with a badly cut hand.
Momentary shock and the concealing fog prevented the brave dwarf from seeing the descending scimitar, which sliced across his right eye, tearing his nose and left cheek to shreds. Blinded by blood, he was easy prey for the reverse swing which would slash the steel across his neck.
"Mar Heesh!"  A magic blade appeared, and it darted at the attacker, it danced and slashed, and cut him twice before it faded. A dagger was drawn, and Camrae prepared to fight.
The others arrived, but no sign of the stranger could be found--he had disappeared with a flash of fiery smoke into the mist. Miraculously the dwarven scout's eye hadn't been gouged, and Karven was thankful for that as he held the awful wound, willing it to heal.
"Who was it Dorn? Did you see his face?" the paladin asked.
"Nah, had some kind of hooded cloak." Blood still poured from the massive split in the dwarf's nose--his friend's healing hands could accomplish only so much. Arolith found a bandage in one of the many pouches in his grey jacket, and the gnome helped bind his brother's wound.
"Got the orc grubber though!" Dorn held up his bloodied sword with pride.
"He's gone, the god's only know how," Aletta informed them, she had skirted the trail. No stranger could know the Moor's odd ways better than her! The assassin's Teleport crystal had taken him to obscure safety.
"That's two scars on your cheek, I think you can do without any more!" the ranger remarked as she checked Dorn's wound. "Hurt much?" she asked Dorn, who shrugged it off in his usual fashion. "Hold still, I'll fix it."
Pulling a small wooden carving of an oak tree from out of her pouch, Aletta began a soft chant while touching Dorn's suspicious face. The others watched most of the blood on the bandage disappear, and when it was removed, there was only a vicious looking gouge across the dwarf's face.
"You're a druid?" a somewhat puzzled Karven asked, seeing the wooden holy symbol.
"Not exactly, I'm a priestess of Korvis and a druid of Heijaniss." She showed him the holy symbol again, it had a silver bow design in the middle, which was the rune of Korvis, god of rangers and archers. "They are mother and son you know, they don't mind sharing a few worshippers. My elven spirit yearns for the forests, for nature, but seeing the evil of the beasts which hide out here in the wild lands, I was also compelled to fight them, and help people who are in danger from them."
"So," she continued while leading them on through the eerie moor once more. "Lady Aletta Karlsen became Aletta the ranger, who also happens to be a priestess, and the priestess is occassionally a druid."
"We half-elves are a little crazy you know!" Aletta grinned at Camrae, who was walking right behind her and the paladin. The elven wizard chuckled, while beside him Gyrus mentally thanked the lass for cheering up his scholarly friend, wishing she could do the same for him in this horrid, uncivilized place.
Karven could understand what Aletta meant, though he was a paladin, a believer in altruism and honour, the black-out rages which descended on him in some fights was more akin to that of a chaotic berserker. That and his liking of spellcasting could leave him a little confused at times. At least he wasn't a 'dragon rager', the most deadly of all berserkers, he'd seen one such fellow tear the entrails out of an ogre with his bare hands, and then casually pull an orc's jaw off and ram the bone through another orc's eye.
With a faster pace they continued on, worried by the man's attack. Was he one of the assassins out for revenge, or what? 
Carefully they skirted around a small tarn, for Aletta had warned them that the dark ponds were often inhabited.
"TSH--RALL--TH!" Water exploded, drenching them as a towering beast thrust itself from the water, roaring with a noise like screeching metal. Wings unfurled and blank-white eyes stared down at them from a head sheathed in scales. The monster's skin was black, with a sheen of green. Claws like ivory scimitars bit into the path, shaking the ground beneath the shocked traveller's feet.
"Marbh dragon!" the ranger said in a frightened whisper, hands clenching white around the handles of her broadsword and dagger.
Lungs like bellows inhaled, gleaming fangs and a purple throat showed as the dragon's head jerked towards them. With a deafening hiss it unleashed its deadly breath.
The world stopped for Karven, in that split second his mind became cold and clear.
"ALBANII!" the paladin screamed the ancient war-cry of Alba and charged, knocking the half-elf out of death's way.
Saved by his speed and armour, most of the dragon's spray of deadly poisons missed him, but pain like a dozen hot needles burrowed into Karven's head and arms. In an instant, the paladin's battle axe was covered in rust and its handle crumbled to wet pulp, dropping the corroded blade to the grass.
The shocked elf unleashed a Mage Blade spell, and the beast roared as the mystic dagger hammered into its face. Dorn rushed by him to try and help Karven.
An arrow ricocheted off hard scales, and Aletta cursed the beast's hide as she hurriedly notched another arrow. The ranger had dropped the broadsword and hunting knife, her thin armour wouldn't be much protection against the dragon's enormous claws.
The wyrm's fanged maw rushed down at the paladin, who dodged, but was blasted backwards by the collision with the monster's jaw.
"VARHEIM!" Dorn screamed, hammering his cutlass down in an overhead stroke that thudded into the dragon's claw. Hot blood sprayed out from the shattered scales.
Whispering the name of Korvis, praying for his aid, Aletta let fly, and this time her arrow bit into the swamp terror's nostril.
The frightened halfling and angry gnome threw their magical oil jars. Clay shattered, and rivers of virulent, actinic fire cascaded down the huge creature's back, searing heat caused its scales to crack and splinter. Blue-white flames spread over the pond's surface.
All Hell broke loose as the marbh dragon reared almost completely out of the water, writhing in agony the wyrm slammed down onto its back, showering them all with slimy liquid. Desperately it tried to put out the magical flames which hurt so badly, legs and tail jerking as the burning monster forced itself under the large pool.
"RUN!" Gyrus shrieked, and grabbed the dazed paladin, helping him to move.
The dragon's cried deafened them as they ran, Aletta taking the lead once more.
After a while they slowed, and a startled Gyrus pointed to the paladin's helmet. Taking it off, Karven let out an oath; a dozen large holes had been burned into the steel by the dragon's caustic breath, patches of the young warrior's dark hair and scalp had been bleached white by the necromantic poisons as well. Sadly, he dropped the ruined helm onto the ground, no more would it conceal his ears, or protect his skull, and he would miss it on both accounts.
Once more the ranger-priest cast a spell of healing. She told the ever curious Arolith that marbh dragons spat a shower of magical liquid that rotted, aged or corroded whatever it touched. Still, the half-elf was a little shaken at being caught off guard by the attack, as was Karven, who often felt the presence of danger before it appeared. But Aletta wasn't surprised about the lack of warning, it was due to the moor's strange, concealing aura of desolation.
Karven apologized for knocking Aletta down, he didn't doubt her combat skills, merely her armour's ability to withstand dragon breath. The half-elf accepted, she had been annoyed at his action, but was wise enough to realize that most of her anger stemmed from being caught unaware by the crafty dragon.
Several hours later, Camrae, because of his elven blood, smelt a stench like rusty iron--troll smell. With a ghastly, high pitched roar, one of the nine foot tall monsters ran down a hillock towards them, leaping and bounding with supernatural speed. The flesh-eater was greenish-grey in colour, as lichens and mosses lived on the peculiar plates of dark armour that grew from its skin.  
Pulling a vial of water from his belt, the elven mage tossed it up into the air, while mouthing intricate words. He caught the vial as it fell, and it hurtled towards the troll with incredible speed. Roars turned to screams of pain as the tiny container burst, releasing its vitriolic contents, for Camrae's words had transmogrified the water into a concentrated acid that sputtered and smoked, consuming lichen and skin. The power of the corrosive soon waned, but it left a grizzly, blackened patch the size and depth of a man's hand for a reminder.
They were all greatly relieved to see the creature dive head long into a pool to ease the pain. Aletta knew that some of her spells were not reliable in this blasphemous place, but she cast one, and was thankful when the enchantment flowed into the fabric of the moor. Weeds and plants began moving, and they grasped onto the troll with surprising strength. They took to their heels once again, for such minor spells would only hinder the huge beast, not kill it. Trolls were horrendous opponents because of their supernatural hardiness, they seemed untroubled by even the most deadly wounds, except decapitation. Apart from severing their heads, trolls wouldn't die until they were literally hacked into tiny pieces, and sometimes not even then. Decapitation, fire and acid were the best ways to stop them, unless you had resort to deadly spells of necromancy.
As they stopped for a breather, Karven recited an old tale to his gnomish friend. Trolls had originally been ogres who were transmuted by wizards of the evil Necronian Empire more than five millenia ago. Unfortunately for the Necronian's, their original creations, the havoc wreaking war-trolls, deserted them and fought for their enemies, the Algandian Empire. The Necronians continued with their blasphemous work though, giving rise to dozens of species of trolls, the more common form having a taste for human flesh and acquiring gold, just like their ogre ancestors. Strangely, the greatest enemies of such beasts were the war-trolls, while not exactly 'good', the gigantic mercenaries absolutely loathed other trolls.
Perhaps it was due to his friendship with Arolith that Karven had developed his own, strong sense of curiosity, he had a vast store of knowledge locked in his head gleamed from people he talked to, bards and the huge collection of books which Camrae's father delightedly let him read. The elves particularly liked to tell the young human their tales, for with their long lives they learned much and it pleased them that one of the shorter lived races appreciated their stories, which combined not only information, but wisdom; humans were generally interested only in the former and completely ignored the latter. The paladin's only pity was that he never had much of a way with languages like the magic-users, but still, he learned much from the bronze elves, a lot of it apparently useless, yet, at the very least it showed him how others thought and felt.
Late in the afternoon, they arrived at one of the moor's watch-forts. Three dwarves, a dark-bearded ranger and an old wizard greeted them inside. Soon they were gabbing away, the newcomers eager to tell the tale of their adventure, and the swamp-wardens were glad to hear new stories after being cooped up with each other for most of the Winter.
Happy to see a fellow kinsman, the dwarves told them that it was three days to the Far Hall, their home. They were of the Swift Axe clan, which made them Dorn's cousins of a sort, though only one of the bearded folk could understand their complex relationship.
While the dwarves decided to celebrate their meeting by getting thoroughly smashed on gnomish whisky, the others discussed the traveller's plans to see Cho Bounty. The old wizard, who was called Werbolen Troll-Bane, confirmed that the archmage was indeed an approachable person, and if the scroll was his, he would probably reward them: Gyrus beamed at this bit of news.
The two rangers talked quietly for a minute, then Aletta announced that she would accompany them. The trail to the Dragon's Fall and Cho Bounty's home was easy to follow, but treacherous in places. Her eyes lingered on Camrae for a while, the elf smiled cheekily and thank her for her company. Aletta responded by dropping an arm around Gyrus's shoulder and telling them all that her presence was due solely to the halfling, the small fellow needed protection. 
Karven thought that if Gyrus smiled any wider the top of his head would fall off. Camrae continued with the games by ignoring the half-elf and going over to talk with Werbolen. The paladin vowed that when he found the right woman there would be none of that carry on, it would drive him mad! Couldn't they just admit that they cared for one another? Love seemed a very complicated business to him.
The elven wizard was a little perturbed to find out that Werbolen was a fire elementalist, but he was a likeable human and they soon began discussing various magical theorems. Elementalists studied spells of the four basic elements: fire; air; earth or water; and while having great power in such matters they tended to ignore other magics, particularly those that dealt with living creatures. Many fire elementalists allied themselves with Baal, the evil god of flame, conquest and genocide--he and the elves were ancient enemies.
One of the drunken dwarves offered Karven a mug half filled with whisky, the paladin didn't like getting drunk, so he decided to only take a sip. Dragon fire blasted his throat and the fumes burned his eyeballs as he desperately tried to breath.
"Gnomish whisky!" the dwarf chuckled. "We use it to set trolls on fire!"
When he retired, Camrae tried to forget Aletta as he sat contemplating his spellbook, deciding what spells to study for the perils of the next day. How he longed for her presence here beside him! But he could wait, Camrae was an elf, and his kind had endless patience, but they were also very emotional, sensual beings and so his heart ached just as badly as any human's would. The idea of his love being hurt by some monster drove him deeper into his studies, determined to prevent Aletta's beauty from ever being expunged from the world.

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                                        CHAPTER 8
                                                Into the Highlands



A few hours after sunrise, they said their goodbyes, and set off up the trail that wound its way through the Highlands. By noon they had entered the first pass between the two enormous mountains known as the Treasure Seekers. Jagged cliffs of shattered rock lanced the sky overhead, and they wandered around the many huge boulders that had fallen over the centuries to the grassy plains below.
Mountains stretched away across the face of the land, great pinnacles of beauty cloaked din forests of Alban pines, the great glens between them thick with ancient beech and sycamore trees. The companions walked along the sparkling shore of Loch Huran, and not a sign of habitation did they see. Although the Highland clans, dwarves and many monsters lived in this rugged landscape, it was so vast and hard to traverse that encounters were rare, especially if folk didn't want to be found. Alleta told them, as they camped by the long loch for the night, that a tribe of goblins lived across the water, and the Ligeden gnomes lived in the hillside behind them. Dorn had to sit on Arolith to stop him running off into the dark woods to try and find his kinfolk. Mountain gnomes were very reclusive and shy, unlike their cantankerous relatives who lived amongst humans.
As the companions continued the next day, the mountains flared with the light of the noon day sun, and they felt its heat keenly amidst the beauty of the heathered slopes and dappled forests.
The trail wound around the right flank of a steep hill when the attack started. A massive chunk of rock smashed down in front of Karven, and another nearly took Dorn with it as the boulder bounced down the slope.
"Ormaks!" Aletta spat the name of their foes as they ducked for cover behind a granite outcropping.
Roars and bellows from below alerted them to more danger. There were two of the bald, orc-like giants above, ready to smash them to bits with thrown boulders, and so they couldn't stand up to fire arrows and spells at the other pair, who were working their way up to them through the thick patch of brush they had hidden in. Arolith compared them to the bushes they strode between, and deduced their height to be near twelve feet!
Rock splinters showered them as the hairy brutes on the ledge above made sure they stayed down. But they had overlooked one thing: a wizard doesn't always need to see his foe to kill them. Camrae pointed down the hill with one finger, and began to chant. A shimmer appeared in the air near one of the monsters, like a mirage.
Thunder echoed in the mountains as the Fireball spell exploded, and the ormak screamed in pain as it was seared by the sorcerous inferno. The expanding blast ignited the dry gorse bushes around him, and the hillside was suddenly awash in oily flames. The wizard's friends looked at him in astonishment, unaware that he could cast such a potent spell. Camrae had got on well with Werbolen, and they had exchanged and copied spells, as all wizards eagerly sought new magics. 
"We have to get to the ones at the top or we'll get trapped between them!" the frightened paladin explained. "Arolith, think you can distract the ones above us?"
Nodding, Arolith quickly created a Glamour well suited to the occasion. The two monsters on the ledge above screamed in fear as a thin sheet of vaporous fire erupted in front of them! Fortunately, ormaks were notoriously stupid and held a deathly fear of magic, the combination of which convinced them that the illusion was real, even though the flames gave off little heat or noise. Besides, they had just seen one of their band get fried!
Scrabbling up the hill behind Karven, the elven wizard, shaky with the effort of casting the Fireball, paused for a moment, and unleashed a Mage Blade spell. The blade of energy shot from his hand, passed through the illusionary flames, and began to 'dance' over the face of the nearest giant above them, slashing its cheek to ribbons.
Karven, realizing an unforseen difficulty, turned to assure Aletta that the fire in front of them was only an illusion, and wouldn't harm her as long as she believed the flames didn't really exist. The paladin's forceful tones reassured the ranger, and they all rushed through the fiery barrier to attack, the gnome's friends being painfully aware of the nature of his illusions after many sneaky pranks.
As Karven approached his target, he screamed a savage war-cry, and stabbed the giant just below the kneecap, severing the tendons. At the same time, Dorn's razor sharp cutlass sliced through the back of its calf, finishing the job of crippling its right leg.
Flashing sword and stabbing dagger made bloody work of the left ankle as Aletta went to work. The giant's treetrunk club tore by her and smashed into Karven, who felt the bone in his left arm break, and he bounced off the monster's leg.
The idea of going toe to toe with a giant didn't appeal in the slightest to Gyrus, so he climbed further up the slope, and pulled his favourite sling from the pocket of his waist coat. Lead sling shot began to deluge the other giant.
Down below, the brush fire was starting to die away, and the badly scorched leader of the giant band thrust his younger brother through the smoke ahead of him.
The halfling's sling shot made little impression on the uninjured giant, who began to swing his enormous club. Dorn didn't realize the danger, but Arolith did, he shrieked at the behemoth, who squinted in puzzlement at the gesturing gnome. Suddenly the monster's oaken cudgel burst into illusionary flames, screaming he let go of it and jumped back, just as Camrae cast a Concussion Bolt, the cylinder of shimmering energies blew half its teeth out in a spray of blood. The thaumaturge's concentration broken, the original fiery wall vanished, just as the howling, over-balanced giant plunged backwards down the hillside, and dashed its brains out as it fell onto a sharply pointed rock.
On the ledge only one monster remained, and it fell to one knee from the severe wounds it had suffered. Dorn and the ranger hewed gaping cuts into thick flesh, but the giant's club, which had a dwarf's face carved into the end, sent Aletta flying. The outraged paladin ran between massive legs and buried his blade to the hilt in the giant's thigh, cutting the great artery inside, just as Camrae flung a dagger through its eye. The brute toppled and rolled down the slope, knocking the climbing leader of the monster band from his feet.
Picking himself up, the frothing ormak king smashed his dead follower's skull to fragments in rage. When he got those stinking worms above he was going to eat them alive!
Karven and Camrae held the half-elf, and the paladin let his healing power flow through his good right hand. Alettta groggily stood up and strung her bow as she saw the approaching giants below.
Sling stones, arrows, rocks, daggers and acidic spells were let loose, blood and screams flew as the havoc grew. Then the two raging monsters were upon them!
The burned leader was still smouldering as his club swung in a great round-house, but Dorn was a dwarf and skilled in battling giants, he ducked, and the club struck the paladin as he jumped back; his already injured left arm was shattered by the blow. Karven spun like a top and collapsed.
But the other giant fared not so well, the Light spell had many uses and Camrae smiled as his dazzling magic blinded the enormous monster, causing it to slide back down the hillside, flailing around in fear.
With a battle cry, Dorn slashed a terrible gash into the side of the leader's kneecap, and another of Aletta's arrows sunk into its face. But the giant shrugged the damage off, it was the Crusher, the most powerful monster alive! He was a king, and worms like these were not going to beat him!
Though few realise it, there aren't many things in the universe as dangerous as an angry halfling, and Gyrus was mad! His friend, Karven, whom he had known for a dozen years, was dying. The halfing had met a few paladins before, and most of the arrogant pests had treated the little thief like dirt. But not Karven, who was wise enough to realize that Gyrus meant no harm, nor would steal from a pauper's cup, though he often tried to steer him out of temptation's way. And now that kindly friend was bleeding his life away, and it looked as if the giant might win; not bloody well likely!
The halfling ran down the hillside, jumped off a rock, and threw an object straight into the giant's mouth. Gyrus landed feet first on the leader's chest and somersaulted backwards to land beside a startled Dorn.
The Crusher was puzzled by the tiny creature's attack, and he sucked at the stone the little fellow had thrown into his mouth. The ormak king smiled as he imagined chewing on the halfling, and in his excitement, bit into Gyrus's clay jar.
Fire blew out of the giant's mouth and burned most of his face off! Then, with a coughing roar, blue flame erupted from the Crusher's head and chest as he was blown backwards by the internal explosion.
"Oil of Elemental Fire, pretty good?" the halfling said with a wicked smile.
Karven was in a terrible state as they tended to him. His left arm was shattered so badly that bone showed through the wounds, and his breath came in laboured gasps. Aletta cast a couple of healing spells on the paladin, and Gyrus poured two of his potions over the ghastly injuries. The bleeding stopped, bones knitted and most of the shredded flesh was repaired. But the limb was still agonizingly painful.
"We'd better get to the Far Hall," Karven said through clenched teeth. Even though he was mentally subduing the pain he nearly screamed as Aletta tied his arm into a sling.
It seemed prudent to move on and they helped him down the rough slope. Gyrus was proud of the young man's courage, but it didn't stop him from searching the bodies of the dead giants before they left. Fortunately the blinded survivor had crawled away, waiting desperately for the brightly glowing spell to wear off, for Camrae had cast his magic on the monster's nose.
Before they continued, Aletta and Camrae prayed for Heijaniss's forgiveness for starting the fire and causing so much destruction of nature's beauty. A daffodil suddenly bloomed before them as the goddess absolved them, the cleansing fire would have come one day to the hillside anyway, bringing forth new growth. Most incongruous of all, the pain wracked paladin said a prayer for the dead giant's souls, he was angry with them for their attack, but held no hatred for the monsters, and would not let it poison his spirit. Karven forgave the ormaks, and to the dwarf's amazement, asked their shades pardon for slaying them!
Giants, being sly, untrusting brutes, carried their treasure with them, and Gyrus felt quite the hero as he divided it up as they camped that night.
Pride of place was a gleaming battleaxe wrapped in chain mail. The head was shaped like a pair of thin, sharply pointed butterfly wings, with a spike in between; made from Corliss steel the twin blades shimmered blue-green in the moon glow and the dim light from the fire. Its shaft was made from pure mithril, the grip wrapped in white dragon leather and a ruby was set in the adamantite pommel. Karven gratefully thanked Gyrus for the magnificent weapon, but shouldn't it belong to Dorn, whose folk had probably made it centuries ago? The dwarf was glad to let the paladin keep the axe, he needed a good weapon, although he did look at the axe with deep longing.
Even though he was in pain Karven wished to try out the weapon, and he slammed it into a piece of fire wood. The blade slashed through the thick log and buried itself into the ground! Astonished, he tried it again, and the blade sheared through the wood like it was cork! The dwarf looked at the obviously enchanted blade for a long minute, Corliss steel was incredibly sharp, and the magical metal's dislike of being touched actually helped force it through anything it bit into, but this?
"You know vhat that is? It's and Axe of Cleaving! My great-great-great grandfather's brother on my mother's side made one, the Blade of Twenty Battles he called it, because of the perils he had to go through to make it. Greatest veapon he ever forged, the high priest says that Axes of Cleaving haven't been made for four generations. The blades can gouge stone and steel, and rip an orc from arse to crown! It's a good axe, a very good axe!"
Karven saw that the shadow its butterfly blades made in the light from the white moon.
"Moon Shadow," he said. "I'll call it Moon Shadow?"
It was good name, and the others examined the 'boodle' Gyrus gave them. Camrae greatly appreciated the silver bracers the halfling dropped in his lap, the giant's lingering smell revolted him so he washed the arm-guards before putting them on, admiring the three lustrous turquoise stones imbedded in the metal of each. Being an elf as well as a wizard, Camrae could feel the tingling presence of magic on the elegant bracers, when they had time he would cast divination spells on all their newly acquired treasure to determine what dweomers they might have.
Aletta chuckled ruefully, but gladly accepted the string of blue pearls the small thief gave her. She put them on and Camrae smiled, the simple feminine touch amidst her armour merely increased the half-elf's beauty. The ranger had once refused a collection of jewels fit for a princess, but she also remembered her grandfather giving her bracelets of amber and rings of carved jade and ivory, not worth much perhaps, but she had loved them....
It wasn't easy to read the runes carved inside the ring Dorn was given, but then again he was the only person apart from Arolith who could have deciphered them, for they were in dwarvish, 'Sing blade sing, whistle out the battle tune." Quite pleased with the thick silver ring, which had a large hematite stone engraved with a dagger design on it, the scout slipped it onto the second finger of his right hand--a perfect fit! From the design and the fact that it was made from hematite and silver, Gyrus had correctly guessed it was meant as a luck piece for a warrior.
Gyrus and Arolith played dice for the small mounds of coins, gemstones and jewellery in front of them. Naturally Gyrus won, but he returned some of the boodle to the gnome--he could always win it back! The wary dwarven scout joined in as he could never resist a game, and the tide of victory turned. Dorn had all the patience of his ancient kin, and a right hook an ogre would have been proud of.

               *                *                *                    *                *

A fair wind blew through the glen, and Aletta once more cast her healing spells on Karven. The grateful paladin returned the compliment and the livid bruise that covered the half-elf's back disappeared.
Mindful of the ranger's concern for nature, Karven explained that he needed to try out Moon Shadow before they got into any more trouble, so he could get used to its light weight. A bit further down the trail Aletta found a small tree dead from a lightning stroke, there were no nests or animals in it.
Although the magical healing had repaired the dreadful injuries, there was still a lot of stiffness and pain Karven had to work out, and there were a few scars that might tighten (the magic had perfectly restored his bones and sinews as it had been drawn to the most serious wounds). Moon Shadow spun whistling through the air as he tried out attack routines: feint, jab to the face, slash to the chest, jab again with the spiked tips in an increasing crescendo. He began to use the tree as target, the axe slicing deep into it, and coming free without restraint, such was the advantage of Corliss steel. It wasn't long before the unfortunate tree fell, even though Karven hadn't been trying to cut it down.
As they walked on, Karven found there was just one problem with the fantastically sharp battleaxe: it sliced through the sheath on his back, so he had to carry it instead. Whatever magic was on the axe seemed to prevent it from accidentally cutting its owner, which was just as well, you could shave an ogre with its mirror-polished edge.
The ranger made an urgent motion and they all moved into the cover of some trees. A large group of armoured dwarves appeared on the trail, and Aletta hailed them.
"Have you seen a bunch of dirt-eating ormaks?" the leader of the dwarven patrol swore. "They killed Prince...?! That's Moon Shadow!" The furious dwarf pointed to the axe in Karven's hand.
A dozen axes and even more crossbows pointed towards the paladin. The leader of the patrol demanded the return of the enchanted axe.
"Sir dwarf, this axe came from a giant we fought, if it's your dead kin's I'll return it," Karven said in a powerful voice. "We are travelling to the Far Hall, your home I'd guess. Let's go there then and find out more, would you escort us?" How did they know the name he'd given the blade?
The dwarf was a little confused at the way the human had turned things around. He asked for directions to the giant's bodies, and sent half his fellows there, while he would 'escort' the travellers to their home.
Gruff and surly as dwarves generally are, these ones were worse, and Aletta was at a loss to explain their attitude. The ranger had often met the Swift Axe dwarves, but they had never treated her thus.
The Far Hall, a place of grandeur, a mountain carved into a fortress with rings of concentric walls and cliffs. Might statues of ancient dwarven kings lined the route they wound up to the top, to the entrance to the halls below. The dwarvish name for the fortress was 'Barath Darun-Vach Emarr', translated into Common it meant 'The Farthest Walk to the Deepest Hall' so it became known as 'Far Hall'.
From the words spoken by their escort, and the various grim satisfied looks, Karven was none too sure of the dwarves intent, but all was made clear inside the massive, steel- lined doors that led into the depths.
The King of the Hall, Bernaglin Wyrm Bane, greeted them most regally to his home. A dozen dwarven flying scouts nearby looked hot and tired, as did their four griffon mounts (griffons were extremely dangerous, the fact that the dwarves could train such creatures was an impressive achievement for a race that didn't resort to enchantments). In the great audience chamber behind the gates, the Kings words echoed and carried to the thousand dwarves around him.
"We prepare for war this bonny day, and here you bring proof that justice has been done." The king, resplendent in his mithril plate and crystal crown, pointed at the axe which Karven had courteously handed to the dwarven patrol leader.
"My son was attacked by the lice infested giant known as the Crusher. An unusually smart giant fonds of ambushes and crushing my kin to death beneath his feet, including my only son!" the white bearded King snarled.
"Good King," Karven couldn't believe he was speaking with such control, he was in awe of the proud dwarf, unsure of himself and worried by the presence of a dwarven army obviously seeking revenge. "My friends and I were attacked by such a giant." The ambush had been remarkably subtle for the normally crude ormaks, so it must have been the same one.
"We defeated him and his band, one escaped our blades however." Many a dwarf grinned darkly at the thought of at least one giant left to kill. "If the axe is your son's or kin's, take it with my blessing, the same with those items we have which were theirs. If great treasures I had I would gladly pay a high priest of Dauthos to raise your son from the dead, but I don't." The trade pieces seemed to burn in his boot, but they were his father's and nowhere nearly enough to pay for such great magic.
"But the rest is my friends, won by fair right of conquest. That is all the justice I seek." Karven's heart hammered. No one had ever told him that most of the paladins of legend were men such as him, their fame came not from the looks or charm of a demigod, but from the hope, honour and justice that sprang from the breast of mortal men and women.
The dwarven king was impressed by the man's honest nature, he could feel the goodness of his spirit, and the warning least he try to take their belongings. Fair enough, the story of King Gornalen the Greedy made most humans wary in a dwarven hall, but the fellow was tactful and asked for justice.
A hush fell on the vast assembly as a young dwarf in a white robe entered, and beside him strode a human in dark robes, and from this fellow radiated a powerful aura, a high priest of Dauthos!
"My son, you should rest! The spell..."
"My King, I was not brought back to this life without Varheim's blessings, and he spoke to my spirit while I sat by his forge." The young dwarf, the Prince of the Hall stood beside Karven. He trembled, but the paladin caught his arm. "Thank you" he said, there was a look of such honest, caring nobility in the dwarf's eyes that Karven felt humbled. Who said that the dwarves of legend had passed from the world?
"The Steel Bringer said the paladin and his friends face a great trial, and that Moon Shadow would fit his hand with grace. The axe is mine father, I give it to him." The prince touched the enchanted axe with trembling fingers, giving it with his blessing. Karven was astonished at what was happening.
"I thank you noble Prince. I..." Karven fought back tears, he was more used to expecting trouble than receiving honour. "I thank you with my heart. May your blades shine and happiness ever be thine," the paladin said the ancient Alban blessing, and drew his shortsword to many a gasp.
He saluted the King, and then the Prince with his sword. "A gift for a gift, lest an edge sever our friendship. My sword is poor, graced only by my hand and the blood of the giant which took your life, may your new one be better and my sword defend it." The paladin gave his blade to the Prince, who smiled, few humans remembered the old custom nowadays.
"From this day forth, you are friends of the Hall of the Swift Axe dwarves!" the King proclaimed. A great cheer arose from the dwarven throng, and the travellers were swept up by many arms and lead to a great feast held in their honour.
Karven felt like he was in a dream. All he had been doing was selling his father's clock, and now he was amidst a mass of cheery dwarves who assured him that the gods were smiling on his quest. What quest? He was only taking a scroll to a wizard? He'd done that at home!
Gyrus just laid back and let it roll over him,: mushrooms, hare, venison and apple cake. It almost made fighting giants worthwhile! And another bonus, dwarven women were delightful (the gods were probably making up for the males), but their menfolk guarded them as fiercely as their gold! Ah well, best to see a jewel than own it. You could always borrow it for a while though....
The carousing and high spirits continued through the night, and the elven wizard considered the paladin's face. Strong it was and handsome, and none of the dwarves noticed his large teeth, and if any could see his ears under the thick hair they would think him some kind of half-elf, for he had none of the manners of a Fomorian or half-orc. Strange how a face can cause so much trouble, but a change had come over the human, he had grown into himself. Camrae knew those confident words spoken before the King were being written down, and would soon be spoken by the Chanters of Legends. He was glad for his friend, and when Aletta whispered in his ear, he was glad for himself as well!

                *                 *                 *                    *                 *

Though the dwarves wished them to stay longer, the travellers decided it prudent to move on. The sooner they got back, the better, although the trip had been interesting. An armourer fixed up a special rig that would allow Karven to carry Moon Shadow at his back should he need, but the paladin preferred the weapon in his hands for it was comforting to carry the axe at the ready. Woe betide any goblin that jumped out to attack him!
A hundred dwarven warriors escorted them along the narrow trail, the King's carle guard were happy to honour the six strangers, although they would miss out on the hunt for the remaining giant. 
The ormaks had attacked the prince and his bodyguards while they were praying in a distant, holy grotto; twenty giants was far too great a force, even for them. Unfortunately for the monsters, a wandering priest of Dauthos was coming to visit the same grotto, and encountered them, and there were not too many for him, for the servants of death could restore life, or dispense death. Even dwarves were impressed by the devastation a cleric of Dauthos could cause. He had brought the Prince back to the mortal world as he was a great slayer. 
Deer and mountain goats were all the monsters they saw that day, which pleased Gyrus, although Aletta found the tracks of a huge cave bear. They camped under a bright sky and the dwarves sang their songs, while the paladin sat with a smile beside them, he had never felt so happy, or so accepted in all his life. Gyrus and Arolith were running a huge dice games with Dorn and dozens of the bearded warriors, meanwhile the mage and the ranger stared up at the sky, their hands held tightly together as they talked. Only Dorn saw them disappear into the night, and he cursed them for being a pair of moon-struck elves. Disgustedly, the scout took up watch a prudent distance from them. I'm not guarding them, he thought, it's just in case someone valks by and embarrasses them.
Late that night, a scrawny goblin, attracted by the fire and the thought of filching some dwarven gold, was suddenly smacked in the mouth by a rock hard fist, then flung over a small cliff. 
"Elves!" Dorn swore softly. "Forest folk, huh!" The scout was thinking about finding a good, sensible dwarven wife as he fell asleep, and never noticed Aletta's cheeky grin as she vanished back into the trees.

               *               *                 *                  *                 *

"You are telling me that you haven't got the Scroll, Chiasmus?"
A thin rivulet of sweat rolled down the wizard's back as he stared at the magic mirror. The Formorian warlord hadn't been able to contact him for several days, and now he would bear the brunt of Sevegar the Destroyer's anger. The sweat wasn't caused by heat--the scrying room was cold--but by shivering tendrils of fear.
"The Sable Earls I sent, failed, Sea Lord." The wizard could hardly admit to the fact that he had skimped, and hired only two master slayers, the other was but a journeyman killer. Still, they should have been able to do the job with ease; what by the four fingers of Baal had happened?
Sevegar was enjoying himself, although he could feel the Blood Rage beginning to boil in his head. "Chiasmus, Loric and his wereghouls are now under your control, use them or die!" Very slowly, and very deliberately he drew the dark, polished blade of his legendary sword, Hell's Bane, and thrust it into his scrying mirror.
Chiasmus gulped in terror as the obsidian mirror in front of him bowed out, and a huge spike of volcanic glass stopped but an inch from his heart. Sevegar's image loomed large.
"Get the Scroll, I want it NOW!" The Formorian snarled. A blast of arctic wind suddenly hurled the Alban wizard to his back. "One month I give you, or I'll give you to the Dragon's Bones!"
With a crash of thunder, the image vanished. Chiasmus picked himself up, and worriedly thought about the wereghouls. He had been studying them avidly now that he had total control of their minds, the necromancer had already dissected two to learn how their bodies worked, and then had Loric kill some captives to replace the dead monsters. But to risk them? He hurried to his library for some useful ideas.

                     *             *              *              *                    *

With a bitter laugh Sevegar thought of the foolish wizard, deathly afraid because of a few simple spells. Fear was a weapon, fear was a tool and the Formorian used it well. Formorians had no clerics, otherwise he would have made an outstanding priest of Tiimor, the god of fear. With a grunt of annoyance he conceded the fact that there were now priests among his countrymen. That fool Balor, the War Lord who controlled the great armies, had brought the cult of  Baal to N'Skell! The god of fire and genocide had a foot hold in the Formorian homeland, in the Fortress of Ash itself! War Lord, eh?! The title should be his! Not that simpering, cowardly bastard's! The swine was so afraid of death that...the brutal warrior shuddered in disgust at what his brother had done to himself, how could anyone be so vile?
Angrily he called for a slave to bring food and wine. Sevegar stood up from the opal throne, and his cruel eyes bored into the young girl who held the flagon and tray. With a dry mouth the huge warrior ate and drank, and very tenderly lifted the smiling girl, a Charm spell and his dominant will held her in thrall, in love. Gently he kissed the young woman, his large, upthrust canine teeth making it less than he would wish.
"Go my love, for this night you shall be safe!" The Sea Lord guided her to the door, and led the cowering girl beyond Daz Pazik, his frightful guardian. He turned to the fifteen foot tall golem that swayed not an inch as Sevegar's ship, the Iron Cobra, swam through heavy seas. In the jet black face of the golem two fireine gemstones glowed, its eyes, and they held an unholy intelligence.
"Fetch me a food slave!" snapped the ancient warrior, and the adamantite golem set out silently, magics stopping its eight ton bulk crashing through the iron hull of the ship, magics which made it silent, and able to walk through seven foot tall doorways, it did not shrink, it did not Teleport, it spassed through..
An older woman entered the room, and her full figure would be appreciated by many a man, but there was a certain look in those eyes that had warned many suitors away. She had been a Kalik pirate, a cleric of Etrah, the god of hatred, bloodshed and revenge, and now she, in her turn, was a slave.
"Come here!" Sevegar spoke with passion, and she responded, desire flamed in heart as magical conditioning took effect. He kissed her roughly, and blood flowed where his sharp fangs cut ruby lips. The warrior's head dipped, and he ripped her throat out in a tearing slash. The Formorian held onto the pirate as she spasmed in death, and drank hot blood in great draughts. Sated, he dropped her corpse.
Rage began to build in him, a rage that wanted to crush and tear and destroy. "NOOH!" he cried, and Sevegar went berserk. The opal throne, a quarter ton in weight, slammed off the iron wall that was the hull of the ship, protective enchantments saving both from harm.
All aboard the ship cowered in fear, except the golem, Daz Pazik. They could hear their master's screams as the Blood Rage filled him, and knew it was death to approach. 
There was a heavy price for the immortality Sevegar had: blood and insanity. He was no vampire, if the proud warrior had been he would have flung himself under the rays of the burning sun so his torment could end. Five thousand years before, in the Necronian Wars, the kindly Prince Sevegar had been exposed to the poisons which blighted the land when the city of Necron was destroyed, and no magic could save him or the half million other Formorians who had been fighting in the lands nearby, save one thing: the poison lodged in the bones, so his entire skeleton was replaced with mithril, but metal bones could not make blood. To save his life, Sevegar's father, Rabon Blacksun, had used the evil NecroSphere, the thing which had destroyed Necron, thereby earning its foul name, on his own son. Thus had Prince Sevegar, the Sea Lord of Formoria, become immortal, unkillable, a drinker of blood, and utterly mad. Torn between his natural goodness and the evil nature imposed on him, he lived a nightmare existence, and his only hope was for death, and death always eluded him.
Lifting himself up from the blood-soaked floor, Sevegar smiled bitterly. "Not this time, not this time! This time I'll die for ever, even if I have to destroy all Creation to do it! Everything will die! Worlds, Heaven, Hell, the entire universe, everything, EVERYWHERE!"

               *                *               *                     *                 *

Once more the scrying mirror worked, and Chiasmus studied the people who were causing him such grief, but only in part, for the aura of obscurement around the halfling had grown. A thought slowly began to wind its way around inside his head, like a snake, constricting, growing. Perhaps the Scroll really was a map of Chenvar's tomb? It wouldn't be unlike Sevegar to double-cross him like that; when he had told Loric that was what the Scroll contained, the wereghoul had been filled with avarice and thus had willingly given his comrades the potion. A side effect of the Formorian's potion had damaged their brains, and most of the wereghouls were now mindless; he would probably use those. But someone else might accomplish the dirty work without risking the wereghouls or himself.
A strong sea breeze tore at the necromancer as he stood on the battlements of his castle, looking over the small island his family had ruled for generations. Lord Chiasmus Machlin was his full name and title, but he preferred Chiasmus the Necromancer. He touched the large, green scarab ring he wore on his right hand, spoke a word, and vanished.
And reappeared on a hillside below a craggy cliff. Quickly he recited a spell of shape-changing, and appeared as a tall, powerful man wrapped in black silks. There in front of him was a cavern, and from the smell and rubbish strewn around, he knew that his time in the library was well spent.
"Orcs of the Tongue Ripper tribe, come forth for a bargain." he spoke in a loud voice, using a spell of languages so they would understand him. Many eyes stared at him from concealed places. "I have come to talk to your chieftain! I have gold and words of war!" Chiasmus hoped he had struck the right tone, an interesting offer, but they could still pepper him with arrows. But the necromancer wasn't afraid, for he was well protected.
Muffled grunts and shouting came from the cave mouth, and a dozen well armed orcs came forth; each wore blood red, leather kilts and carried broadswords or maces, their greenish-grey skins, boar-like tusks and splayed nostrils making them seem like nightmarish Highlanders. They squinted in the bright sunlight, their underworld eyes unused to the glow of the sun which had concealed the wizard's transformation, as he knew it would.
A huge orc walked out, his arms bulging with corded muscle, carrying a great claymore, its 'Y' shaped quillons made from gleaming brass. Two guards and a standard bearer followed, the flag unfurled to show a skull with a mouth full of clotted blood, a stag's head was mounted on top of the standard to increase the grizzly effect.
"I am Fangspike! Dwarf Killer, chieftain! Why should we talk, when we could kill you and take your gold!" the orc's gravelly voice mocked. But he was well aware that there was more to this than there appeared, the dark one was almost certainly a wizard.
Chiasmus was expecting trouble, for orcs were ever creatures of violence, he had to impress them, deeds, not words. "Send forth one of you warriors to slay me, try to take my gold, if one of you is brave enough!"
The chieftain grunted at one of the orcs armed with a mace, there was no point wasting one of his best. Fangspike had an idea what was to happen.
The orc screamed a curse in its own tongue, and ran down at the wizard, who stood smiling at him. The mace smashed towards the wizard's shoulder, and a few inches before it struck, the weapon rebounded like it had hit solid iron! At the same time there was a glare of light and a hissing crack that threw the orc flying, his mace glowing white-hot from the electrical discharge. The green-skinned warrior jerked for a moment, then lay still.
Chiasmus smiled happily at the dead orc, death always pleased him. The Steelshield spell had protected him from harm, and his Retribution dweomer sealed the orc's doom. That last protective magic activated another, offensive dweomer whenever he was physically attacked, electrocuting his assailant.
"Willing to talk now, Fangspike dwarf killer?"
The chieftain laughed, it was a good trick. If he could make an ally of this wizard, he'd never have to fear the knives of his brother's, which in orcish society were often stuck into one another's backs.

                    *              *              *                  *                *

Sweat rolled down Dorn's back, but unlike their unseen nemesis, Chiasmus, this was caused by honest sweat, not evil fear.
"Vhy the Hell do ve have to clear this trail? Ve haven't any vagons or carts?" the dwarf swore as he chopped away at the dead tree which blocked their path, the hatchets he carried often came in handy. They could have easily walked around the small sycamore, but Aletta insisted it should be cleared.
"Because it's a trail, and because we're here, that's why. Shut up and keep working!" The half-elf stared down at Dorn, who sighed exasperatedly.
"Here, use Moon Shadow, it'll be easier." Karven went to hand over the magical axe, but Dorn stared at him, shocked.
"You don't use a blade like that for cutting trees!" the dwarf began to protest."You use it for cutting--"
"Knees," Arolith interrupted, smirking.
While everyone else was busy, Gyrus stood picking Camrae's pockets. He examined the odd items, and carefully put them back, especially when he smelled some of them.
"Hey! You fool! If you've mixed up my spell materials...!" The elf glared darkly at the halfling, wouldn't the idiot ever learn? He'd told Gyrus a thousand times that the wrong component in the right pocket could get him killed.
"Ah, oh, it's you, you're wizardship. Thought you were somebody else, this being a crowded thoroughfare; lots of travellers, merchants..., and besides, be it lock or bit pocket there is no thing that I cannot Pickett!" He cockily sauntered up the trail to annoy someone lese.
"That halfling! Von't change till he's dead, probably get vorse then!" Dorn snorted.
"There's something out there!" Aletta spoke under her breath, and pointed carefully towards the woods to the right of the trail, where a sentry bird had started to sing out its warning. A gloating sense of evil filled Karven's senses, and they hurriedly readied to battle.
"GARSHOG!" the hoarse cry resounded amongst the forest as nearly a hundred frenzied, green-skinned warriors rushed through the trees towards them!
"Orcs!" Dorn shouted, recognizing the war cry of his hereditary enemies. "HARBARA GUUNSHI! YA PIG FACED--" the dwarf let out a string of curses in the orcish tongue.
A mace wielding orc raced at Karven, who swung Moon Shadow in both hands; the enchanted blade tore the orc's arm off and the paladin shouldered the dying beast away to give more room.
Dorn flung his hatchet with tremendous force, missing one monster, but catching another straight in the face. The dwarf picked up his cutlass, ducked under a sweeping blade, and a brutal thrust sent the orc straight to Hell.
As the rest of the monstrous band charged in on them, Aletta gave cover to the person she loved, and stood in front of Camrae. A blade lanced for her stomach, but she swatted it away with her large knife, and thrust the magically sharp blade of her broadsword into the orc's neck, blood sprayed in the sunlight. Some of it hers, for another one of the howling humanoids came in fast, tearing her left arm with a spear thrust that almost missed.
The noon sun aided the travellers, for the orcs were almost blinded by it; but the wizard's gold, their lust for murder and sheer weight of numbers lent the vicious brutes courage. Six against two hundred and six were not good odds, the kind of odds orcs favour, which was why they were so dangerous.
A barricade of magical force appeared in front of the charging line of orcs, it spread amongst the trees like a gossamer veil, and many were caught, or blocked, by Camrae's spell. 
Some of the bestial warriors ran around the spell and came against them, their snarling faces flushed with hate. A gnomish pick imbedded itself in one of the orcish eyes, the metal spike emerging from the side of the monster's head. The fallen tree was giving Arolith plenty of cover.
There were howls and shrieks as orcs fell with broken knees and shattered toes as Lullaby went to work. Gyrus ran frantically from cover to cover as the bewildered orcs tried to find him, but the hafling was almost invisible amidst the thick ferns around the place they had chosen for the ambush.
With a quick thrust the half-elf disembowelled her latest attacker, and the relieved Camrae prepared another, more devastating spell. The orcs were undisciplined, and fought in small groups, otherwise things would have been a lot worse.
As several time before, Dorn and Karven stood side by side, their blades flashing, cutting, cleaving. The three orcs before them hardly injured either of them before they were chopped to bloody carcasses. 
Where was that damn halfling? The orc jabbed around in the ferns, trying to find the elusive thief. The thief found him instead, the magical mace sailed up from the ferns, and smashed into the monster's groin. Clutching its privates, the orc collapsed, unable to even scream.
Magic was an art, and when a wizard cast a spell, he could manipulate its size, shape and other factors to suit the tapestry of power he wove. The Elven Web spell was large, but weak, and now the main body of orcs were forcing through it. Another factor was the potency of the components used in the application of the Art, and the mage took a piece of the lightning-struck runestone from his pocket, and began to chant. He knew the danger, this was going to be difficult to control. There were far too many orcs, a Fireball would not be sufficient.
A blazing sphere of light appeared around the wizard, so bright that it blinded all but the elf, who was buffeted by ethereal winds. Tendrils of leaping, jerking electricity slashed out from his hands, spraying deadly energies in a massive fan-shaped swath of destruction. Orc flesh sizzled, their weapons melted, trees exploded as sap instantly boiled at incredible temperatures, and scything chunks of wood killed yet more orcs. Camrae's skill had transmogrified the simple Lightning Spark spell into something far deadlier. But there was a price. The elf was suddenly lifted and hurled backwards by a tremendous force, he smashed through a rotted tree, and fell, his body smouldering.
It was too much for the orcs, shrieking, burnt, blackened and chased by glowing cinders they ran. Five heroes stood exhausted, adrenalin coursing through them, causing their limbs to shake, but several of them didn't feel like heroes at all.
They found Camrae, and Aletta jerked back in pain when she touched him, for power still coursed through him. Despite their fears, he was mostly unhurt; he had guessed there might be such a reaction, as the runestone had been flung through the air, but he had bargained on its mystic enchantments which had saved it, and now him. Funnily enough, his clothes were singed where metal items had touched them.
Mechanically, Karven cleaned Moon Shadow, his mind saddened by the dead bodies, the horrid screams of those who had been burned to death, and the stench was dreadful--it was like badly scorched ham mixed with the thick smell of wood smoke. The elf identified another component of the stench as ozone, caused by the electrical spell. The ranger and the elf looked appalled at the burning trees, the spell had blasted clear a triangular area over a hundred yards long. Camrae considered for a moment, comprehending the forces he had unleashed. One miscalculation and the spell would have been released in his hands! Aletta and his friends would have been incinerated! While his comrades congratulated him for saving them, his conscience was sorely troubled. He must stick to the established dweomers, as fascinating as this development was. With luck, the fire wouldn't spread, as the sycamores didn't burn like the tarnin pines, and there was no way to put it out.
Wearily, they continued on their way, Aletta's reassurance that Cho Bounty's home was not far lightened their spirits. Dorn alone seemed unaffected by the events, he was a dwarven scout and had seen many horrors in the Greydepths, and beside, every dead orc was a good orc. Even the happy-go-lucky halfling and gnome were somewhat subdued, both their races liked the forest, and Gyrus had no stomach for slaughter.
But the gods do listen to the prayers of their servants, and Heijaniss heard the ranger's plea for the fire to stop. Nearby, Kerahan the druid saw the smoke, and worriedly went to see whether it was a natural manifestation, in which case he would let it burn, or the work of intelligence, which may require punishment. Soon the forest fire was under control, quenched by rain from a curious, swirling, stationary cloud, under which the druid sang.

              *                *                 *                  *                  *

Fangspike raged when he saw how few of his warriors returned from the forest ambush; dejectedly the monsters stumbled from among the trees beyond the lair's entrance, heading for home. Some were badly scorched and most stunk of wood smoke.
Growling furiously, the big orc stomped back into the cave until he came to a large grotto, from which numerous passages branched away into the distance. Here the wizard sat on a bench carved from a stalagmite, idly rolling something dark between his fingers.
"Half my kin are dead, dwarf-face!" The chieftain advanced with his huge claymore ready to thrust through the wizard's guts, but fear made the orc hold back. Dozens of his angry warriors surrounded him, urging Fangspike to kill the trouble making human.
The wizard was hurriedly muttering, finished, he took the item in his hand, a small crystal skull carved from a rare form of smoky quartz, and hurled it at the chieftain. Everything in a huge area suddenly became shades of purple and blue, save for a globe around Chiasmus.
Fangspike dropped his sword, screaming as his soul was ripped from his body, and then he fell to the cold floor, dead. Around the grotto, orcs collapsed in droves as Ventulis's Death Spell snuffed out their pitiful lives, forty dead in only three seconds. The survivors shrieked and ran for their lives, until another skull was thrown at them, and dozens more died, leaving only a few, fear crazed survivors in the grotto.
From his pouch, Chiasmus brought forth a vial, he muttered, he gestured, and spattered the vial's fluid over the bodies. The corpse of Fangspike, shuddered...hands clenched and pushed the body upright, as it stood, more undead horrors jerked, and rose to unlife around the cavern.
Chiasmus pointed at the fleeing orcs, and gave instructions to his minions, "GO! Kill every living orc you find, kill them all!"
The zombies shuffled forward, and those who had been out of range of the Death Spells found there was no escape from this, as the walking dead chased them down the dark passages. Several times Chiasmus used his abominable spells of unlife, glorying in his power as he sent more death servants out to slay. To complete the task, he unravelled a scroll, and read forth words of magic. A huge cloud of green gas materialized in front of him, filling much of the grotto. Concentrating, he sent it down into the deep holes, the Cloud of Enervation wouldn't harm his band of undead killers, but would render everyone else it encountered palsied, weak and slow, easy prey for the zombies.
Grinning hugely, Chiasmus walked to the entrance. His form shifted and blurred, and the thin, swarthy and unremarkable features of the renegade wizard reappeared. 
"One last touch should do it." he spoke as blood curdling shrieks echoed up out of the darkness. Taking a small block of granite from a pocket, he began to chant. From the ground in front of him a ridge of stone grew, until it completely sealed the entrance to the orc lair. He concentrated for a moment and the magical stone became rough and textured; the cave looked like it came to a short, but natural end, sealing in the awful secrets of the cavern forever.
Now that was a real demonstration of power! An enchanter could have Charmed them into doing it, but only a necromancer could finish it so neatly. The real source of power was not gold, but the ability to unleash death and destruction. None of the beasts would live to tell the tale, and if one did, so what? They would never recognize him again. Real power that was, and he still had his gold, as well as some baubles he had picked up. His funds were running low, which was why the evil wizard had been unable to hire three veteran killers, only two; skulls of Hell-Heart quartz, and other spell components, cost a fortune. Well now he could Teleport inside with Panas the flesh golem and collect what he liked.
But as for those adventurers, it looked like he would have to use Loric after all, damn it, but they would have to wait until they were away from Cho Bounty's domain. Well, he'd see to their deaths personally this time, and it would be good to see Langanis in action.

                *              *                 *                    *                 *

  
                                         CHAPTER 9
                                             Cho's bounty



"Orc's bollocks!" The dwarf swore, his words lost amidst the tumultuous thunder, the crashing roar of the great waterfall Dorn and his companions stood below.
Camrae was shaking his head, amazed by the spectacle of the five hundred foot drop of the Dragon's Fall; the cascade exploded on the huge granite shelf at its base, and made him tremble in awe of the water's beautiful and majestic power. The elf turned for a moment as Aletta clasped his hand, and he watched the shimmering rainbow light of the fall reflected in the mirrors of her eyes.
There was tremendous hollow bang, and Karven jumped in fright as a log shattered against the granite base, flinging wet splinters around the narrow gorge they stood in. Warily, they retreated several paces in case any more storm blown trees crashed over the huge drop and imperiled them.
The paladin looked at the broken ridge high above them, and dizzy fear went through him. MacRhev the Ranger actually climbed up that! he thought in terrified wonder. Arolith tugged his arm and pointed to the odd holes around the top, the paladin nodded, recognizing the patches of glinting rock around the depressions; granite heated so hot it had melted and turned to glass--dragon fire!
"That was one stupid dragon!" said Gyrus, scornfully. "Imagine fighting somebody there, no wonder it got squashed!"
Aletta turned to him, "Say that next time you meet Blood Scale, before he toasts you!" She could imagine MacRhev, armed with spears, throwing them desperately at the huge red wyrm. How its scales must have shimmered in the rainbow that always lit the fall, day or night!
"So you've met the great red dragon o' the Highlands then?" a voice called out from behind them.
Surprised, they turned around, and saw the man who spoke standing on a rock, about thirty feet above them.
"Hold on," the newcomer spoke. "I'll come down to ye, I was going this way anyhow." He led the way with his staff, jumping down the steeper parts of the trail with a surprisingly youthful spring.
Warily the six companions watched him walk up: a man of over thirty, with a long, dark brown beard, and wearing a sheepskin jerkin and trousers. The only weapon he bore was the staff of glinting, bronze-looking ramwood; Karven knew that was a deceptively lethal thing to carry, it was stronger than steel.
"Who are you stranger?" the paladin asked politely. Carefully he lowered Moon Shadow in a gesture of friendship, wishing Dorn would do the same.
"Kerahan the druid, and I know one o' ye: Aletta Karlsen. So what be ye doing here?" There was an odd tension in the way the fellow addressed the last question to the rest of them.
"Ve're travelling, vat's that to you? the dwarf snarled.
Karven moaned into himself, there was no need for trouble! "We're going to see Cho Bounty, druid. Is there anything wrong?" He manoeuverd himself in front of the truculent Dorn. Druids and dwarves rarely got on, as the underground dwellers viewed forests as potential fuel and architecture, not part of a greater nature that must be kept in harmony.
"No trouble, but I'd like to talk to Aletta, alone if ye please." Kerahan was being courteous as he could, druids by nature were not overtly violent, or used to social gatherings.
Camrae was surprised by the almost meek way the half-elf let herself be led on ahead, over the bridge made of three trees that a wizard had turned to solid stone. 
It was becoming painfully obvious that if they remained here much longer the thunderous falls would make them deaf. Shrugging, the paladin followed the departing pair at a discreet distance, he and his friends puzzled by what the stranger could want with Aletta. A druidic discussion?
"Who started the fire?" the druid sternly asked.
"We were attacked by orcs," Aletta pleaded, she was badly frightened. The ranger had only met Kerahan once before, and was unsure of his reaction, powerful druids had terrible ways of settling accounts with those who attacked Nature herself. "It was in honest defence. He's an elf, do you think he meant to burn the forest?"
"I thought that. There were many dead orcs about." To the druid, death was merely a cycle of nature, and he had patiently scoured the area, checking the fires were out, absorbing the scene, letting it flow into the circle of life. Several badly burned, frightened or just plain lost orcs had survived, and in the circle of things, he had healed them, and sent ravens to show them the way home.
"But tell me," The druid pushed aside the leaves of a huge fern. "Did ye kill them all? Their lair I mean."
"No, why should we? Or how could we, we're not that powerful!" Aletta snorted, her fear had been replaced by curiosity.
"Their lair was sealed by stone, unnatural stone at that. The rocks spoke to me, they said unholy things were now in the halls o' the orcs, and that a strange human had walked over the," Kerahan stopped, and sat on an overblown tree, motioning for the ranger to join him. Aletta could well believe the rocks had spoke, while not a druid, she knew much of them, and their powers.
"I turned into a small bat, to investigate the caves; there's an old dwarven ventilation shaft I used. Zombies, Aletta, the man turned the dead orcs into zombies! What kind o' foul scum does that?"
The others caught up to the pair, and the druid asked them to sit and listen as well. 
"Those orcs ye fried, a few escaped." Kerahan turned to Camrae. "May I ask ye to refrain from using fiery spells in the dry forests? Yer attack was reasonable--kill or be killed--but the forest is not yer enemy, you of all people should know that."
Humbly, the elven wizard asked his pardon and swore by Heijaniss's name that he would never willfully cause such havoc, unless he had no other choice.
The druid understood, although it pained the half-elf to see bare patches of scorched earth, they knew that with their long lives they would live to see tall trees grow there once more.
"Where are ma manners?" He offered them some berries and smoked hare, which they gratefully accepted, Dorn included. No one broke the laws of hospitality in Alba, except the orcish races and some things worse than them. "As I said to your ranger friend, the orcs ye attacked? Well their tribe, their families, children an' all were wiped out, bar a few I helped."
Karven looked appalled, children? Orcish or otherwise made no difference to him. Unlike his human friend, Dorn felt little, even for the young. It was brutal fact of dwarven existence that they killed all orcs they met, save babes. The bearded folk couldn't bring themselves to kill infants, but if they could lift a sword, they died. Orcs had no word in their tongue for mercy, and so they were given none.
"From what I learned, the orcs were hired by a wizard in dark robes to slaughter all of ye, he wanted something you had, yer treasure was his, those who touched it would die. Well, he must have been angered that they failed, and killed most of them in revenge, then turned the dead ones into zombies to slay the rest. I managed to get some o' the live ones out by asking the rocks to open. I just hope none of the undead escaped." 
Many of a druids powers weren't exactly spells, it was more a question of cooperation with the forces of life.
Concern and worry shone in the druid's eyes as he spoke once more, prompted by old, painful memories, "It looks like a necromancer is after ye! For I ken well their stink, though it be some time since I fought Tashagrii."
They were all badly frightened by this: zombies? Assassins were something you could understand, and even deal with; but black magic? Karven grimaced.
"If you're a druid, how'd you eat meat and wear skins?" Arolith might be worried, but his burning desire for knowledge could never rest.
Surprised at the gnome's lack of understanding, the druid explained some of his beliefs. Kerahan couldn't know that Arolith had spent most of his life underground with dwarves, instead of amongst the wooded hills like the rest of his kind.
Contrary to what city folk thought, druids ate meat and wore clothing made from animals as most people did. Animals lived by killing, whether it was plants or one another, it was in their nature to consume living things; why deny part of your existence? When a creature died, it rejoined the natural circle, and if you took its skin to help your life, that was natural too, didn't birds make nests? What druids hated though, was destruction for its own sake, or for greed or stupidity.
To slay a black mountain lion because it ate your sheep was part of the circle, kill or starve; but to wear the animal's skin merely because it was 'pretty'? Or to chop down all the ramwood trees because they could be sold to a warlord for gold? These things were wrong and the druids took pains to prevent such from happening. All must live in the circle, even orcs, though Kerahan had slain more than a few to stop their destructive rampages.
Karven was happy to listen to the druid, though he could never follow such a calling, the paladin liked people too much, and there was always evil. It was a force that had to be fought, you couldn't just let an orc kill someone or a bully like Jal Vardiss maim people whenever they liked. People were more than deer, or wolves, they had emotion, reason, love and hate. The circle of life? Yes, It seemed right, but there was the soul, and it was  more than just 'life'.
Wishing them well, Kerahan departed back up the trail. The paladin stood thinking for a while. It was the druids who had healed much of the scars the Necronian Wars had caused, but now that humanity was spreading once again, the wild places were being encroached on. The woodland priests didn't mind this, as long as the balance was kept, but blood had been spilt, by greedy timber merchants and enraged druids. But it was a lesson he had learned, everything did have a certain balance, for hadn't the Necronian Wars been started in the name of Good? After all, the Formorians had once been the champions of fair Atlantis, and fought for the cause of right. The path of Good was a twisted and devious thing--the road was straight and narrow all right, but the people on it often became blinkered and fell off, and Karven was wary of becoming narrow-minded.
The chill waters of the Dragon's Fall sprayed down on the naked druid, stood under a small plume to one side. Invigorated by the shower, he put on his garments. "Damn!" he swore, the halfling had pilfered something. Oh well, it was not life threatening, and some how it seemed right that the cocky fellow had the peculiar coin.
Aletta pleased him, although not so steadfast and irresolute in her ideals, she still served the goddess. The ranger-priest generally helped people, and seemed to serve Heijaniss's more gentle, healing aspect, but her blades killed, keeping the balance. The elf should make her an ideal mate; unlike a human he would live long enough to see her grow old, and their children, then would come the Pain of Elves. When all their friends were dust, elves grew weary--some did die, for they weren't truly immortal--but others left for Iwnr, to find peace. As an adventurer Camrae might find death, many elves secretly chose that path, knowing that if they passed on, it would be alongside their friends.
Kerahan thought of the pain he sometimes saw in the eyes of his wife, Menyeisah. Still, as a druid, his life would be far longer than a normal man's. Not through spells, but because of his 'balance', his knowledge and control of his own body.
Calling upon the powers of the world, the druid became a golden eagle, and soared back to his home. Menyeisah was suckling their child, and he thought of the paladin he had met. Despite his beliefs, he was glad that folk such as young Karven still walked the land. He had heard that the ancient word 'paladin' meant 'defender'. The druid looked at his beloved daughter, in the insanity of human cities, there was a need for defenders.

               *                 *                 *                   *              *

Two massive towers of hardened granite granite hove into view as the travellers came to Cho Bounty's home. They were built into the base of a craggy spire, from which several turrets emerged at odd intervals, but it had an oddly pleasing look, and the whole was reassuring rather than forbidding.
A great door of mirrored bronze stretched between the two towers, and it glinted fiercely in the lowering sun. Karven found himself taking the lead as the others were a bit unsure. Aletta wasn't bothered about meeting the great archmage--as she had once been used to meeting princes of royal blood and wizard-kings from the Southern islands--but the half-elf stayed beside Camrae anyway.
"Excuse me!" Karven shouted up at the battlement that ran between the towers, he felt ridiculous, but how else should he introduce himself? "We've come to see Cho Bounty, will he see us?"
"Hold ye horses boy! I'll go see," a voice replied. The paladin hadn't been mistaken when he saw an armoured helmet shining up there.
They waited several tense moments, during which Camrae harshly warned the halfling against stealing if they were allowed in. The elf pointed to a group of odd statues amongst the trees. "Ogres, they've been petrified, and he might do the same to you!"
With a gentle creek, the small postern door in the great gate opened up, and a human in plate armour politely asked them to come in.
Thanking the man, Karven led them inside. Dorn stopped for a moment, and prodded the ground outside and to the right of the gate; his axe disappeared beneath the supposedly solid stone. An illusion! There was probably a deep moat around the entrance, this was one smart wizard. He followed in behind the rest, down a long marble walled corridor.
The paladin could feel many eyes staring at him as he followed the armoured warrior, he didn't need Arolith to tell him that this passageway was filled with illusions and many deadly traps. He calmed a momentary flash of nerves, Jal Vardiss's calls of "Formor Face!" echoed in his mind. No, the wizard would be a good man, he hoped.
"Through there sirs, lady; my master will be with you in a minute or two." The warrior opened the stout door at the end of the passage, and Aletta gave him her most pleasant smile, determined to be as pleasant as possible. Camrae frowned at her flirting, but didn't realize it was because the ranger was nervous, especially when the man shut the door behind them. The half-elf disliked being underground, she could feel the rock pressing down on all sides. Give her the wide forests any day!
A huge log fire blazed in the pleasant circular room. Silver candelabras glowed with spells of soft light which showed off the beautiful alabaster sculptures which dotted the room.
Karven admired the room's artwork in wonder: the sculptures were mostly of dragons and elven archers, and the domed roof was painted a violet-blue colour. There was a large, round table of polished rosewood, and it was set with seven chairs, richly upholstered in red velvet.
Silently, a door opened beside the fire, and they all jumped as a man stepped through the concealed portal which blended into the walls.
The newcomer was a handsome man in his early thirties, with long, pale blonde hair and a short beard. He wore a white shirt of silk, and a blue kilt set with lines of golden yellow (the kilt was of no clan known to Karven). A very pleasant looking fellow indeed, although three broad, parallel scars ran down the left side of his face.
"Be seated my friends." he said cordially.
Looking uncertainly at each other, the companions did so.
"I am, as I'm sure you've guessed, Cho Bounty. How may I help you?" The archmage smiled warmly.
Gyrus nudged Karven with his elbow, clearing his throat, he began to explain. "We found a scroll, a Sable Earl assassin had it, we killed him when he attacked us. It had a sort of elvish poem on it." The paladin began to recite the lines Camrae had deciphered in the Adventurers Inn.
"So we thought it meant you sir, so we have brought it to you." Camrae concluded.
"Let me see it," Cho Bounty asked. None of travellers realised as they handed the scroll tube over that the wizard was not actually in front of them, what they saw was a magical sending, a very powerful form of illusion that had a solid reality. The real archmage was in a nearby room using a crystal ball to scry on them; people had tried to kill him on several occasions, and he took no chances. Strangely, the hafling he knew was amongst them didn't show in the view, and the rest were partially obscured as well--a Ring of Obscurement?
"I'm sorry, but I can't get the cap off," the illusionary wizard said, for it was locked in some way. He gave it back to the paladin, who opened it easily, and apologized as he returned the scroll case.
The archmage examined the parchment for a moment, a long, slow moment. It took all of Cho Bounty's incredible strength of will not to stand up shrieking in alarm.
"This, this is an important matter." Camrae looked worriedly at Karven, he didn't like the tremor in Cho Bounty's voice. "Wait here, I'll have food and drink brought while I examine this document."
Before they could say more, the archmage left, leaving them staring at  each other, perplexed at his reaction.
True to his word, several servants entered bringing fine wines and venison, but they put off the curious gnome's many questions. Puzzled by what was going on, they ate in silence.

               *                    *                *                   *               *

It had finally happened, after many centuries, the end had come. Cho Bounty sat weeping with the scroll laid out before him, its magical writing had changed as he touched the parchnment. He looked at the ancient words:
"In honour written, in honour given, 
By a paladin I hope to be forgiven, 
By a dragon I must be shriven,
By five races I shall be given,
In Atlantis I am known as Lirgan."
The archamge composed himself, and entered his hidden vault. There, amidst treasures long forgotten, or long sought, he opened an ornate chest of carved malachite, and took from it the cylinder of Lirgan of Zaldariss.
With a sigh, Cho Bounty regarded the bronze tube. The magical cylinder was made of rings covered with letters, which the wizard manipulated to reveal its hidden message.
"I am written by Lirgan, who some men call the Obliterator of Atlantis, listen and heed my warning:
Rabon BlackSun, Suzerain of the Formors, found in some unknown place, a sphere. This was during the war against the Necronian Empire, and might were the battles that we fought, for all wished the end of those evil people. And the Sphere spoke to Rabon, and told him ways of power, thus did he unleash its might on the Dark Empress, Kenhilisahde.
The vast city of Necron, wich took great delight in worshipping Baal, Etrah and Tiimor, was swept away by an explosion such as had never been seen. As the light burned unbearably white, and stone melted, a terrible cloud of black ash followed in its wake. And the fields of battle, many miles distant, vanished under the darkness.
So began the misery known as the Blight. Seven million people perished that first day, the great city was blasted from existance, and left a dark shadow of itself behind that men will fear for all eternity. The heat was so great that people vapourized, leaving images of themselves burned into the stone  for miles around, and their bitter, evil spirits became the things known as Shadows. But the dark cloud caused even more miseries, for it harboured the Blight poisons.
The entire Northern part of the Gennan continent, which men will one day call the lands of Kobarc, Kaarth and the Runglar Steppe, became a place of misery. Flesh fell from bone, and sickness and pestilence came to the Nineteen Armies. The Bilight was hard to treat, even by high magics, and many perished, many.
Nercron became the first Bane Pit, but more were to follow. The Formorians, whom we archmages of Atlantis had strengthened, altered with our magic, were seduced by the sphere's dark power. 'NecroSphere' they called the hellish thing. A price was paid though, Prince Sevegar, the mascot, the smiling dandy whom they loved, lay dying, poisoned by the Blight that his own father had caused.
Now the Formorians had always eschewed the gods, believing that men must find their own path, and that the worship of gods weakened warriors, leading them away from the true path of internal strength. The gods let them be, as it was their own choice, and those were the enlightened days. But there was a problem, only priests could easily heal the Blight poison, and Sevegar, being the gallant young man he was, had led his army close to the gates of Necron, close to the poisons. And swiftly he was dying, his father would allow no priest to come near him.
Rabon came to me, Lirgan, the leader of Atlantis, and asked my aid, for we were old friends. I agreed, and replaced Sevegar's bones with mithril, for it was in the bones the poison lingered. But I told him, the toxin still remains in part, and it was unlike anything we had ever seen, being both physical and mystical, and tainted with some dark essence. We learned that part of its power was an emanation, similar to that found in certain rocks, but far stronger, and there was something else, a soul-poison from that vile city? Sevegar grew worse, and it was not until months later I learned what Rabon, my friend had done. 
The NecroSphere was a thing of secrets, and it whispered. Rabon, who until then, had been a good, if headstrong fellow, listened, for all he cared for in this life was his son. And Sevegar was healed, and the Formorians rejoiced, but he had become a drinker of blood, and was driven mad. Rabon kept all this hushed and away from prying eyes. I knew of the problem with the mithril bones, but up till then infusions of special potions gave him blood. A colleague of mine, a physician of wonderous skill, was going to implant new bonemarrow in Sevegar, and all would have been well, though I still wonder about the taint that had stuck so deep in the brave youth. Oh Rabon, why could you not wait?
Now you must understand, we Atlanteans were archmges of incredible power, and I the mightiest who had ever lived; I had achieved the might of the ninety fourth rank (or the seventh circle of Temerrii, if you use the Algandian system). Across many Planes we spread, bringing peace and civilization, for we had a vast thirst for knowledge and goods, what better way to acquire both than to make friends? It was not always easy, for there were many evil or backward folk who resisted progress; perhaps we were wrong to share our ways with others? Yet much good I still believe was done by we Atlanteans.
But we disliked violence or bloodshed, and felt it wrong to enslave whole planets with our magic, so the Formorians protected us, shielded us from harsh realities. There has never been an army like the Formorian Horde, disciplined and proud, honourable and brave; but prerhaps in all the centuries of fighting they became too brutalized, for they eventually lusted after combat.
To allow our warrior guards easy access across the Planes, my grandfather and his colleagues created the Tower of Glass, a fabulous artifact that, like Atlantis, could exist in several places at the same time. Should a terrible war break out on some troubled world, and our persuasive magic not work, a million Formorians could be rapidly transported to stop the viloence. And yet that was not enough for Rabon. Using the power of the NecroSphere he caused a huge castle, an enormous, hexagonal bastion to rise up from the ground. Ten leagues on a side it was, a mile huge and twice as deep, and it was called 'Sohrello', which means ''strong'' in the ancient Formorian tongue. Thus did the Fortress of Ash come to be built. My unease grew, who did Rabon fear so greatly that he needed such an unbreechable castle to hide in? And was there no limit to the NecroSphere's powers?
There was still one pocket of evil left in our world: Acheron, a large island in what is now the Sea of a Thousand Isles. Its Queen was Charbyrda, sister of the late Empress Kenhilisahde. She was both cleric and wizard, and had great powers over water, thus the besiging army was stalled against her. In her despair she turned to her god, Etrah the Reaver, the lover of bloodshed, and asked for a mighty spell that would unleash the banished Sihruss on the world once again! As the price for summoning the Eater of Ten Thousand Souls, she would sacrifice her own daughter.
Rabon heard of this, and in his fear for Atlantis, for me, he once more unleashed the NecroSphere. Wary of its Blight poison, he demanded a safer form of destruction, and a hundred meteors crashed into Acheron, and slew all who lived there, and those a thousand miles from it. He, a mortal, had summoned the wrathful might of the Gods Storm! Rabon thought that was a more controllable type of annihalation than the other powers contained in the tiny artifact! The fool merely wanted Acheron itself wiped out, but like a Wish it granted his true desire: obliteration on a grand scale!
We were shocked, frightened. The power the Sphere had was beyond all proportion to its size or seeming abilities, for we couldn't fathom its working nor manufacture. Worried, I pleaded with Rabon to put it aside, it was too dangerous. But its whispers had infected him, and then it infected me, for he made me its servant, thinking to help me understand it. No wizard, and few gods, could ever enslave my will, but that cursed thing did, and for the next five years we commited atrocities. Worlds enslaved, poisoned, shattered.
I saw the NecroSphere conjure a ball of AntiMatter, and drop it onto a planet. Have you ever heard a world scream? How many billions we slew I will hopefully never know.
In our own world, Erynavar, people grew worried, especially when some Planar travellers spoke of what was happening. The reason why we of Atlantis were so powerful in magic was that our island home rested on seven dimensions at the same time. How this was, no one ever knew, but the tensions between the seven Planes created great magic and we used this with ease. I returned, and found that Previs, the one called Clear Heart, had led a rebellion against my rule of the Five Ring Council.
Enraged, I was prepared to detroy him, and urged on by the dark thoughts of the NecroSphere, everyone else around me as well. Previs broke his staff on the Anii-Mojahn, the great crystal of magic, releasing its energies in the hope of destroying me before the spell was complete. He knew the act was suicide, but he was ever brave and noble.
The dweomer I was casting was too powerful, the interruption and flow of uncontrolled energy from the staff and Anii-Mojahn caused a catastrophy. Atlantis was under great strain, many of the wizards were already warring in the streets, the upsurge of magic shook the isle to its very core, and then shattered it throughout its many fold existance.
Many months passed before I was able to return to Erynavar. My homeland was destroyed. There are now four Atlantis's in existance, each scattered across the Planes of Reality, three more were lost or utterly destroyed. The gods cursed one part, and gave it to the evil wizards who had followed my path, though the NecroSphere had never coerced them. This men call Black Atlantis, for the eyes of all who live there are as dark as their hearts; fear it. Blue Atlantis is the home I once knew, but cannot come near; Previs Clear Heart is now a demigod and lives there. Of the other two, one is in a drowned place in a magicless world, the other is in a strange desert, and I know little of it.
Seeing Atlantis destroyed, the people of the world grew angry, and afraid, even more so when the Formorians abandoned the red sword and white shield--their ancient flag--and took instead the symbol of the Black Sun.
A war started, and Rabon once more unleashed the Blight upon his own world. But the wizards of Alba, who had always been sly and crafty, fashioned a shield, and the Formorians, who had lost many of their men around Necron and Acheron, and now much of their honour, retreated.
N'Skell, the home of the Formorians, was invaded by the outraged people of Erynavar, and Rabon cast down on them destruction far greater than had been wrought on Necron. But the Alban shield held, leaving Rabon's own country a deadly nightmare, and the foul poisons were borne into the Fortress of Ash through the Land Gate as the Horde sallied forth to battle.
Enraged, the Suzerain of the Formorians demanded the NecroSphere conjure the most deadly thing in existance, and the Black Sun appeared. Well named had been Rabon.
Imagine the sun being eclipsed with absolute ebony, and withering tendrils of dark luminesence surrounding it. The most hellish thing that had ever been, for the foul globe was the essence of all evil. The Black Sun was made from matter so dense that it had fallen through existance, and into those eternal depths had been cast the darkest spirit by the ancient gods, using it as the ultimate prison.
The Just Gods intervened. They plucked me from my cowering hole in the Astral Plane and materialized me next to Rabon, for the magics of the Tower of Glass were attuned to let me pass. The destruction of Atlantis had freed my mind, and seeing the Black Sun, I stole the NecroSphere from him. Rabon could not believe I could do such a thing, especially when I dashed it on the floor.
The world shook, and lost a part of its life. A year had once been five hundred days long, now it is four hundred and twenty, such had the planet suffered. The Black Sun retreated, the death and carnage it fed on lost to it. Quickly I left, taking the five pieces of the NecroSphere with me; Rabon and the Formorians were deluged with the poisons of their own land, that was the gods' curse upon them for all time.
So I scattered the pieces, I know not where, for my mind was a whirl. I created a magical scroll, marking where the pieces lay. Why? I know not, but I suspect one of the god's involvement. Here I sit in Zaldariss, helping the twisted people who live on this Blight wasted island, innocent people harmed by my stupidity. That is my penance: men shall forget me, I, the greatest wizard who ever lived, will become Lirgan the Forgotten of Zaldariss, here shall I tend these poor folk, until the end.
But one day the scroll will be found, and then pray to your gods, for I do not think the Black Sun will allow itself to be contained gain. Here are words for those of wisdom, the first verse of the scroll is my lament of forgiveness, and I hope redemption, for surely in the fullness of time, someone can destroy that cursed NecroSphere?
In honour written, in honour given
By a paldin I hope to be forgiven,
By the dragon I must be shriven,
By six people I shall be given,
In Atlantis I am known as Lirgan."

                *              *                 *                 *                   *

With a heavy heart, Cho Bounty considered his options. Obviously more was on the scroll, but it probably had magics which allowed only certain parts to show when specific tasks were completed, such as giving the scroll to himself. If the gods were involved. it would be just their kind of foolishness. Damn them! Couldn't the gods play fair with mortals, just for once? Quests and such were fine for heroes, but this was about the world, Hell, more than just this world if Lirgan was correct.
They'd have to destroy the NecroSphere, it was the only way. Obviously the 'six people' would be the only beings the damn scroll would react with. Damn, damn, DAMN IT!
Saddend and angry, Cho Bounty decided he'd have to find out more about his visitors, and what could, or should be done.

                *               *                *                 *                 *

"Rested my friends?" They jumped as Cho Bounty suddenly materialized in the circular room beside them.
The archmage began to chat away to them in a friendly manner, though Karven was sure that he was under some kind of strain. Try as they might, Cho Bounty refused to answer their questions about the scroll, saying he would speak of it later on. Just now, all he was interested in was them.
With a growing unease, Camrae began to realize that the friendly archamge was almost desperate for information; why? It seemed a very methodical, but friendly form of inquisition.
But the elf alone saw this. Unknown to them, Cho Bounty had cast a Charm spell on all but Camrae. He knew that it was hard to influence the mind of a wizard, and his elven blood made him less susceptible to magic in any event. The Charm spell made him seem like a trusted friend, and thus it was easier to find out more about the people who carried the scroll.
Afterwards, they were shown to sumptous apartments in a large tower that jutted out from the archmage's home.
The elven mage talked to his friends, and Camrae's disquiet grew when he found out their deep, and sudden liking for Cho Bounty, especially the dwarf. Dorn didn't like anybody! And nobody liked him either.
Karven walked up to the elf, and spoke out of the corner of his mouth, "Something's wrong, do you think Cho Bounty's cast a spell on us?"
A sigh of relief escaped Camrae's lips, he wasn't just imagining it then. Karven's strong will had protected the paladin from the Charm spell.
"I think so, but if he had meant to harm us he could have done worse. He's probably worried about the Sable Earls." Even so, the elf was angry at their host interfering with them like this, he'd better have a good reason.
A voice suddenly spoke in Camrae's ear. "Forgive me, I have my reasons, I will explain them later." It was Cho Bounty's voice, carried to them by the invisible winds of magic.

               *                  *                 *                 *                *

Later that night, they were invited to a grand feast. Many of Cho Bounty's warrior guard were there, dressed for the occassion. It was an odd fact, but all of the exquisitely attired soldiers were very alike, and resembled the archmage with their thick, blonde hair and solid looks; they might all have been brothers or cousins.
The companions felt out of place amongst such grandeur, although their host had thoughtfully delivered fine robes for them: kilts and silk shirts for the gentlemen, and a pale yellow silk blouse and dark green skirt for Aletta.
Kerahan the druid was also there, though he had a somewhat worried look. The archmage had gone looking for him and brought the woodland priest here, explaining that there was a very important task at hand. 
It was no surprise to Camrae and Karven when Dorn slipped back into his usual obnoxious self. Dwarves were highly resistant to magic and the Charm spell had quickly worn off. He was presently arm wrestling two of the guardmen, at the same time!
Cho Bounty called for attention, then politely asked them if they would accompany him into his study. The guards remained behind.
Smelling of old leather and musty books, the study was a wonderful place, and Arolith began to feverishly examine it. The archmage seemed to accept this, he had known many gnomes in his long life, indeed, one had been his greatest friend.
"I've asked you all in here because I want to explain about the scroll you brought to me. Druid Kerahan is here for a reason, but to the main point." Cho Bounty sat upon his scribing table.
The archmage looked at them slowly, one by one. "You have found the scroll which shows where Chenvar the Jewel Master lies buried. To be precise, a method to gain entrance, and escape alive. Everyone who has been to Ilanker knows the tomb's location, but none have ever left alive who entered."
"Chenvar was notorious for his tricks and swindles; he might have built the Aschentium Merchant Guild, but he was one of the most evil and greedy men who ever lived. In case you didn't know, he was buried in a sarcophagus made from an enormous sapphire gemstone, along with the treaures of at least three kingdoms. Robbing his tomb would merely be justice for his crimes."
Cho Bounty had decided it prudent to keep the Scroll's real nature secret, not only to avoid trouble, but so the six friends wouldn't grow alarmed. It was dirty business, but something had to be done. Unknown to the archmage was the fact that his evil colleague, Chiasmus, had also been decieved into believing the Scroll to be Chenvar's map. Fate had many cruel ironies up its sleeve.
"Here, open the Scroll and read what it says." The archmage was taking an awful chance, but if he was correct, the Scroll would now reveal more of itself.
Karven passed the Scroll to Camrae, thinking it was time the elf had some of the glory. But the elven mage couldn't open the ivory tube, so he passed it back and his human friend easily removed the silver cap.
It fits. Cho Bounty thought. The Scroll case can only be opened by a paladin.                      
Karven began to read the message, written in human words this time, but the runes were of an ancient style.
"Where the clouds meet the ground,
Lives a thing in tunnel found.
Dark crimson coat, fire from my throat,
Look to the wizard I fought in a boat.
Come seek me, perhaps fight me, 
Sharpen your moat."
"Vat the Hell's that crap supposed to mean!" Dorn fumed. Chenvar's Tomb? More like someone having a laugh.
Angrily Cho Bounty hammered his hand on the table. "Sorry, it's not you," he apologized to the swarf. Things were definately going downhill. "It's just that I know what it means. I've fought in a boat, against something with a 'Dark crimson coat' that breathes fire from its throat."
With a frightened stare, Karven sat down, Dorn coughed and even Camrae looked worried. They knew the story.
"Blood Scale, I'm talking about Blood Scale, the great wyrm of the Highland glens. And you haven't a blasted chance."
               *                   *                  *               *                *

After the shock had worn off, they began to talk.
"That damn dragon is the most vicious and sly thing you'll ever come across." Cho Bounty pointed to the scars on his face. "That was where he clipped me."
That doesn't make sense? Karven thought. A great red would do more than just leave some scars, it would rip your head off! They could swallow a horse, or tear a castle down to its foundations with just their claws! Unfortunately, the story of Cho Bounty's fight with blood Scale didn't go into much detail about the end, as a huge cloud of steam had blocked the vision of the monks in the Monastery of Pearls. The bards, of course, had made up all sorts of conflicting embellishments.
"Now, would you want to continue with this. Do you want to follow the Scroll's directions, even if it means having to fight the dragon?" Cho Bounty asked. He pretended to rummage for some charts or papers, and cancelled the Charm spell. It was very important that they do this of their own free will, he had enough on his concience as it was.
"Aye! I'll rip the big bugger's teeth out! Me and my kin have a score to settle," Dorn was the first to speak. "Yon dragon's sister, Derscalimarh, she vas the one as almost killed my grandfather, Volkon Grey Beard. And I vouldn't mind a try at Chenvar's gems!"
The dwarven scout had let his bravado drop him in it, but this was a chance to prove himself; none of his clan would ever scorn him again, Dorn Wyrm Slayer! But he was still smart enough to be scared, a bit.
"If Dorn's going, so am I." Karven wished he hadn't spoken those words, Blood Scale had earned his name by tearing his victims to bloody shreds along his razor sharp scales. But Dorn was a true friend, and he knew it was impossible to change the stubborn dwarf's mind once he was set on doing something, no matter how crazy. Hopefully Gyrus could figure them a way out.
Almost at the same time, the gnome and the halfing annonced their willingness. Arolith couldn't dream of life without his brother, he'd have to stick with him and make sure he was all right. Also, the gnome would get to see a big red dragon. Illusions worked best when their caster created an image of something he knew well, like forge fires, or a big, flame breathing, goblin-crunching dragon! There would be a lot of soiled underwear in Will' Ash when they got home!
Gyrus had somewhat similar worries about Karven, and if he died, Liza's ghost would come looking for him demanding to know why he had let her son get killed. He'd go along, under protest. And of course, dragons had gold, lots and lots and lots of lovely gold.
"Oodles of boodle!" the halfling sighed dreamily, and never noticed everyone else staring at him.
Dorn pointed his finger at his forehead and made circling motions. "Huh! Fried boodle more like it." But he felt relieved, if any one could burgle a dragon, it was Gyrus, on the other hand, the crazy thief could get them all buggered.
Camrae was under no misapprehensions. Many adventurers had went looking for Blood Scale's hoard, and some of them had come back. Crippled, burned and stripped naked, they were the ones the dragon had let return home, as a warning. Others it had dropped as fried carcasses around Pyzag. "I will go," he said calmly, it might make amends for the trees he had dmaged, either way. Blood Scale had slain and eaten many elves, and burned their favourite groves to inflict even more misery upon them. Perhaps it was time for revenge?
For a long while Aletta sat thinking. The others meant little to her, although they were nice folk, and were becoming friends, but the elven wizard...The more she knew of him, the more she loved him. This was no mere infatuation, short romance based on just physical attraction, but that sparkling, mysterious thing that filled the heart and made it dance. It was a match that fittted the ranger's other needs, she would never leave the forests, the wild, but Camrae the elf would understand that better than any human.
"I'll go as well. Kerahan, I know you're a member of the Third Ring of Rangers, do I have your permission to leave my current assignment, and go with these folk?" she asked, aware of one impediment.
The druid scratched his beard, considering what the High King, and more importantly, the goddess would wish. Aletta had made a covenant to guard a certain area, but...Blood Scale had caused a lot of unecessary havoc, and had even dared to eat several of the sacred unicorns of Misty Law. By ancient custom and the King's law that was a crime punishable by death, and it was one the druid wished to see redressed.
"Kill the bastard!" he swore.
"There is just one problem," said Camrae. "How do we kill Blood Scale?"
"Wait a minute, what is it we have to do, or find?" Karven pointed out something they had overlooked.
"Well," Cho Bounty answered. "As for the first question, with a great deal of difficulty. Blood Scale is over a thousand years old, bigger than a warship, with a breath that can melt steel, and he can cast magic as well. MacRhev fought him with magical javelins, on his command they became increasingly heavier and caused Blood Scale to crash to the ground, since they were stuck in his hide. That's why its called the Dragon's Fall."
He turned to the paladin. "As for what you're looking for, I haven't got a clue. It might be another scroll. And now I suggest we get some rest, it has been a long day."
Tired, excited and worried, they went to their rooms. Dorn walked up behind Gyrus, and skelped him over the back of his head.
"Ouch! What was that for!"
"That vas for getting us into this trouble. And this is in case I haven't got time to do it before Blood Scale kills the lot of us!" The dwarf aimed a mighty kick at the halfling's backside, but Gyrus dodged too quickly. Dorn went flying and spun around like a top. Dwarves had a good sense of balance (due to their squat build), but that didn't help the scout much as Gyrus yanked the rug out from under his feet. The paladin groaned in embarassment.
Shrieking horrible curses at the top of his considerable lungs, Dorn tried to get up, but Karven jumped on him before he could carry out the physically impossible threats. Or then again, not so impossible considering the dwarf's incredible strength, he broke free and raced at the halfling, who was making rude gestures at his would-be attacker. With a burst of speed, Dorn leapt at him, Gyrus fell and rolled forward, and the dwarf crashed into the wall.
Shaking his head at such craziness, Camrae guided Aletta to their room, the archmage hadn't so much as raised an eyebrow when they asked if it were permissable. The elven wizard knew that his friends were blowing off steam, they knew the risks, and the laughter hid their fears. Swiftly he tickled Aletta, and ran as fast as he could with the giggling half-elf chasing.

             *                *                *                   *                 *

In another part of the fabulous home, the archmage and the druid sat talking. Cho Bounty wished his neighbour to keep an eye on the travellers. Although druids tended to stay in one area, they had links with their colleagues, and often conversed with each other using water, wind or messages conveyed by migrating animals. 
Things must be done....

                 *               *                 *                   *              *

Of all the things in the wizard's home, the most enjoyable for his guests was the great swimming pool. One of the soldiers had shown them it during their tour around Cho Bounty's home in the morning. Thier host was indesposed, but granted them all the joys of his citadel.
Steam wafted over the blue water as Karven and Gyrus sat in the shallows and talked while the elven wizard raced Aletta up and down the long pool.
Fantastic illusions of sea dragons, mermaids and other aquatic creatures moved around the walls, enhancing the aquatic effect, creating an idyllic place. Of course there was one person who didn't like paradise.
"I'm not going in, and that's blasted vell final!" Dorn exclaimed with a huge frown. Arolith had been busily trying to get his dwarven brother to at least enter the shallows.
The others burst out laughing as they saw Dorn's hairy body emerge for a moment beyond the potted palm tree he was sheltering behind. It wasn't dignified! How could you walk around a female in red silk underear! Never mind swim?! He couldn't swim anyway, no dwarf could. Maybe those crazy Narvak dwarves could, but they didn't count as dwarves, those loonies liked sailing!, he grumpily mused.
Choking with laughter, Gyrus made an extremely bawdy remark about the dwarf, who rushed out cursing the cheeky halfing. Suddenly, Dorn shot across the tiled floor, and splashed into the water, shrieking and bubbling.
The gnome fell across the small palm, tears streaming down his cheeks as he collapsed laughing. He dropped to the floor, and slid across the ground, his Liquid Lard spell almost catching him as it had his brother.
A dark shape began to show above the water, and Dorn's head emerged with a glowering face that could crack stone. "I suppose you think that's funny?" he growled, and launched himself over the side of the pool, so he could thump Arolith.
The gnome couldn't defend himself as his brother rushed on, and then hurtled across the magically slippery floor. With a crash Dorn collided into the thaumaturge, whom he desperately grabbed, and the pair whirled across the room. With a scream from the dwarf they crashed into the pool.
"Guuh! Help!" Camrae choked, nearly drowning in his mirth. Karven pulled him in, and they all sat in the shallows laughing their heads off. Dorn steadfastly left the pool, and plonked himself down on a marble bench. With a scowl, the dwarf stood up, turned round, bared his backside, and farted. 
Arolith bowed to his appreciative audience, which wasn't too smart as his large nose ended up in the water!

               *               *                *                  *                 *

Dinner was held in a simple room, near the warmth of the kitchens, and the would be adventurers wondered nervously about their host's non-appearance.
It was with a shock that they watched the wizard drift into the room on a floating chair, obviously very ill.
"I'm all right," said Cho Bounty, though his pale, trembling appearance suggested otherwise. "I performed a great magic last night, and it will leave me weakened for several days. Have no fear, I will recover. Go on, eat!"
When they had finished, the archmage explained that he had been creating a magic item, and that in his urge to finish it quickly he had cast some potent spells, and even for one of his skill, rushing the job had strained him. But now he had certain things to give them, things they would need.
"Behold, Cho's Bounty!" the archmage happily announced. He clapped, and several of his guards entered with black laquered chests of different sizes, and put them on the table they sat before.
"I've done some adventuring myself, and over the years people have paid for my magical help with gold and odd devices. It's my turn to be generous." He motioned to one of the boxes, which was opened with a heavy key.
The soldier withdrew a set of green leather armour, studded with elongated hexagons of matt-black metal: pure adamant. There was an aura of great age about the suit.
"It is yours Aletta, put it on."
Very kindly, she thanked the generous wizard, and removed her armour, which the ranger preffered to wear, even indoors--she was a warrior after all. To the half-elf's surprise, the large suit of new armour shrunk to fit her slim frame.
"'Ever Armour' it's called," Cho bounty explained. "The Ancients made it to last forever, it will 'heal' any damage done to itself, keep you warm or cool as need, and offer protection as good as heavy plate. The leather is green dragon hide," he said the last with some distaste.
"Gyrus, you don't have armour and even halfling guile won't save you from Blood Scale's jaws. But a Cloak of Displacement will help."
Again the soldier brought forth an object, a small cloak of darkest blue leather. With a beaming grin the little thief fitted the garment around his shoulders, and fastened its silver pin with evident delight.
"I took the cloak in payment from one of your kin years ago, he'd opened the wrong door and gotten cursed for his pains. It should serve you well, anyone who attacks you will almost certainly miss. Karven, try hitting his shoulder."
Unsure of the result, the paladin slapped his friend's arm, and hit the chair instead! The magic garment distorted the halfling's image, making him seem where he was not. Gyrus thanked Cho Bounty, but wasted no time and began experimenting with the cloak.
The tired looking wizard withdrew a strange red plaque from his robes and gave it to the paladin. "Speak the words on it and all nearby will become immune Bloodscale's infernal breath and his toxic blood, additionally, you'll also be unharmed by heat and fire, and somewhat resistant to my archenemy's spells. The magics should last for half an hour. It's made from one of Blood Scale's scales." He smiled, savouring the irony.
"Dorn, you have neither enchanted blade nor heavy armour, and I know your people like to obtain their treasures by their own work. So I will trade with you, those gems in your pouch for some useful items?"
The dwarven scout gazed at Cho Bounty suspiciously, how had he known? He looked at his friends, harrumphed and took out a large handful of shiny stones and coins, spilling them across the table in a glittering shower. The wizard was right, it had been hard work winning them off Gyrus! Still, at least the ormaks wouldn't have them.
The archmage separated out the gems he wanted and returned the rest, and added a pair of arm-guards and three smooth stones. After hiding his treasures away once agin, Dorn examined the items. The bracers were of a strange metal, very dark purple in colour and engraved with majestic dragons.
"I made those myself, many years ago," explained Cho Bounty. "They are similar to Camrae's arm-guards, but the magic of these bracers gives a wider scope of protection, instead of just physical defence. They are useful, but not exceptionally powerful. The stones can create an aura of silence, useful for surprising enemies. Each can be used just once."
Dorn was greatful, but he would rather have had a real head slicer of an axe!
Another laquered box was opened, and from it was brought forth a book, a slim volume whose covers were made from woven brass, and had a large silver dragon symbol fixed to its front.
"That is one of my old travelling spellbooks, there are some magics in it which will be new to you, and useful, such as Arkaster's Lightning Bolt. You won't have to fear setting trees on fire as much, and remember, red dragons can't be harmed with fire."
Camrae was speechless as his far more powerful colleague in the Art of magic handed the book over. New spells were hard to come by, and wizards would go to great lengths to acquire them, yet here he was being given them for free! The elf managed to complete a very formal poem of thanks to Cho Bounty in his own tongue, which the archmage understood, and replied in kind.
"Your friends were easy, but Arolith, what could I give you? In Camrae's new spellbook are some dweomers that might be of use to you. Perhaps your friend will let you learn and copy them?"
Hesitantly, the elf nodded, the tome was like a new child to him, far more important than a magic sword to a fighter, for a warrior could fight with anything, but without his precious boooks, a wizard could not study his spells, and would eventually be unable to cast them.
"But something else you need, Blood Scale is smart, and not easy to trick with simple magics, so three gifts I give to you."
Another box was opened, and more treasures were brought. The gnome eagerly examined the two ivory disks, each had a crystal of fool's gold imbedded in the center, and surrounding them was a runic circle.
"If you speak the word hidden in the runes, and throw the disks on the ground, they will create a very powerful illusion, so powerful in fact that they are partially real, and not even a dragon can spot the difference, unless he casts divination spells. Just imagine the illusion you want, and it will be so. And the last gift, you need a weapon beyond your pick-hammer and sling."
With a nod from Cho Bounty, one of the blonde-haired guards drew something from his belt, and threw it. The spinning, silver object buried itself two inches deep into the oaken door. It shimmered, and reappeared in the warrior's hand! Carefully the guardsman put it into a special sheath, and gave it to Arolith, who quivered in excitement.
The weapon was a marstar, made from a thin piece of mithril with five, pointed spikes. The metal had the most curious sheen, there were thousands of small, sparkling patches where it had been polished, giving it a rainbow like glitter.
"That marstar is very heavily enchanted and will rarely miss, it returns to your hand so it will never be lost. Now then, you are equipped, but what next? You'll have to find Blood Scale! That later, I must rest, especially considering what might happen soon. Tomorrow then."
"Vylar, show them the drill hall, they'll need to practice their skills, teach them all you can of evil dragons, they'll need help," Cho Bounty commanded his captain of arms, and hovering gently in his chair, he left.

               *              *                  *                  *                 *

Whirling axe blades flew as Karven and Dorn fought. The paladin rammed his axe straight forward, but the dwarf knocked it aside, and slashed his own weapon into the big man's leg, staggering him.
"Ouch!" Karven winced in pain, and tried to rub his throbbing limb through the metal plates which protected his upper legs. The weapons they practiced with were hard wood, weighted with lead, but the dwarf's strong frame packed a mean punch.
The elven mage let Karven into a secret: the hematite ring that Dorn wore was a Ring Of Skill, which allowed its wearer to use a dagger with rare competence, though Dorn was already well versed in the art of knife fighting, the ring made him even better. Due to their natures, neither he nor Karven were as adept as many warriors in the finer arts of combat. But between Dorn's brutal ferocity, and the paladin's lethal mixture of righteous anger and battle wiles, the pair made a deadly combination.
A dozen of the archmage's guard stood watching, and gave wooden weapons to them when they wished to practice. Only a fool would use an edged blade without the presence of a powerful healer, one slip and you were dead; such games were only for the extremely skilled, or the foolish. Cho Bounty did have a healer at hand, but he was busy attending to a Highlander who had been found nearby, half dead from a goblin's poisoned arrow. Goblins may not be the greatest warriors in existance, nor were their shamans the equal of the dreaded orc mayguthay, but they did have alchemists, who made a great study of poisons.
Circling, Aletta fought Camrae, who was using a padded ash wood staff. The ranger was surprised with the wizard's skill at avoiding her twin blades, and the speed with which he used the pole to turn the broadsword aside, then lash at her knife hand or skull. The elf would have made a damn fine warrior!
Gyrus was placing bets with Cho Bounty's soldiers on who would strike first, he knew that Karven had taught the wizard staff fighting, and the paladin was exceedingly dangerous with a stout piece of wood, as Jal Vardiss's gang had found out to their cost.
Though they loved each other, the ranger-priest and the elven mage fought with determined fury, and the clack-clack of their weapons beat an increasing rythm. Try as she might, Aletta couldn't hit the elusive elf, when her blade was certain to strike, it skittered off Camrae's clothing as if it were hard glass. Magic, he was cheating!
With an amazing leap, Camrae somersaulted over Aletta, and cracked her with a back hook to the leg. The half-elf went down, but she lunged backwards and hit the wizard, who winced in pain as the wooden dagger hit his knee.
Not long after, the basket hilt of the ranger's broadsword slammed into the elf's chest, stunning him. Camrae surrendered as the dagger which had lowered his staff, now touched his neck.
"Wizard's shouldn't take on warriors, even if they are elves!" Aletta informed her bruised lover, whom she healed. "But you cheated! It's those damn bracers!"
Camrae laughed, the silver and turquise bracers he'd gotten from the giant were magical, just as Cho Bounty had said. But how had he know exactly? Their host must have cast divination spells on them, but when? And his magic was so quick, so precise! It normally took some time...his mind wandered, considering the curious, intricate world of sorcery.
With great delight, Arolith repeatedly flung his marstar, which he had decided to call Glitter, into a cork target board, reducing it to torn shreds. The prospect of fighting a dragon had long faded as he played around, his moustache twitched with mirth as the magical marstar appeared in his hand time after time.
And now Vylar the guard captain showed his powers: an ogre appeared in front of Karven! Surprised, he was thumped square in the chest by its great club and was hurled from his feet. As the monster rushed in, the paladin rolled over on the ground and his axe swung up, tearing a huge wound in its shin. Howling, the ogre fell over the top of him, but Karven dragged himself free, and Moon Shadow slashed into the brute's neck, and it vanished!
"Good! But next time I suggest you hit its knee, or duck and run your edge against its swinging fingers!" Vylar pronounced. It had been an illusion, a powerful one at that!
All of them had bouts against illusionary opponents of all types, except dragons, though Vylar showed them what they were like and explained some of their lore. Dragons had to be fought face to face, no ordinary magic could reproduce their true force. Arolith had gotten away with it against the wereghouls because they lived in mortal dread of Cho Bearch, for it had been the bronze wyrm who had put an end to their short lived kingdom. The guard captain explained that dragons had colouring approriate to their natures and habitat, so red dragons loved fire and heat, and also tended to be hot tempered. A common mistake was that people thought red dragons were evil, which wasn't true, these myths persisted because even good red dragons tended to vapourize intruders on sight. Gold dragons liked wealth and power (they often became lords or even kings); copper dragons loved creating things; bronze dragons favoured the sea and artistry; steel dragons reveled in warfare, and so on. There were some exceptions to these rules however, and treating dragons with complacency was always a good way to get killed. Cho Bearch, for example, had a particular hatred for bandits and pirates, and shared his lair with a friendly Algandian blue dragon, and the two of them were notorious for taking on human form and carousing in taverns from Pyzag to Tomark. The sober guard-captain seemed scandalized by their behaviour.
As they finished, Camrae looked for a while at the guards: so alike, and with magical powers as well...strange.
Tired, sore and bruised they went to bed. Gyrus had discovered that several apprentices and young wizards were staying with Cho Bounty, three of them were female, he introduced himself and explained the fine art of Varner massage over an apple pie.

               *                *                   *               *                  *


                                          CHAPTER 10
                                    The Necromancer's War
  


"So my friends, are you prepared?" Cho Bounty sat once more on the desk in his study, somewhat recovered from the trials of spellcasting.
Many would think it sheer folly to contemplate any action against a beast of Blood Scale's might, and they would be right, but the spirit of adventure filled the friends; a combination of wonderlust, excitement and youthful high spirits. Such exhuberance had gotten countless folk killed.
"Yes," Karven replied. "But is their anyway we can avoid fighting the dragon?" The young paladin had a good idea what would happen to them if they foolishly tried to attack the dreaded wyrm.
"Hm, good question. Fortunately for you, I think there is, to an extent." The archmage had for many years thought of riding the Highlands of Blood Scale, or at least embarassing him; dragons were creatures of enormous pride and few could bear to be made a fool of.
It was with great care that the archmage had chosen the gifts he had given the Scroll bearers. A man, or any other intelligent creature, must first learn to control himself before he could wield things of power; do you give sharp knives to children? In Cho Bounty's armoury were several devices which could possibly kill Blood Scale, but what of the person using them?
And so the kindly wizard had thought of a plan, for he didn't relish inflicting pain, except on that damned red wyrm! For over five centuries they had battled in one way or another, if Blood Scale died in the hunt for the NecroSphere it would be a sort of ironic justice.
"Behold, a fireine!" The room was plunged into darkness, and then lit with a soul warming, crimson brilliance as Cho Bounty drew fourth a red crystal.
With a happy shriek Arolith darted forwards and grasped the gemstone from the wizard's hand. Entranced, the gnome looked into the heart of the jewel, from which the magical light sprang. The large gem didn't show any reflections, except in its depths, where the gnome saw himself much as he was now, except he had a certain warrior aspect and was obviously the ruler of an important burrow. Arolith saw this altered appearance because the gem showed people's vision of themselves, what they believed they actually were, thus a beggar could look like a king. It was known that seeing such a vision, and believing it strongly enough, could cause the vision to become reality. Naturally, this made the stone all the more valuable. Some folk called fireines 'pridestones'.
"Priceless, priceless! Oh you wee beauty!" Arolith was beside himself with joy, and the rest crowded arount to examine the fireine--the most expensive and desired of all gemstones.
They listened as Cho Bounty explained. Blood Scale, like all red dragons, was an avaricious creature who slaughtered and stole for what he wanted, and yet he was a highly intelligent being, with wants and desires. And his greatest desire was fireines, of which the ancient wyrm was a noted collector. Fortunately Blood Scale couldn't just go around stealing them as they were so rare and generally well guarded, as he had found out on the attack on the Monastery of Pearls. So the greedy monster was forced to buy them, hiring merchants and thieves, whom he couldn't abuse for several reasons: one, he'd never get any more jewels, and two, it would show everyone that the mighty Blood Scale welched on his deals. To the concited wyrm, to be seen publicly having to cheat mere humans would be utterly galling. Outwitting them was one thing, breaking his word would leave the dragon an outcast, and other dragons would ignore him.
"So," said Cho Bounty. "Youy'll go to his lair, and offer him this fireine in exchange for something. The stone is genuine and worth a king's ransom. I hope the Scroll will tell you what to look for, buy it!" The wizard grinned.
"So vhere does he lair?" Dorn asked.
"Remember the ryhme? 'Sharpen your moat' and 'Where the clouds meet the ground'..."
"Slice Gorge and the Grey Cloud Mountain." The paladin interrupted, the lair's location was often spoken of by the bards. Why would the dragon let anyone know where his lair was?
"That's right," Cho Bounty acknowledged. "But it's a long journey there, over two weeks, and the country is rough. Many monsters live in the glens: orcs; goblins; stonewalkers; giants and Higlanders! Most of the humans are fine people, but some are more battle-crazy than a drunken frost giant! And beware of their brigands, they have marks burned into their forehead, without clan, home or king they have nothing, and are filled with hate for those as do."
"You will have to walk, Blood Scale is paranoid, if you suddenly Teleported near his lair he'd incinerate the lot of you, just in case! I'll need a week to fully recover from the spells I cast, and Blood Scale knows me, so I can't come along anyway. But you're smart, and the gods are certainly with you."
The plan seemed good, with luck there would be no fighting, and they might find out more about the mysterious scroll.

                *              *                   *               *                *  

Tremenach, a wizard who studied with Cho Bounty, helped them with various requests, and they learned of the useful powers that mages can command. Camrae, Aletta and Karven had some experience with arcane scrying, but their friends were amazed by the ball of green glass that could show images and sounds from far away. Knowing of their concerns, the great archmage had arranged it so that they might speak with relatives and friends, and complete certain business with them; it might be the last time they would ever see friendly faces.
Nine of the trade pieces Karven had were Teleported to his father, the last Ardlen let his son keep for himself. The paladin was overjoyed to see his father in the crystal ball, and to talk to him for a while. The old man was worried, but proud that Karven was on an adventure, doing something important. Both could hardly contain their emotions.
Aral the Axe's eyes brightened as his sons told him of their intentions to confront a dragon, though they prudently avoided the details, and he gave them his blessing. The gnarled, grey bearded dwarf was joyous, those fools who scorned Arolith were going to get their comeuppance! His love and pride saw little difference between his natural child and his adopted one. Once again Tremenach magically transported several items, the potions of Fire resistance would be put to use.
It was with great solemnity that Halakiss of the Giants Doom warned Camrae of the dangers facing him, there was great concern, but also acceptance; the child was now an adult, and made his judgements accorsdingly. He was missing his son's presence, their friendly discussions, long walks and magical research. And then he made Karven swear to protect Camrae, for he loved him dearly, as did his mother.
Unfortunately Gyrus couldn't or didn't dare contact some of his relatives; slaves were allowed no privacy on dark Kalik. But his dad, a large number of cousins, aunties and others were magically talked to, cheering them up; they had a relative who knew a wizard, a real wizard! Tremenach was forced to call a halt to the halfling's communications, even magic had limits.
Angrily, Aletta refused to use the crystal ball, her ranger frinds could be startled or endangered by such contact, and as for her family...as much as she loved her elven relatives, she hated many of her human kin, and made no secret of the fact. But the half-elf relented, for the rage had been caused by thoughts of her father, and Aletta saw and spoke to her beloved cousin, Aliasande.
"My father can rot in Hell before I'll talk to him!" the half-elf snarled. Aliasande was trying to patch things up between Lord Erik and Aletta, but the ranger wanted no part of it. The cousins parted on good terms though, but as they went back to their rooms, Aletta suddenly rushed ahead, seemingly in distress. Shrugging, Camrae went after her, leaving the others standing puzzled.

             *                  *                 *                    *                *

Again a feast was laid on for them, and they enjoyed it, though with a certain nervous worry. Cho Bounty explained to Camrae and Karven that he had cast the Charm spells merely to be sure of them; the archmage could take no chances for he counted amongst his foes not only Blood Scale, but several lords, Valmarghin--the King of the frost giants, and Sevegar the Destroyer as well.
The last name gave them a bad start, as well it should, for he was thinking of them....

              *                   *                *                  *                   *

Waves hurled themselves at the Iron Cobra, but the mighty ship rode them out. It was as if the gods realized what was to come, and had decided to drown the Formorian in the raging sea.
"Ahh" Love it!" Sevegar's eyes blazed as he strode up to the wheel, water lashing across him. The sensations, the violence of the storm!
Jhorn, the captain of the ship, was screaming orders to the men above on the rat lines and spars. The rotund Atlantean threw sailors around with a strength far greater than his looks.
Lighning flared, shimmering, blinding in the sheets of rain that suddenly deluged the ship.
"AAggh!" Like a striking snake, a tendril of sky-borne electricity caressed a look-out, and blew him out of the for'ard crowsnest. Shrieking, he crashed onto the deck, where the body smouldered until Sevegar saluted the dead man, and hurled him far out over the railings; the sailors nodded at the action, the look-out had obviously been cursed. 
The helmsman gripped the wheel, and stood like a mighty oak tree in a gale, and the eerie shimmer of Ghost Light enveloped him. Rain fell on his clenched hands, but skittered off the knuckles, which shone because they were made of polished steel. His eyes were clear rubies, and the red orbs remained unblinking in the torrents of water.
Proud was Sevegar, proud of the men who crewed his ship, proud of the timber and iron beneath his feet, and he roared his defiance out to the elements.
For a moment, the setting sun burned through the maelstrom of boiling black clouds, its light swept across the raging ocean. A ship of shadows, sailing across a sea of frothing blood.

              *                 *                *                    *              *

Home came the Formorian, riding out the storm, home to N'Skell, things were going well, and much was to be done.
A great grin split Sevegar's face as he saw the winking light of the Tower of Glass, and then the coastline of his birth. He hugged Jhorn and the strange helmsman, congratulating them on their skill; the pair he had picked up from a wrecked hull were true seamen, and served well. Lost they were, in time as well as place, and the helmsman Blight poisoned, but the Sea Lord had helped them--now they repaid his kindness with unswerving loyalty.
"Land ho, Sea Lord! Sohrello is in view!" shouted the replacement look-out.
"Right! Let''s show those ground hugging bastards how men travel," Sevegar bellowed. "Drum master, the beat is attack speed, build it up slow. Let out battle sails. Wizard, prepare your magic, we might want to wake them up!"
A figure in dark grey robes nodded, and contemplated on an appropriate spell while the captain busied the men. Oars sprouted from the ship's sides like a beetle's legs, and a witch wind filled the sails. The Iron Cobra accelerated, and the waters reverberated to the beat of the time-keepr's drums. The huge triangular mainsail expanded, showing off Sevegar's emblem: a red cobra in front of the Black Sun.
No whips lashed the huge men who pulled the oars, pride filled them, and love for their lord, who treated them like brothers, inspiring them with his determination; so they heaved and set the oars a groaning.
Sevegar went bellow to compose himself, and the captain followed after he talked with his brother, the strange hemsman. Not many had survived the hell of the Void of Atlantis, but they had, though both paid dearly for the privilege.
The great golem, Daz Pazik, blocked the doors to the Sea Lord's chambers.
Enter! the golem's cold though pierced Jhorn's mind.
Was it true that a man had actually flung himself into the monster's molten mould, wishing immortality and revenge? the captain shuddered at the thought. It was surely too late for revenge, as the creature was said to be five hundred years old.
Perhaps. And it is never to late for revenge! The icy words froze the captain's mind for a moment while the golem opened the doors. Jhorn passed by, his clothes hiding his sweat of fear.
Beyond, Sevegar was on his opal throne. Before him was set out his Conquest set; the pieces were in the places they had been left last night when he and Jhorn had retired. Around the room stood several half-naked serving girls, all exquisitely beautiful, and each adorned with jewellery fir for a queen. But of all the fabulous things in the room, most eyes would be eventually drawn to, and held by the Conquest set.
The figures were made from the purest mithril and darkest adamant, with eyes of flashing green emeralds or burning fire opals. Minor illusions made the dragons breathe flame and the warriors fight. The castles' pennants were moonspider silk, and the high pieces works of art that could bring tears to they eyes of all who beheld them. The set was considered one of the costliest treasures in existance, certainly Sevegar held it beyond price. Qu'eesil Lisoen, the elven master who had created it, had made it a condition of sale that Sevegar would never again harm an elf, except in defence, a bargain the Formorian had kept (although it taxed him mightily), so great was his love for the fabulous game set.
Qu'eesil had asked in exchange for the Conquest set the return of his son from the slavers of Kalik. Half of M'Earln, Kalik's main city, was put to the torch by Sevegar in the search. Years later, the Sea Lord learned that the orcish forces of Racantiss the Lich had invaded Issenchan, and killed the elven craftsman. A thousand orcs had been crucified along the Taikon Gorge by Sevegar in revenge.
Within a few moves, the Formorian won the game. "Conquest!"
Jhorn shrugged, and smiled.
Taking wine from one of the you women. Sevagr issued commands to the captain, whose intellect nearly matched that of the immortal warlord, and had caused the Formorian to lose twice, much to his amused pleasure.
"I want thoise lazy swine at the Sea Gate shaken up. Use chain."
"Aye, my lord."

                *                 *                  *                    *

Half an hour, the men still keeping an attack beat, they approached the great Sea Gate. The walls of the Fortress of Ash lay left and right, a mile high they towered. Shining stainless steel was the gate itself made of, a slab three hundred yards long, two hundred high and ten thick. Four and a half million tons of metal slowly lifted as Sevegar's ship approached, water spewing out of huge valves high over the entrance as titanic mechanisms pushed the gate up.
Around the entrance was a curtain wall that shielded it, creating a still harbour, the channel blocked by a gigantic mithril chain, set with wicked spikes of glinting crystal. Twinned keeps on each side controlled the chain, from them stretched high walls; where these stout battlements joined the Fortress, a pair of triangular citadels grew, each made from six towers that ascended until they eventually melded into the dark castle of the Formorians. The whole scale of the place made it seem unfit for humans, a home for elder gods of vast, unknown purpose. Perhaps it was the proper place for the Formorians though, for they were no longer human. Unsurprisingly, no one had ever breached these impressive defences.
With a hollow crash, the great chain lowered, and the Iron Cobra passed between the double towers, in which vast seige machines hid themselves. Around the beaches that spread their obsidian sand behind the walls, were numerous warriors, who stood insolently to attention. From the symbols they wore a knowledgable observer could deduce that they were not marines, but land troops of Sevegar's rival, Balor.
A longship was making its way across the harbour, deep in the shadows of the mountainous walls. Sevegar spied its captain, and grew more displeased.
"It's Balor's favourite squid licker, General Gern. All weapons, ready! The wizard first, FIRE!"
With a few words, the mage behind Sevegar began the slaughter. The dark shadowed sea glowed dim red, and a harsh whisling rose above the noise of the slapping waves.
A huge glowing ball of fire dropped from the heavens, and charred the eyes from General Gern before it smashed his ship in half! The bow and stern were flung up from the water, and hammered together, turning flesh to pulp. Horrid shrieks rolled across the water as the survivors were parboiled in the now steaming water.
Jhorn's hand descended, and a rolling blast of fire travelled along both sides of the Iron Cobra. The men on shore were shredded; ten were instantly decapitated, all in a line, as spinning chains sliced them, they fell like dominoes. Others fared less well, they survived, their limbs crushed and shattered.
A huge image of Sevegar appeared, striding the harbour forts like a colossus.
"Hear me fools! Whilst your brothers guard the dreaded Land Gate, you have it easy here. AND YOU DON'Y EVEN SCRY INCOMING SHIPS, BUT COME OFFERING UP YOUR HEADS FOR SLAUGHTER, WELL I TOOK THEM!" The illusionary Sea Lord pointed at the blood spattered beach, "Look and remember, FAIL AND DIE!"
The image faded.
"Cretins like that guard our gates? Hell's Fire, they deserve worse than death!"
With a smile, Sevegar congratulated Jhorn on the success of the recently acquired weapons, which he had salvaged for his new lord from an ancient wreck. Five thousand years old they were, dragonbards they were called. Loaded with lengths of chain they were potent weapons of mass destruction, almost effective as Derr in the Grey's Meteor spell.
The ship slid under the stainless steel gate, and docked. Now for some business!

                 *                 *                *               *                *

"So, ve've got a veird map of Chenvar''s Tomb, vat ve going to do if ve get his gems?" Dorn asked, practical as always.
They were sitting around a fire under the dark sky, having left Cho Bounty's home with glad, if worried hearts.
"Build a palace! Boodle, boodle, oodles of boodle!" exclaimed Gyrus, lost in his favourite daydream, which also involved lots of women.
One last gift Cho Bounty had given them before they left, another scroll, but the only magics it held were politics, a royal warrant of adventure; how had he managed that? It meant they would have little difficulties with local lords and the King's revenue men. They had even been given an official title: The Company of the Axe and Dragon.
They discussed what each would do with their share: a spell library for Camrae; sybaritic luxury for the halfling, of course; and a valshmeer mine for Dorn and Arolith, the dwarf wanted the wealth and security, the gnome so he could carve valshmeer to his heart's content. Aletta bluntly stated that she would give most of her portion to her goddess and the poor, as wealth caused nothing but problems; Gyrus thought she had gone mad. The only thing Karven really wanted was Elachan Castle, a fortified house he had seen near Port Parrick, it just seemed right somehow. The paladin was wary of greed, because it was one vice he really had trouble with. Having never owned much in his youth, he was strongly attached to what he had now, so to forstall any problems he swore to donate two-thirds of his wealth to charity. If they got rich that was.

               *                   *              *                   *                 *

Dorn was charging up and down the sunny hillside, trying to swipe Gyrus, who was laughing fit to burst. Every time the dwarf tried to thump him, he missed. The wizard's cloak was fun!
"Ouch!" Gyrus yelped as the scout eventually flattened him, the Displacement ability  no match for dwarven persistance.
As they continued into the Highlands, eyes watched them, many unnatural eyes.
"Right, we'll get 'em tonight!" Loric said to his 'men', who sheltered in a thick copse. Chiasmus was around, somewhere, he had Teleported them all and then went invisible.
Since Duihn the dark moon was waning, the wereghouls couldn't transform; no matter, they were all armed to the teeth and wearing chain mail as well. With their immunity to ordinary steel and unnatural resilience, the two dozen shapeshifters should butcher the nuisances with ease. After hearing about the orcs, Loric got them to wear armour, which they coated with a grease made from salamander oil, it would protect them from fire.
In truth, most of them were quite mad, the Philtre of Undead Mastery they had ingested was meant to be drunk by a human who could then control them, but since they had actually taken it themselves, the magical liquid had fried their brains, leaving them utterly dominated by Chiasmus; except for Loric, who was the oldest and most powerful of the band.
Aletta's head swung in alarm, for a rookery had just taken to wing; concerned, she started to circle back. The elven wizard saw her depart, but Karven stopped him from following.
"No, you're quiet Camrae, but you're no warrior my friend, I wouldn't want you getting chopped! Dorn, skirt back and check on Aletta, there's something there." The paladin had felt a disturbing presence, as had the crows.
With a nod the dwarvish scout set off, while the others slowly continued so they wouldn't alert who ever lay behind. The thick brush and short trees of the small valley they had entered would help with the deception.

               *                *                   *                  *               *

Who are they? Aletta had never seen the score of warriors before. They certainly weren't clansmen, or a squad of soldiers, for they were too small and well attired to be Highlanders, and they had no sentries or signs of discipline. Nor did they have any woodcraft; who would be stupid enough to make camp in the middle of a rookery except town folk? Still, there was an evil feel about these warriors, and some of them seemed dazed or mad. She heard their leader speaking of ambush, murder and a magic scroll! With a start, the ranger noticed that Dorn was creeping up behind her; damn, he was good!
Hardly a whisper of noise came from the dwarven scout as he joined the half-elf, the enchantments worked into his armour made it just as quiet as Aletta's, and in the lightless Greydepths, silence was one skill Dorn had eagerly learned. And so they listened, and stealthily left. 
"So they mean to ambush us? I'll leave them a little present," Dorn spoke softly as he worked, bending back a large branch which had several sharpened stakes fixed to it. At Aletta's suggestion, the dwarf disguised his trap to make it appear old, left by a hunter some time ago. The scout cut a short length of the thin, spider-silk rope that he always carried, and the trip wire was attached to a long forked stick, which in turn held the branch. The trap was set, and they left to tell their friends; the ambushers seemed to be following them slowly, there was plenty of time.

                *               *                *                 *                    *

Low burned the sun, setting the mountains and valleys a flame with its fiery glow. The lead wereghoul was constantly shading its eyes from the harsh light, and didn't see the trip wire, or the flying branch that smashed into his legs.
"Yaah! Bastards!" The impaled man-monster pulled himself off the stakes, cursing the idiot hunter who had so carelessly left the trap.
Alarm filled Gyrus, for it was obvious that these were no natural men, for such a wound should have left the fellow crippled and helpless. Scowling, the paladin signalled his friends, with whom he had prepared an ambush for the trailing brigands.
Holding her holy symbol, Aletta spoke a short prayer, and the foilage around the wereghoul erupted, sending out tendrils to grasp him and several of his companions, and hold them tight!
"Stop or die!" Karven roared, even though he realized that the gesture was probably pointless; these things weren't normal humans.
"Kill them, eat their flesh! Chenvar's treasure!" Loric urged his men on past the five trapped by the entangling spell.
With a sizzling crack, a giant electric spark hurled down the narrow trail, blasting sword wielding warriors into the bushes, their metal armour drinking deep of the Lighning Bolt's power. Caught by the half-elf's spell and unable to dodge, the foremost attackers were instantly slain, as were several behind him.
A wereghoul next to Loric shrieked and collapsed, blood pouring from its ruined knee. Gyrus fled through the undergrowth.
The insane creatures charged out intot he clearing where their prey stood, and suddenly fell screaming beneath the ground! Arolith's illusion covered a small gulley, and his slippery spell prevented the others from slowing, so they piled in as well, onto their friends and dozens of sharp stakes.
Loric was raging, what the Hell was happening?
Unharmed by their plunge into the tiny ravine, the wereghouls emerged from the illusion, and Camrae unleashed his next spell. The clearing was lit up as a dazzling flash of colour leapt from his hands--the three closest attackers collapsed, blind and stunned.
But over a dozen were left; Dorn, Karven and Aletta waded into them. Partially blinded and badly injured by the elf's magic, the first few fell, for the ranger's broadsword was magical and cut them deeply, while Moon Shadow tore them apart. Dorn blocked with his cutlass, and stabbed out with a dagger, thrusting the blade into the groin of one monster and then into its neck. The wereghoul died.
The fight was well joined now, and though Dorn was only using a dagger, it was made from cold iron, and he drove the blade deep into another enemy's thigh, and tore the edge upwards. The wereghoul smashed down with his hatchet in panic, trying to smash the dwarf's head in, but the scout punched him in the stomach with guard of his cutlass, which staggered the creature. Dorn slashed its throat, and kicked another one in the shin. His shoulders, neck and head were bashed and torn, but his skirmisher's helmet had saved him from worse.
A shining thing whistled out of a tree, and sank into a wereghoul's back, killing it. The gulley illusion vanished as Arolith threw Glitter again and again.
Karven hammered aside a sword, and the back swing tore a huge gash in the undead warrior's head, making it truly dead. But it's comrade's sword hammered into the paladin's forearm, denting the steel plates of his vambrace, and nearly breaking his arm as well.
Slashing and stabbing, the half-elf gave a good account of herself, but as the fight wore on Aletta discovered she was in trouble. Lacking the brute strength of the dwarf or big human, she slowly whittled her opponents down, but there were too many. Her right flank was dangerously exposed, and the Ever Armour couldn't stop every blow.
"Help!" she cried as her fear was realized, a wereghoul's blade slashed down her wrist.
"Mar Heesh!" Camare fought back his panic, held control, and the Mage Blade's spinning attack tore her attacker's eye out. The ranger spun, slashed the evil creature's throat open, dodged backwards and lanced another through the guts with her knife, but the deadly wound vanished in an instant.
"Got ye ya little runt!" The halfling stood in front of a wereghoul, who brought his sword down in a whistling arc. But the sword passed through him and the warrior fell forward! Gyrus smacked him in the head with Lullaby and ran away, his heart pounding.
Parrying with her knife, Aletta punched her enemy in the teeth with the brass guard of her sword, then slashed its blade down, tearing the mail shirt and flesh below open in a crimson mouth.
The paladin suddenly pulled back, the wereghoul missed. Roaring Karven swung Moon Shadow in both hands, and sliced the shapeshifter's arm off at the elbow, then smashed the enchanted axe's hilt into its face, knocking the dying creature away.
Bashed and bloodied, they stood looking at the pile of dead ambushers.
"Look!" Karven pointed at one of the corpses, which twisted and writhed, and finally revealed its true shape, a cadaverous, fang-mouthed ghoul. Killed in daylight, all the wereghouls reverted to their nightime form.
They cremated the bodies with a huge pile of dried gorse bushes, the wet and rocky ravine containing the flames. Gyrus cursed, it was bad luck to take gold from the undead, and they didn't have any in the first place! Never mind, one of them had a small pouch filled with mixed gemstones, probably stolen from a sailor off a Kalibar jewel ship. The halfling didn't know that the necromancer had already persuaded them to give up their moneys, except for a particularly greedy individual. But he was quite happy when Camrae offered him some gold for the stones, the elf wanted them for spell components; the small thief gave him some for free, he was feeling generous.  
Furious and frightened, Loric fled. That damn Chiasmus, he knew the human would cause trouble sooner or later; stuff his magic, he was going to rip his throat out and bury him in a dungpile! And then wait till he emerged as a wereghoul so he could kill him again!
But Arolith had spotted him, and had given silent chase, and now he was the moment.
Thinking of burying Chiasmus in dung, Loric began to laugh, his hilarity grew until he fell over wheezing, oh it was so funny!
He was still laughing when the gnome clobbered him viciously with his pick-hammer, then tied him up. The weapon had done no harm, but Arolith was mad, he had wanted to use the Shrieking Delight spell on his dwarven brother! Now he would have to go read up on it again! Obviously he had pronounced that last sylabil too sharply, for the wereghoul was still laughing. He bopped Loric, who still giggled. The gnome smirked.

               *                 *                  *                *                   *

The wereghoul leader refused to talk, until Dorn began to drag him over to the still burning funeral pyre. The salamander oil wouldn't protect him from that as it evaporated quickly. 
"Look...look...it wasn't me, eh? We were told to get you. The Scroll, Chenvar's Tomb? Huh? Don't kill me?"
"Who told you we had the Scroll?" Karven held Moon Shadow to their captive's neck. Unlike Dorn he didn't really wish to hurt the strange shapeshifter, though they would probably have to execute him, you couldn't grant parole to the undead.
"It was Ch-" 
A spark of flame flew from the top of a tall tree nearby, and burned the flesh from Loric's bones. The expanding Fireball engulfed them, igniting the grass and incinerating several bushes.
His camouflage spell broken, Chiasmus suddenly appeared standing in the sycamore's branches. He had been watching all that transpired, well now he would make the best of it. The evil wizard stepped out into mid-air, and floated to the ground--the Levitation spell was most useful. Bypassing scorched bodies, the necromancer searched for the halfling, the Scroll bearer from what he had seen. But Chiasmus couldn't find him, damn! The little runt must have ran into the trees, he had made sure the spell would just miss him. The necromancer didn't dare risk incinerating the Scroll.
Dorn shook his head, and saw someone in dark robes nearby. The orc-slime must be the one who Fireballed them, the necromancer! His searching hands grabbed Moon Shadow, and he threw it hard.
Battleaxes were never meant to be thrown, but between Dorn's strength and Moon Shadow's enchantments, the whirling blades spun true.
With a frightened oath, Chiasmus tried to duck as he saw the battleaxe spinning for his face, and then gasped in relief as the weapon slammed against an invulnerable barrier. His Steelshield abjuration still held! Frantically he began to chant, but Aletta's dagger bounced uselessly from his arm, then an exploding cylinder of power, a Concussion Bolt, one of the simplest of all spells, broke his leg. The protective shield only stopped physical weapons, not energy or magic.
Wincing in pain, the necromancer triggered his magic ring, and Teleported to safety.
The ranger rushed over to Camrae, nearly screaming in fright. The elf's face was covered in blisters, but the mage had been on the outskirts of the spell and had dropped flat when he saw what was happening. 
A little dazedly, Arolith rushed from the gulley to help his brother. Good intentions had preserved him and Aletta, they were checking the pyre was out when the spell detonated. Dorn was furious, half his beard had been burned off and his skin was puffed and peeling. 
But Karven lay unconcious ten feet from where he had been standing. If it hadn't been for his thick armour and the spell wasting much of its force on Loric, the paladin would be dead.  The half-elf hurriedly rubbed a salve into his blistered flesh; he slowly came round, the salve wasn't magical, but it greatly helped reduce the pain. 
"So vhere's Gyrus?" Dorn croaked, his beard still smoldering. He grimaced in agony as a piece of hot ash landed in his eye.
"Ah, I'm down here," the voice was soft, and came from a bush nearby.
They found the halfling in a tiny hollow where he had been blown by the hot winds created by the Fireball. He was whimpering with pain, a broken branch was protruding from his left arm.
All in all the friends were in a sorry state, and there were no healing spells left, as they had been used after the fight with the wereghouls, so the Fireball had struck an almost unijured group.
"If I find that bastard, I'm going to gouge his eyes out and feed them to him on a plate!" Aletta swore, while tears formed in her eyes. She had come so slose to losing Camrae today, and her new-found friends. The ranger knew how much they meant to him, and she could see why. Their's was the kind of friendship the half-elf had always dreamed of.
 
               *                *                   *                *                    *

Limping, Chiasmus called for his healer, and the priest quickly mended the spell- battered leg of his lord. As a necromancer, Chiasmus mostly studied sorcery dealing with the undead, and he regretfully admitted that his ignorance of many healing spells was a handicap. But he was in a boiling rage now, and he wanted to kill! His mystic powers carried him to the castle's dungeon, to the part reserved exclusively for his magical experiments.
A man was strapped to a table; the wretch had beaten his neighbour senseless and was dragged into the Lord's Court for punishment. Unfortunately the lord of the island was Chiasmus, and he had sentenced him to death, without many complaints. The wizard kept order in his lands, and safety which the locals appreciated; besides, the condemned man was a newcomer. Such was how he gathered 'subjects' for his studies.
"Oh please let me go yer Highness, I'll no do it again!" the prisoner sobbed.
"Shut up." The fellow stilled at the command, frightened by the sharp coldness of the words.
Examining some of his books and journals, and the grimoire Sevegar had given him, the necromancer rubbed away the residual pain in his leg with thoughts of unhallowed power. He turned to the prisoner, and began writing odd script on his body, there followed a lengthy ritual during which the condemned man blubbered in terror.
"Ker machian devah kellmaRIHA!" Chiasmus hissed, and drove his fingers through the man's eyes. Twin jets of cold power signaled his soul's departure, and the entrance of something else.
A battle was it they wanted? Well they would get one, and when they had suffered enough, he would cast a Death Spell on them, so their souls would have no easy passage to the afterlife.

                *                *                 *                  *                 *

It was several days before the companions were able to continue, and so had time to discusss their worries. They came to the concensus that the necromancer could go get stuffed, and to Hell with the dragon as well, but they wouldn't quit. All of them wished to complete the quest: Karven absolutely hated being pushed around or bullied, a legacy of Jal Vardiss's 'kind' ways, and Dorn was hopping mad. Gyrus had a good reason for wanting treasure, two of his sisters were slaves in Kalik, and he hoped to buy them back, and get a pleasure palace with the leftovers.
Eventually, they arrived at the village of Finniach; the settlement was built around a huge boulder-like protrusion, on which the clan chief had constructed his fort.
At the gates of the pallisade which protected the small town, the watchman demanded gold to let them pass, but Dorn threatened to leave the man as a woman and he hurriedly let them enter.
The Highlanders were poor folk, though proud, and for the most part they were gracious, and many invited then to stay.
Knowing something of the customs of the people, Karven asked to speak to the chieftain, for they would need his permission to stay.
"You one o' the softies frae the towns, eh? Need armour tae fight in? Yer a' cowards!" a clansman with hair down to his waist mocked the paladin. The fellow had a hatchet swinging in one hand.
Karven kicked him in the crutch, and then slammed Moon Shadow flat down on his head. The man fell and lay groaning.
"No, I'm not." He replied.
Several Highlanders nodded their approval. Karven disliked pointless violence, but he wasn't going to be treated like dirt either, he knew the score.
The chieftain's fort was a simple stone keep with wooden outbuildings, and it reeked of peat smoke and venison. But the folk were pleasant, apart from the chieftain himself.
"So ye'll be wantin' tae stay here? Well, suppose so, but yer no sponging aff me! Go stay wi' that lousy wizard!"
Puzzled, but not wishing trouble, they left in  the company of two armed retainers.
"See that swine in there?" one of the warriors spoke to the paladin. "He's no the chieftain at all, his elder brother's away seeing the king of the clan. Skiam's just a wee rat, watch yerselves."
The paladin thanked him as they were led up to a doorway set into the rock face. 
It transpired that the 'lousy wizard' was a good looking woman just approaching middle age. She was delighted at seeing the newcomers, and let them stay in her abode. Highlanders were notoriously superstitious (sometimes with good reason), and didn't like magic-users much, although they had learned to live with them, they were very useful.

              *                 *                  *                  *               *

Wicked thoughts ran through Skiam's mind. Cheated out of the chieftainship by a couple of years, and denied proper respect becuase of his short height, he came up with a plan to improve his standing.
"Gwell, Ranaerson, to me!" His best friends listened eagerly.

                 *               *                 *                  *                  *

Almost completely recovered from their fiery encounter, they set out in the morning, thanking their host for her kindness.
A few of the villagers asked Camrae to touch them, as it was common belief that elves brought luck; with a resigned look he complied with their requests. The children were entranced by Gyrus--a grown man as big as them? Few halflings visited this wild land.
"Hey ya scum! My hall not good enough for ye?"
They turned to see Skiam and his retainers striding towards them.
"Ye spit in my clan's face when you refuse our hospitality!"
Karven had to grab Dorn before he could reply, the devious nobleman would have them if they called him a liar straight out.
"Your clan are nice folk, but you refused us your hall, and ordered us to stay elsewhere!" the paladin angrily replied, turning things his way. 
"You sayin' I'm an oath breaker! Ya..."
Before Skiam could finish, a warrior spoke out, "Aye, it's true, the rat turned them from his door; broke the laws of hospitality he did!"
Rage drew the blood from the nobleman's face as he turned on his fellow clansman, "How do you know? Were you there when they said the clan's hall was no' fit for them, and they chose to stay with that witch o' Hell, Jessrae?"
"No, I wisnae, but my cousin Lachaw was, and he told me. D' ye doubt the word o' yer brother's shield-mate? A man so trusted by him, he left him here to keep an eye on you, ya wee shite of  a goblin?" He turned to his kin and friends, "And he," the warrior pointed to Skiam, "just happened to send Lachie up to Dabour's Spring this morn'. Do ye really think we're so stupid Skiam 'Oathbreaker', that we don't ken whit yer up to?"
There were angry shouts, but Skiam was no fool; he came closer to Karven and spoke softly, "There's a friend o' mine in that hoose wi' a dwarven crossbow aimed at the half-man, tell them ye refused hospitality or the wee yin dies." He had a rather twisted scheme afoot, but he needed to capture these folk first.
Karven's father had only given him two pieces of advice about fighting: never threaten, boast or tell an enemy you were going to hit him, just kill him and talk to his corpse if you had to; and never stand still--if the enemy attacks, don't sit discussing tactics, kill the bastards!
Rage burned through the large man, and his arm shot out, and grabbed Skiam's throat, and squeezed it with a hand so strong it could bend nails. The paladin jerked the devious noble in front of Gyrus. Sqwaking in a strangled voice, Skiam ordered Gwell not to fire, but his friend tried it anyway, as he thought that no matter who got hit, it could be turned to his own advantage.
The crossbow bolt whizzed by, missed Gyrus and thunked half way to its feathers in the cornerpost of a house. It also pinned an old woman to it by her woolen shawl.
With a roar, Karven grabbed the coward's crotch with his left hand, and hurled him somersaulting into the stone wall of a cattle pen.
Skiam's brother arrived just then, and had the unpleasant task of hanging his own kin for oath breaking; he'd always known his brother was twisted of heart, but to assault a guest and near cause the death of a clanswoman? The paladin tried to talk him out of it, but the crime was unforgivable. As the noose tightened, the chieftain relented, it is not easy to see you own brother swing; he cut him loose and ordered him branded as a brigand. The snake symbol burned into his forehead, Skiam was then banished.
It seemed as if trouble followed their footsteps, and yet, the few other Highlanders encounterd by the companions were friendly, if a trifle suspicious of them.

               *                *                 *                  *                *

Eight days from Cho Bounty's home, Chiasmus began his war.
They were going through the Pass of the Grey Goblins, with Aletta way out in front scouting. There was little to fear for the goblins were dead, slaughtered in a week long battle with the Highlanders, but it didn't hurt to make sure.
Then suddenly, from the woods on the right hand side of the narrow valley, emerged a horde of short, white creatures. Dozens of goblins, dead goblins, skeletons covered with rotting, tattered flesh, and each bore a rusty blade, a wooden club, or a bright new hatchet. The walking corpses began to advance.
"Run!" This time it was Karven who shouted, fear crawling over him.
The elf and the paladin led the way up the broken rocks on the pass's left flank, both realizing they couldn't escape from things that never felt fatigue, things that were probably blocking the other end of the pass as well.
"Bones of Hell" Dorn hissed as they scrambled over the fissured boulders and piles of loose, shattered stones. An army of the undead!
They stopped at a high ledge, and prepared their defences, it would take a few minutes for the skeletons to reach them. While the cold fires of the Netherworld gave them untiring strength, it didn't increase the length of their stride, nor did they seem capable of running, or perhaps they didn't need to?
Wave upon wave of animated corpses began to ascend, even though their fleshless bodies were having a hard time finding purchase on the rock their souless presence defiled.
Seeing an obvious weapon, the terrified travellers began to deluge the horrors with rocks; Karven and Dorn hurled small boulders at them, smashing several monsters with each throw. Panting, the gnome managed to calm his shaking limbs, and created a crackling wall of flames. But the skeletons had no minds to fool with illusions, and they advanced through the fire without fear.
Arolith swore, thought for a moment, and cast his Liquid Lard spell. Without lungs or heart to tire, the bony things climbed up in a white wave of evil animation, and then slowed as several of their number stumbled and slid, knocking others down, and splintering their spindly bodies.
But at last the undead reached them, and the vision of fighting creatures with empty eyesockets, beings without life or soul, nearly made them weep with fright.
Without flesh to cut, the only way to destroy them was to smash bones. The elven wizard told them to aim for the goblin's skulls, for that was where the dark force that possessed them was located. At least that's what he hoped, his knowledge of necromancy was far from complete, for which he thanked the gods; still, the lack of information bothered him, and where was his love? Still ahead?
Bones shattered and smashed as they fought for their lives. Moon Shadow's blades began to glow softly, as if angered by the unnatural beings' presence. It seemed that the creatures could be killed, or at least stopped, by a blow to the skull, which caused the release of some dark vapour, or was it a spirit? If the skull wasn't fractured, they continued to move, but even then they weren't too hard to defeat for the magic which held their bones together seemed strong, but the bones themselves were not, having become brittle and dry with age. Even the halfling could despatch one of the horrors with a couple of strokes.
But their enemies fought with mindless persistence, and with the weight of vast numbers. The skeletons's hacked away at Karven's thighs and Dorn's head and chest, but the scout snarled away the few hits that struck home. The dwarf realised they had another advantage, whatever Hellspawned power filled these creatures, it lacked great physical strength. While Karven relied on armour for defence, Dorn used his incredible might, he used the weight of his blade to pullverise sword arms and skulls into powder.
With a painful crash, Camrae unleashed a Lightning Bolt that arced down the hillside, blowing the skeletons into fragments and a cloud of white dust. There were so many of them! He realised that even though his friends could easily handle individuals, the sheer bulk of the goblin tide would wear them down.
Unfortunately the gnome wasn't faring as well as well as his friends; lacking armour, and not being as agile as Gyrus or Camrae, Arolith was getting slashed and cut. A rusty stabbing spear punched through the hollow below his left shoulder, the blade broke off and pierced the top of his lung. The brave thaumaturge fell back against a rock, bright coloured blood pouring through his fingers.
A flash of crimson light heralded the detonation of Camrae's Fireball. The elf might dislike the spell's conflagratory hazard, but their was no denying its potency. Roaring flames devoured cold bones, and the thunderous echo reverberated across the pass.
Puzzlement appeared on Dorn's face, even as a skeletal chest crumbled beneath his latest blow; what was shaking? For a dozen of millenia, the great slab of rock they stood on had rested peacefully, and like the goblins, it too had come to life. With a monumental crack it broke free, loosened by the pounding wizard noise, and slid down the scree slope.
"WAAAH!" Gyrus shrieked as the ground tilted, and hurtled forwards!
Five thousand tons of ancient granite reduced the skeletons to chalky dust, and the tremendous blast as the huge rock slab hit the bottom blew the others flying.
Groggily, the heroes picked themselves up, they had survived! One didn't stand though, Camrae's legs had been broken by the terrific shock waves that hammered through the granite. The damage to his light bones hadn't been helped by standing on the bare rock, while his friends had been on a patch of earth.
From amidst the clouds of choking dust strode forth once more the short, bony horrors, though this time only twenty or so remained. Karven calmed his nerves, and remembered things told to him by Brother Marlin.
"In the name of Tymaril, and all that is just, get back to your graves and stay there!" The paladin spoke with as much power and conviction as he could muster, pulling out his holy symbol as he did so, and praying Tymaril was with them. Defeaned by the crash, Karven heard his words as only a rumble.
But the skeletons heard it, and dropped their weapons. Their empty eyes beheld that which only the undead could see--a holy incandescence which surrounded the paladin. To the spirits which filled the goblin's skulls, this flare was as sickening to them as Karven would find them, if he could truly see them, which fortunately he could not. Also, the light burned! The Sun was bad enough, but this was worse! There was a flicker of darkness around the monster's heads, and then they collapsed.
With a roar to his dwarven god, Dorn made sure they couldn't rise again.
"Arolith!" Dorn raced to his brother's side, next to the halfling who was pouring another  healing potion over the thaumaturge's wound.
Blood dripped from the numerous injuries Karven had received, mostly small nicks and bruises on his hands, or where the chainmail of his suit of armour hadn't stopped the lunges of stabbing spears. Leather gauntlets might be a good idea, he thought, while checking on Arolith, and tweeked the gnome's big nose when all seemed well. Next he went over to Camrae, and the elf grimaced as the paladin's healing hands caused the bones to knit in his broken legs, but it would be a while before he could walk.
"Oh you've got to be joking!" the halflling exclaimed as three humans strode towards them. Although they carried no blades and wore only simple clothing, they were anything but benign--zombies!
Wearily the young man and his dwarven friend prepared to defend themselves. Karven had learned much from Brother Marlin about the various monsters that infested the lands, so when the first zombie punched him so hard and fast that it dented his armour, he was taken aback physically and mentally. Zombies were supposed to be slow! Gods! These things had no eyes! Instead there was a faint, shimmering blue something, a diseased essence of curdled evil.
Dorn spat at his opponent, and his flashing cutlass bit into the zombie's necrotic flesh. The heavy, razor-edged blade tore through the dead man's belly, severing guts and bladder, which caused an outflow of reeking, noxious fluids. The blow was so strong that it shattered the zombies' pelvic bones, and it collapsed. Just as Dorn was about to sneer at  the bastard, and go after another one, the dead flesh of his enemy began to flow and move...What the Hell! With a wierd, unearthly move impossible for a living creature, the zombie got back to its feet, its injuries healing before the startled dwarf's eyes. The thing's balled fist would have split his skull if he hadn't then ducked.
"Mar Heesh!" Camrae didn't need to walk to unleash his powers, but when his spell also had no effect, he unleashed a vitriolic curse. "They're spell resistant!" He called to warn his friends. What kind of undead were these? He quickly entered a trance, images flashed throught his mind, studies, books, scrolls...ah, this one...and his mind left all behind as he hunted for knowledge.
Spell resistant? Gyrus thought.  Well that didn't do him much good, or bad, and so he smashed the third one straight on the knee cap, only to find that Lullaby had hardly injured the dead human. "Oh oh!" With a hollow growl the unhallowed thing tore at Gyrus's eyes, only to find he wasn't there at all!
"ALBANNII!" Roaring to burn the lethargy from his limbs, Karven slashed out with his enchanted axe, and it sliced through collar bone, rib cage and spine, exiting with a splatter of stinking liquid. The head and right shoulder began to topple backwards, but then stopped, the two pieces were being held together by a vaporous shadow, which then rejoined them! The thing still had a dreadful slash across its chest, but the dark energies which posessed the body refused to let it die, even so, the enchanted axe seemed to have caused lasting injury.
"Cold iron!" Camrae shouted. "The daggers we bought in Pyzag!" He angrily explained to a puzzled look the halfling shot his way. The elf hoped he was right; iron was always disliked by evil, but cold iron in particular, Terjiuss of Amachii said this was due to its magnetic fields that...He broke off his interesting thoughts to deal with more immediate matters.
Coughing, Dorn staggered, blood from his shattered nose choking him. Powered by strong, twisted forces of magic, the Jotha' zombies packed a punch like an ogre's club.
There came a whistling in the pass, and the monster in front of the dwarf was smacked in the face by a vial of liquid. Concentrated vitriol sprayed as the vial smashed, and the once living man's face hissed and bubbled, and sloughed away in great gobbits as the acidic spell bit into its flesh. As the blinded monster clawed at its melting face, Dorn used his cold iron dagger, slashing the fiend's throat, and eventually severing its head. Camrae had cast the spell to distract the monster, not realizing that Jotha' zombies were only resistant to spells of energy. Useful knowledge had been gained, and he had saved the dwarf's life. A flurry of mixed emotions went through him.
Gyrus was desperately jumping up and down rocks, and scrambling all over the place, with his own personal zombie following. Whenever the little thief thought he could get away with it, he turned and walloped the monster. But it wasn't all one sided, his ear was badly torn and he so he was immensely glad when Arolith flung Glitter straight into the horror's face, blinding it. The halfling jumped on a huge granite chunk, and while the beast was dementedly flailing around, he jumped down, breaking his fall by landing on the zombie, the dagger in his hand ploughed deep into the thing's neck. A howling wind of Abyssal winds tore out of the wound, and with a shudder, the monster entered a true state of death.
The paladin was locked against his opponent, Moon Shadow had sliced open another gash in its side, but Karven's face was being gouged by the Jotha' zombie's supernaturally hard fingers. With a ghastly moan, the last thing from beyond the grave dropped as Karven's axe cut it in half at the waist. But the torso fell on Dorn, who frantically pulled the putrid thing off himself, and stabbed it right through the skull, which ended the dark enchantment.
Groaning and sore, they collapsed in a heap around Camrae, and they finished off the small wineskin Gyrus just happened to have with them. They were starting to discuss whether this was a deliberate attack on them, or a rising of the undead caused by another source, when things got worse.
Behind a tall larch, Chiasmus prepared a Death Spell, and began to chant. But Arolith with his delicate hearing suddenly warned them.
"Wizard! Over there!"
Frantically they threw rocks and daggers in the hope of disrupting the unknown menace's spellcasting.
Most of the missiles flew wide, but the halfling's lead sling stone struck, bouncing off the necromancer's magically protected flesh. Forced to pause and keep his concentration strong, he was engulfed by Camrae's Web spell. Bound by silken strands, Chiasmus shrieked in rage, the Death Spell wasted because he couldn't complete the correct gestures--then his voice disappeared! Dorn didn't know much about magic, but he had thrown one of Cho Bounty's stones at Arolith's urgings.
"Where's Aletta?" asked the elf worriedly, as they prepared once more to fight, taking cover behind the numerous boulders which now littered the pass.
"Ferellz!" Camrae spoke once more, and threw a small chunk of sunstone towards the struggling form in the webs. There was a sudden flash of intense heat and light, and the magical silk ignited with a deep whooshing noise. The necromancer screamed as the burning fibres dripped and melted onto him, searing his flesh.
Quickly the fire died down, the trees here at least refused to catch. Chiasmus fell to his knees, hurt, but not seriously injured, his dark robes were enchanted and had not burned, saving him from being roasted.
In pain perhaps, but the evil wizard looked at the bags of flesh which had seperated him from the Scroll with a very calculating stare. He stood, and quickly stepped back into cover, away from the aura of silence.
"Panas, come forth!" Chiasmus snapped his fingers, and a huge man, seven feet tall, all misshapen and ugly, strode into view; the fellow's skin had different tones, indeed, his massive right arm was dark brown in colour, similar to the folk from Salamanka Gyrus had seen in Kalik. Held in the giant's dark grip was the half-elf, covered in some odd material, the remains of the Web spell that had ensnared her; Camrae wasn't the only wizard who had used that spell today. Aletta tried to go forward, but one yank of those brutal arms nearly killed her.
"This is Panas, as my elven colleague there will no doubt inform you, he is a flesh golem, a mighty being quite capable of ripping you in half," the necromancer called out, and licked his dry lips. "Langanis, show yourself!"
Not a noise came from the swordwraith's armour as he pushed through the trees, and the flame in his eyes burned into the necromancer, whose nervousness he relished like fine wine. With a snick he drew his short sword and readied his large shield, still bearing the Messenik Empire's white dragon crest.
The panic induced by the undead goblins' unholy appearance was nought compared to the fear brought to the friends by Langanis's burning gaze. Not being romantic by nature, Chiasmus had devised this plan from  memeories of tales where the heroes were always threatened with the death of their female companions, it seemed a good idea. He didn't want to risk destroying the Scroll by physically disruptive magic or sharp blades if there was a simpler method, anyway, he could kill them afterwards.
"One word from me and Panas breaks her neck, then Lanaganis will cut your heads off." With the dead centurion's hate so apparent, he wasn't going to let his golem slave go far. "So, give me the Scroll of Chenvar, and I'll let her live, what do you say?"
The friends looked at each other, and Camrae's face was a mask of agony as he looked at his love, held in an embrace of death. She was mouthing the words: "Trick, kill him!"
"Ah, get stuffed!" Gyrus swore, and hurled something at their nemesis. He had been a slave once before, and would never allow an evil human to dominate him again.
WIth an eye searing flash, the Blasting Crystal exploded! Chiasmus was blown through the trees like a leaf in a gale, the others disappeared behind a thick pall of dust.
Where the wizard had stood, there was now a crater ten feet across, and Langanis was slowly picking himself up, with much of his armour torn to shreds and a great hole punched through his skull. Not a mark showed on Panas's magical flesh, but the ranger still held in his hand was covered with lacerations; the golem's body had shielded her from death.
Cautiously, Karven and Dorn advanced, the undead soldier glared at them but made no move.
A voice croaked from the woods, "Panas, kill them all!" The golem jerked his hand into a fist, and Aletta's neck crumpled like a sponge.
"NOOO!" Camrae wailed, seeing his love die before his eyes.
The paladin went berserk, the world slowed and as if in a dream, he span with all his might, and the Axe of Cleaving lived up to its fearsome reputation. Biting into Panas' left arm, the weapon pulled its way through the monster's flesh as the Corlis steel worked the deadly magic of the dwarven smiths. The limb was severed like a thumb by a hatchet.
Puzzled, the golem looked at its ruined stump, from which blood pulsed in spurts. "Hhuuuuahh!" it roared, and dropped the half-elf's body. Metal rang as it slapped the paladin' shoulder, sending him flying through the air.
Fires of twisted rage burned their way through the corridors of Chiasmus's mind; he didn't notice the oozing blood that came from numerous small cuts on his body, the Steelshield spell had expired as it had been overwhelmed by the explosion's destructive force. In his hand the necromancer held a skull of dark quartz.
Langanis stepped in front of his despised master. If flesh had covered his bones, the dead centurion's face would be twisted in a maleavolent scowl.
"Get back!" Chiasmus pushed at him, but he would sooner have moved the Rods of  Lemrikch. Rage began to be displaced by fear. Now a true necromancer would have known never to lose control of himself, for in doing so he might also begin to doubt, which brought  weakness, which meant death.
Nearby, another blow from a huge right hand empowered with supernatural strength drove Karven to his knees. The paladin's soul seemed to detach itself from his flesh, it was as if he viewed the scene from another place, beyond his body, but his intellect still ruled, and he saw an openeing. Moon Shadow sheared through the golem's foot, and the monster toppled over him.
Rolling onto its side, the golem started to rise, hampered by the mangled foot, until Gyrus's mace crashed into the back of the creature's neck. Dazedly, Panas looked up to see the human standing nearby, the axe swung up, flashed in the sun, and darkness ended its pitiful existance.
A razor sharp blade sliced through Chiasmus's back, ruptured his kidney, and pushed his dark robes out in front where the cutlass pierced his stomach! The pain! There was a violet pulse of energy, the wizard vanished, and Dorn screamed  in agony as the necromancer's Retribution spell poured lightning through his arms. Chiasmus hadn't seen the scowling dwarf sneak up behind him.
"Help me, help me!" the elf sobbed, while he rocked Aletta in his arms. "Karven, help, heal...?"
Tears came to the paladin's eyes, there was nothing he could do, his healing power was exhausted, and it would take more than that to help the ranger-druid.
Standing, saying nothing, Langanis watched them grieve. He had done so for many of his comrades, especially on the day he met his own end, but the undead soldier was beyond it all now--all he could feel was relief at Chiasmus's passing, he prayed the swine really was dead.
"It's not fair!" the halfling whispered. Why was it always the nice folk? Like Aletta, like his sisters, oh, he wished they were all right again! He stood kicking the ground in misery.
There was a sudden crackling noise, and Aletta's body jerked! The elf went rigid with fright, and then his eyes went bright with wonder, for the ranger was breathing!
"My neck hurts," she whispered, and gulped, and then her eyes opened, to see what her soul yearned for, Camrae. They kissed, long and hard with all the love they had for each other.
Their friends looked on in amazement, a miracle! Gyrus was jumping up and down in pain as something suddenly grew hot and bright in his pocket--it was the coin he had pinched from the druid, it was glowing softly. He went to throw the coin away, but the battered paladin stopped him.
"Keep it, see about it..." He slumped, and Arolith grabbed him. The gnome winced as he felt the wound in his shoulder tear. Seeing the thaumaturge's face, Karven pulled himself upright, his left shoulder screaming in agony and he had difficulty breathing.
"Vat a day!" Dorn felt like an orc's arse after a dwarven battle, he licked his lips. "Got that necro-bastard, vhatever. He's dead, I think."
Fervently, they all hoped so.
"Dwarf," said a voice that seemed to echo from a distant, hollow cave.
Dorn turned to see the skeletal soldier advancing across the grass towards him, he gulped, and readied his cutlass.
With a flashing spin, Langanis reversed his sword, and offered the hilt to the dwarven scout!
"Take my sword, you were the one who felled Chiasmus. Take it!"
Nervously, Dorn did so, the weapon was icy cold from the swordwraith's touch. The expensive adamantine blade was a work of art, as broad as a human hand, double edged, with a sharp, angular tip.
"Now , finish me, let me sleep in peace. You understand? " Langanis gripped the tip of the blade, and put it to where his heart once beat, and where its's ghostly echo pumped spectral forces of damnation. "The necromancer has trapped my spirit here, I need peace, please!" Bones could not form expressions of pleading or want, or suffering, but the somulant voice said enough.
Unsure of what to do, Dorn looked to his human and elven friends. The crippled mage nodded, "Release him." Karven felt compassion and sorrow, for the the creature had once been a fellow warrior, and seemed honourable--he tried to base his judgement on those emotions, rather than his fear, "Do it."
"Sorry," the dwarf said, and lanced the blade forward.
Blue sparks of lightning came from the imbedded sword, and Langanis sank to his knees, his face level with Dorn's. "Thank you."
Bony hands reached for the sword, drew it forth, and held it in front of his face in salute. "Emperor! I have not failed you!"
The skeleton fell, the nebulous flesh and spirit departed. Karven and Dorn buried him with his shield and sword upon his chest, and piled a small cairn to mark the centurion's passing.
They took shelter that night in a newly made cave, under the giant granite slab, as a tremendous storm wracked the mountains, sending hail down to harry the world.
Dorn successfully smacked Gyrus in the ear.
"What was that for?" cried the halfling, indignantly.
"Stealing the Blasting Crystal! Stupid twit, bad enough being Fireballed! Arolith, grab him!"
The two brothers wrestled with Gyrus, and stripped him bare, searching for any other 'surprises'.
"At least I got the wizard!" said the thief, covering his modesty with his cloak. The halfling's friends thanked him very, very sincerely, though Dorn muttered something about jinx-banes and unusual dwarven punishments. Aletta grabbed Gyrus, and kissed him!
"Thank you! But make it a better throw next time?" she said. Gyrus felt every inch the gallant hero, and he would have kissed the ranger back, but he saw Camare's face, and the dagger he was sharpening.
"Ah, no problem!"

               *                *                  *                 *                 *

Blood suddenly spattered the floor as Chiasmus appeared in his Room of Transition. Wary of being killed, the necromancer had cast a spell of Protective Linkage before the battle, so that if he were badly injured he would Teleport to safety. Another, darker, more taxing spell had linked him mystically, not with his home, but with a prisoner in his dungeon, who had payed the price that Chiasmus might live.
Once again the necromancer's healer worked his skills, while his master lay deep in oblivious slumber, numbed by Derag'.
Awakened by pain late in the night, Chiasmus drummed the fingers of his right hand on a table as he contemplated what to do next--there were only two weeks before Sevegar...Well, the Formorian had a notoriously mercurial temper, but he seemed in a good mood, he might extend the time limit.
How to beat them? Simple minded orcs were easy, but they had a wizard and magical weapons by the looks of things. More zombies to draw their powers, yes, but he couldn't waste his island tenants like that, he needed their revenues. He couldn't renew the Death Bonding since he would need another prisoner, and more importantly, the stars wouldn't be in the right conjunction for another two months, so he must forgo that protection. Hmm? Ha! He had it, a nightmarish scenario appeared in his mind.
Seperate them, sow confusion, and kill that bastard dwarf! The elf was the greatest danger, so he would have to be neutralized, the female was dead...hmm, possibly, possibly. Shifting shadows from the fire that warmed the room also supplied ideas.
Feeling satisfied with his plans, the necromancer looked at the huge, dark green scarab ring on his left hand; the peridot stone held many secrets. The ring had saved him several times, not only could it Teleport him, it could cast several useful, if minor magics. The ring, the ring...the ring!

              *                 *                  *                  *                *

Later, in the NeverWatch Tower of his castle, Chiasmus opened a great door, a portal that had been sealed three centuries ago, but which he had dared unlock. Inside was a room, bright with the brilliance of magical illumination, on the walls were numerous silver plaques--holy symbols of Gecnawa.
A shifting vibrance seemed to inhabit the place, and the renegade wizard knew what this was. On the floor was a circle, inlaid in silver, with various potent runes of protection tracing their way around it. And inside the magic circle was a mithril box, which contained the stuff of nightmares.
As a boy, Chiasmus had beeen warned of this room, and of its terrible contents. His father had told him the story, as his father had been told, back through fourteen generations of the Machlin family, to Lord Rynan Machlin the paladin and his brother, Seolis the Abjurer. Powerful men, well liked, heroes, they had been asked to rid Pyzag of a deadly scourge, and they had, and imprisoned it here, fearful of its return.
The story had interested the young Chiasmus in magic, and particularly necromancy. For in the box was the charred remains of Loyghan Sabboeth, Lord of the vampires. If only he could control him! That was a goal he worked towards, a design a truly astute necromancer would have dismissed as lunacy.
Another creature was in that dread room, though he could not be seen or felt, for the entity dwelled in another plane of existance--a strange, murky place that was endless and yet small, a prison for a soul. Tall, and clad in ancient elven chain mail that had been corrupted and corroded by centuries of cruelty and destruction until it was the colour of midnight blood, was this person, this terrible spirit. On his chest was a heraldic device, three black daggers on an amber coloured diagonal bar, over a sable background. Long grey hair framed an aggressive face, that split in a terrible rolling laugh. The mystical cage which trapped his soul on this plane was beginning to weaken, how sweet. What was it that Ventaris had said? "Corrupter of flesh, tempter of men, slayer of women, golden bonds will bind your will and enslave your mind. Forever it cannot be, until a wise fool gives you a liquid key. But yet the friend of he that services the key will, with your own honour, bring a just rewarded blight. They walk the land in another age, and will meet a Friend of Blood, make a Bargain with Blood, and stand fast against a Fiend of Blood; then shall you be free!"
Yes, something was happening, the old fool had been right after all! thought Loyghan. I should have made him immortal, for the mystic's prophecies had often come true, but still, he had fed well on his bright soul.
Free! Free! He would be free again, soon! The eyes blazed red fire, and the hellish spectre of Loyghan Sabboeth, walked into the mists.

              *                 *                 *                   *                *


                                            CHAPTER 11
                                          To the Wyrm's Lair



By the banks of a wide river, a man sat fishing. But he was no mortal, and this was no ordinary world, for the fisherman was the war god, Catha, and this was the Plane of the Iron Winds where he made his home.
There was a series of glows and effervescences, and numerous mighty beings appeared, the gods of the Just. The beauty and majesty of these divine, but caring beings, would have stunned a mortal out of his wits, but Catha merely smiled at his guests and led them to his fortress, the Shield Castle, whose sides were covered with the shields of the great heroes who spirits lived in this wonderful place.
The gods had called for a meeting and here they held their council on neutral ground, for all repsected Catha. Dieties of war and peace, of elf and man, of life and death discussed the problem that now confronted them--the NecroSphere! 
They pieced together a long and surprising story, each drawing on little fragments of knowledge, for each had their own particular sphere of knowledge--Catha, for example, knew instantly whenever there was an armed conflict that one of his worshippers fought in, where it was and who fought. There was a god who almost certainly knew all what had transpired, but he rarely spoke, and merely watched. 
A dark elf slaving caravan had been attacked by vengeful dwarves. This happened deep beneath Pyzag, the capitol city of Alba. One of the slaves got seperated from the rest, and wandered through still and forgotten places. Here he saw a series of runes, and the ex-slave recognized them, for he was Formorian wizard, disguised by his sorceries. He couldn't pass a series of guardians who protected the place, but he eventually made his way to the surface, and thence to N'Skell. In time he became the chief wizard of Sevegar the Destroyer, and he told him of what he had seen many years before. So the Formorian assembled a squad of Sale Earl assassins, and they stole away with what had been his in the depths--a scroll, a map to the NecroSphere's shattered parts. Evil had betrayed itself by its brutality, and Good had been saved by bravery; if that halfling, who in truth was terrified of Sable Earls, and with good reason, hadn't stopped the assassin, Sevegar could well have obtained the NecroSphere. The gods were frightened of nothing, but the Black Sun was nothing.
Eventually the gods decided to let the mortals complete their quest, they would permit them to find the dreaded relic. This was agreed on for there was a problem even the gods couldn't surmount--the Scroll, somehow, could not be seen by anything but a being's own eyes, no magic or godly powers could reveal or describe it. They only knew of its existance because of the prayers of their clerics in Pyzag! The Scroll seemed like an invisible piece of slithering Corliss, you couldn't grasp or look at the thing, all you could do was to mark its passing by the trail it left.
When the NecroSphere was found again, Dauthos himself would claim it, and in his entropic grasp, it would be destroyed.
Some aid could be given to the Scroll bearers, but it had to be carefully done. Several deities had already helped them in small ways, but from now on they had best be more circumspect. The Formorians were already looking for the Scroll, and if Baal or one of the evil gods should chance upon it!

               *                 *                 *                  *               *

Unaware that the gods were debating their fate, and had already helped them, the six friends continued on their path towards the Grey Cloud Mountain.
Camrae, while they were recovering from the necromancer's attack, had studied Gyrus's odd coin, and had decided that it had been blessed by Tyche, the goddess of Luck and good hearted thieves. It seemed to be able to grant Wishes, but the mage was unsure of how many. The coin had brought Aletta back to life, and for this he would be eternally greatful. He prayed to the goddess in thanks and swore to seek out one of her temples when they returned from their quest, if they survived she would deserve a double homage! When the paladin asked where Gyrus got the coin from, the halfling just replied that since Tyche was his goddess, she had made sure he found it in a natural setting. Karven stared at his friend, trying to puzzle that one out.
Afterwards, Gyrus kept playing with the peculiar coin, funnily, the only remarkable thing about it that it had a triangular piece of alwaran set into it,  the yellow-green translucent crystal that split light into weird colours when held in front of the Sun. Pretty, but not very valuable. His friends had warned him to be cautious--look what a Wish had done to Blood Guts! Impetous was the halfling, but he had no desire to get anyone cursed, especially his sisters; had they been freed by his Wish when Aletta was resurrected? Wish! Oops! he thought. Better put this somewhere safe, before I get turned into something nasty. He hid the Talisman in one of the many concealed pockets in his waistcoat.
Wary of attack, the half-elf and Dorn scouted the rugged path ahead, which lay through a narrow glen, dotted with only a few groves of trees and scarred by ancient landslides of frost shattered rock. The necromancer might not be dead, Camrae warned them that the practitioners of that dark sphere of magic were justifiably feared, they had secrets which could defeat and circumvent their demise. Dorn insisted that the the evil wizard had been consumed by his own magic, but Camrae didn't believe they were that lucky, and besides which, the dwarf didn't know the difference between a Thrice Triggered Teleport and Tarshin's Fatal Reprisal!
The ranger was uneasy in this quiet land wher the wind blew cold and damp, for nearly everyone in Alba knew that this was where the evil dragon made his home. Blood Scale made no secret of his lair's location, for it encouraged folk to come against him, letting him sate his appetite for blood and treasure with little effort. 
So far they had seen few dangers: a couple of circling griffons, who fortunately smelled Camrae and thus didn't attack (griffons were as big and dangerous as young dragons, weapons couldn't pierce their metal-clad bodies, but they had a great fear of magic as spells always seemed to affect them quite badly, which was why griffons never molested wizards); and a black mountain lion which they had startled out of its slumber. The great cats had a supernatural ability to blend into the landscape that was quite eerie, even for folk used to magic. When Dorn sat down in the bush, right next to the lion, it was hard to say which was more startled! It didn't attack though, for its kind only fought in defence and avoided humanoids, but this one hadn't the strength left to run. Karven was impressed when Aletta slowly approached the lion and began scratching its flank. It was pleased with her attentions, but stared at the rest of them with its yellow eyes . Aletta cast a few spells on the the creature, for it was exhausted and injured.
"She had been hunted by goblins, now she can return the compliment!" The half-elf explained to her friends as they left at a fast pace. She hoped her actions were approved by the goddess. Survival of the fittest...but what about the smartest, or the baddest? Caught between two races, two gods, two beliefs, she found life a struggle of choices. She wondered if Karven had problems like that with his god?
The mage and the paladin talked as they ambled along the rocky path. Camrae was troubled by his violent use of magic, he didn't like killing. Still, he had to admit to himself, he liked spells of havoc and destruction, they thrilled him. He wasn't crazy, he didn't like causing hurt, it was just fun unleashing noisy, colourful magic, blowing things to pieces! It embarassed him, it was so immature, so human! But the wizard had to look out for his friends, who lacked the ability to arcanely disappear (though Gyrus could teach a wizard a thing or two), and Fireballing a dozen enemies was a good way to achieve their saftey.
Karven knew that his elven friend was thinking of him. The paladin had learned how to avoid fights by out thinking his opponents, but when trouble started, he was always in the thick of it. The gods had given him strength and fast reflexes, but they had also made him useless at running, except over short distances, and even then he could only run fast when scared (but who doesn't run fast when wereghouls are chasing you?) So he always stood and fought. A physician friend of Brother Marlin's had told him that his poor running ability was due to the Blight and no amount of training or exercise could change that, he should at least be glad it had hadn't twisted his body worse, and it was probably responsible for his otherwise excellent musculature. Despite the advice, he'd tried running as much as he could, but it never made a difference, the best he could manage was half a mile and that had left his legs crippled with pain for a couple of days. He really envied Dorn's ability to run all day, and Camrae's incredible speed. It was ironic that he could walk faster and further than anyone he knew. 
Some of Jal Vardis's gang had believed that stupid saying about big folk being slow, which to an extent was true in Karven's case, so they used to taunt him and run away. One particular bastard nearly killed him by hurling a rock at his head. The paladin caught the  fellow coming out of the foundry, and kicked him in the stones. Even though his legs weren't great for running, they were extremely strong. He'd also demonstrated that his reflexes were far faster than most humans as well.
The elf was also worried about the bearded scout, who used his abilities to get into fights rather than out of them. The dwarf's pride and sheer love of fighting made it hard for him to back out of a battle. And so the mage felt a curious sort of responsibility for the pair, while logic told him that they were both as mature as he, his elven heart suggested otherwise. At least Aletta was someone he could trust to leave alone for more than a few minutes.
Soon they camped by a small grove of birch trees, for they were high in the mountains, and storms and freezing cold could kill more surely than an orcish blade. The Highlands of Alba had gathered many to sleep forever amidst their chilly bones.
Camrae sat at watch, the ranger curled warmly beside him in deep sleep. Concern for her and his friends had thrown him ever deeper into his studies. Like all bronze elves he had a serious and probing intellect, which often led him to consider the consequences of failure. This was no game, no practice session now, a spell miscast because of haste or fear would doom those he cared for. Due to the great ages elven folk lived to, they knew that material things perished quickly, which was why they loved art, sword play, magic, friendship, these would last in the heart and mind long after steel rusted and gold was stolen.
The spell book of Cho Bounty was on the mage's lap, its pages were glowing softly thanks to a minor enchantment, so it was easily readable in the moonglow, in the shadows of the ancient valley.

              *                 *                 *                  *                 *

Aeons ago, the narrow glen had been scoured by a glacier, and  it had left behind a mighty wound in the earth--a corrie tarn. Like a great basin of dark water it was, deep and circular, cold and lonely at the valley's head.
Twenty fathoms down, awarness came to a tiny spark of a mind, a piece of ice that had been coated with a Highlander's murdered blood. Drawn by frost and death, an evil spirit had emerged into the world; fortuantely for it, the tiny crystal that thoused its essence was unwittingly carried by the dead man's slayer, caught in his leggings as he searched for loot. It fell off, and lodged in a crack on a boulder, where the ice grew, merged and built. Travelled this thing had, slaying and killing, dealing out bloody, senseless carnage as its rancid gifts, and now, with the coming of night, the entity awoke.
An owl flew over the slate coloured surface of the tarn, but a sudden ripple in the water made it veer off. A horned skull emerged, the moonlight dappling its grey-green coloured surface that was not flesh, but ancient stone. Shoulders big enough for a horse to stand on thrust the head up, up as it walked shorewards. Blood, the beast smelled blood on the wind, and could hear the hot liquid pulsing through veins and arteries, the sound echoed and roared off the curving valley walls which surrounded the tarn. 
It began to hunt.

                 *              *                 *                *                *

Though deep in his readings and contemplations, Camrae still noticed the odd, low, booming noise that rolled across the glen. The noise came again, and again, the crumping noise of giant footsteps.
Swiftly the others were roused, the dwarf muttering silent curses, wishing all giants legless as well as brainless. The paladin donned the upper half of his armour, it was quick to fit since the plate segments were riveted to patches of chain, but the leg pieces would take too long.
Four of them could see in the darkness thanks to the heritage of their races. It was the elf who noticed the creature first: his eyes drank in all the dim moon light could show, and he spied a massive, hulking form walking behind some small trees. Beside him his dwarven compatriot watched the night, his gaze showing him the valley in shades of grey. The subterannean race of dwarves saw colour in daylight, but in the depths there was no Sun, but there was heat and this they could percieve in shades of grey. Dorn knew well that his darksight worked best reasonably close to, at a distance it only showed vague areas, and patches of brightness that indicated life. Peculiarly, he could see this thing, or rather, he couldn't see it at all, he rubbed hs eyes. Odd! There was a moving patch of darkness, that would mean that it was very cold...a frost giant! He warned his friends. Frost giants were very dangerous, not merely because of their size, but for their trickery and greatly feared magic as well.
Blood, the smell of life was closer now, and with all its senses fullly on, the beast could pin point the prey in a grove of small trees. The monster's massive, rocky bulk crushed rocks under its feet, and drove them deep into the earth. With a purplish, chilling light, the fiend's eyes began to shine, radiating its hunger.
"Amar nayAHN!" Camrae spoke with force, and the dark gulley lit up with a pristine brilliance that threw long shadows. A globe of magelight hovered high in the air, and dazzled the oncoming stranger. The wizard hoped that the creature might be benign, and Karven and Gyrus would need their vision if it was not.
"Clachmorg!" the elf choked, recognizing the giant creature, and named it for what it was. He hurriedly began another, more lethal casting.
Although it was humanoid in shape, it was easy to see the clachmorg was no natural creature. The stone which formed the monster's body rose up into a craggy mass of tall spikes that served as its head, and several luminous eyes were dotted around the enormous mouth, which ran vertically instead of across. Even a shark would have nightmares looking upon that maw, for it was easily six feet high, and filled with a glittering profusion of quartz fangs.  
Trees splintered and shook as the twenty foot tall beast ploughed through them. Aletta's arrow caught it near an eye, but the ash shaft was like a tiny dart that just enraged the monster, and with a deafening howl, the clachmorg was upon them.
The dwarf jumped up from cover, and his heavy blade crunched into the soft, stony flesh of the brute, but it replied and a hooked fist of hard, spiny stone threw the dwarf backwards.
Clachmorg were evil things of the cold mountains, and the paladin knew their fearsome reputation for savagery, which filled him with fear; but his abhorrance of their foulness turned fear to rage. But before he could strike a blow, the beast's fist swung with impressive speed, and tore bloody gouges along Karven's left forearm, mangling the metal rings of his dwarf made armour.
Innocence, kindess, the clachmorg could smell a paladin! Claws reached to tear, but fire erupted around it! Shrieking and howling the giant fiend stumbled backwards, unwittingly passing through the flames at the rear without harm, the brute too stupid to realize this was an illusion. Because it couldn't see the fire behind it, that part of the ring of fire didn't harm the clachmorg, the creature's own mind created the effects of the searing heat in front. 
Another arrow bit into the ten ton horror and a sling shot from Gyrus smacked into one of the shimmering eyes, shattering the amethyst crystal it was made from. Displacement cloak or not, he wasn't coming near that thing!
In the harsh shadows created by the brilliant spell, the clachmorg's head was an easy target for Camrae's Lightning Bolt. Violet slashes of arcane electricity reached out, and vanished an inch before the beast's face as the energies were disrupted by its unnatural presence. The mage cursed the cold thing's resistance to magic and hurriedly backed further away.
Again Dorn scored a hit, sparks showered and rock crumbled. The dwarf had switched weapons, he didn't want to waste the edge of his cutlass, so he resorted to the hatchet instead. The pain in the stony behmoth's left ankle triggered a response, but the dwarf's short height made him hard to hit. Frustrated, the clachmorg pivoted, driving its leg deep into the dirt, and tore loose with a huge, circular slash. Birch trees snapped loudly as the massive limb destroyed them, and the scout's armour clanged mutely as the metal was struck hard, along with its owner.
Imitating the monster, Karven spun on his heel, swinging Moon Shadow in his good right hand, and the axe pulled its way through granite corrupted by the dark spirit that inhabited it. A mortal being would have been hamstrung by such a blow, but not this incarnation of evil.
Ignoring the wounds, the clachmorg stooped down to rend the staggering and dazed  dwarf.
"BEHIND YOU!" roared a voice, and the evil beast stood and turned, distracted by the gnome's Glamour of Dislocated Sound. It had responded to threat, as the clachmorg lacked the wits to comprehend speech.
Life! Living beings! The rampaging monster longed to slake its murderous desires in the rending of flesh, to feel joints tear apart under limb gouging talons. The one with the shiny metal skin was the prey. Ahh! The prey hurt! But the clachmorg would stop the dull, far away pain in its mobile shell, by ripping this one open and chewing him to a bloody paste. It didn't need meat to live, instead,  the creature would bathe its secret, crystalline essence in the chilled remains.
Staring up at the glowering purple eyes, Karven recognized hatred, but the song of battle was in him. Gyrus suddenly knocked the paladin to his feet, and Camrae's Fireball washed them with its heat.
Shrieking, the clachmorg clutched its head in agony, the elf's clean magic had overcome foul opposition, and roasted stony flesh. The blast rocked the giant, and it howled a grating, freezing cry as the ice crystal that held its spirit began to warm.
Arolith rushed over to his friends, and they followed Camrae's shouts--he had a plan!
The demon that animated the great body of stone ignored the pain, the sliver of ice cooled by its other-worldy inhabitant. This prey hurt, this prey would be torn apart as it fed on their agonies!
Up the steep side of the glen they ran, the clachmorg following slowly, but relentlessly, tearing great showers of rubble free with every one of its colossal steps.
Panting hard, Karven called for them to slow, Arolith and Gyrus heartily agreed, the trailing beast was slower than them, why rush?
Camrae explained his idea, and they prepared.
Ahh! The prey stood before it with their backs to some trees. Kill! The clachmorg suddenly started to slip on a patch of enchanted grease, its feet tearing into the ground for support, and then a Concussion Bolt blew chunks off its hide. Dorn, Karven and Aletta ran forwards, and the tree trunk they carried thumped into the giant's chest, pushing it over!
Hurtling, tumbling the great body rolled down the slope, faster and faster. Because it was no mortal beast, the clachmorg felt no sense of dizziness, but the monster knew fear for an instant as it hurtled out into space, and then fell weightlessly over the short drop to its doom. Ten tons of unholy monster smashed hard against the blessed rocks of ancient mountains with a final, splintering destructive thud.
Aletta made them hold the tree Karven had sliced down with Moon Shadow over the weeping stump, then the ranger-druid cast spells of healing and entanglement on it; after all, the young birch had done them a great favour. The half-elf's magic also helped the dwarf, who had come of out this encounter worse than the paladin. Bruised and abraided from head to foot, the scout needed all of her spells. 
Karven didn't like using his powers on himself, it was selfish and he felt that if he used them for personal gain something terrible would happen. The torn flesh of his arm needed mending though, so he prayed to Tymaril, who was a wise god, not only of paladins and justice, but of learning and compassion. Amazed once more by this gentle magic, he felt his damaged flesh cool, the bleeding ceased and the gouges closed. It was truly a great power he had, one that pleased him more than his fighting abilities--healing was a good act that caused no one to suffer, guilty or innocent.
"Glow eyed veirdo!" the dwarf spat, and smashed the back of his hatchet onto the clachmorg's already shattered head. They had descended to ensure the thing was finished. Arolith also started to attaack it with his pick, but he was interested in the thing's body; how did it move? The body was granite, but yet the rock was soft?
The halfling grumbled as he went through their gear, some of it had got stood on by that, that thing! "Rock kissing bastard, it's stood on tomorrow's meal!" he cursed. A little later, Aletta's sword caught him under the chin.
"Ah, oh! Is this yours!" The halfling passed over the tube of silver dust. "I was just examining it, honest! I don't steal from firends. Ask them!" He pointed at his comrades.
"Naah, he just borrows, don't you?" Arolith casually replied.
Flickering feebly, the life force of the clachmorg raged, but if it could get to safety, away from the approach of cursed daylight....
Karven felt a presence, some lingering essence that was too strong to be just fear of the dead beast. Hefting Moon Shadow he poked around the body, while Camrae and Arolith were busily discussing the creature's strange nature and origin. The paladin made doubly sure it was dead, the enchanted axe pulverised any bits that looked whole, and incidentally destroyed the miniscule piece of ice.
The spirit of the clachmorg screamed as it was catapulted down the twisting red path that led to its own infernal plane, the journey lasted centuries and yet took only seconds. It was a nightmare even for a demon, and when it arrived, it had to explain to its merciless lords why it had returned. Demons have no mercy, but their masters have even less....

               *                *                 *                 *                 *

The dawn broke in a searing swath of colours, bursting with stunning brilliance upon the ice-capped peaks. Light raced along the floor of the valley like an advancing wave, driving back the darkness.
But it was a while before they could set off, the half-elf completed the work of healing on the dwarf and paladin, and Camrae spent over two hours studying his spells, since he was a sensible wizard he always double checked his knowledge of the dweomers after casting them. Miscasting an incantation was a thing dreaded by all practicioners of magic, generally, nothing would happen, which could be bad enough, rarely, an entirely new spell was created, which, since it was unknown, was uncontrolled. The thought of a cataclysmic spell detonating at your feet was a nightmare that haunted most wizards, for it had really happened, such an accident had once covered a city in the Messenik Empire with a mile thick layer of toxic resin that had killed tens of thousands of people.
Many thought spellcasting was draining process, using up the caster's vital energies, but this was hogwash, whose body contained the raw force necessary for a Fireball? No one, the rituals merely created a tap into the vast and mysterious energy that mortals had named 'magic'. Nor did this force 'run dry', for it seemed that the world, the entire cosmos, was created from magic. Wizards were limited in their powers however, mainly due to their skills (an apprentice could perhaps cast a high magnitude spell, if he practiced long enough, but the chances were that it would just fizzle, as you had to 'feel' the magic, be at ease with it, and that took years of study), losing their voice due to straining the larynx (hence most wizards undertook singing lessons, and dreaded sore throats like a warrior feared palsy), and 'channeling exhaustion'. The act of manipulating a spell was tiring, like a warrior practicing with his blades, but it was due to the mental and spiritual strains of controlling and indirectly channeling the mystic forces (few spells actually channeled the direct force through the wizard). Oddly enough, as a byproduct of this, the caster felt a minute backwash of magical current that caused a slight invigoration (unless the spell used 'dark' necromancy, which caused even more weariness). Thus, when Camrae cast a spell, he felt like an athlete who had exercised and then taken a refreshing bath, it was an oddly pleasant sensation. Many sages believed that the backwash actually caused a degree of rejuvenation, which would explain why spellcasters often lived to great ages. The fact that they were generally smart enough to avoid trouble could also have something to do with it as well.
Trouble had found them once more though.
"Gesharns! Rotten bastards!" Aletta swore. Of all the creatures in existance, she had a particular hatred of the big, demonic cousins of the orcs. Never would she forget the day when they had attacked Sciabehl, or the running blood on Aliasande's face.
"Right, let's kill 'em!" Dorn spat on his sword, and took a battle stance. Only orcs and giants could enrage a dwarf more than the vicious brutes who marched down the bare valley wall towards them.
Quickly Camrae took cover, preparing electrical death for the dozen evil warriors, some of whom had a fluttering banner strapped to their backs. While dwarves hated orcs, elves loathed gesharns with a similar intensity--the two races were the total anithesis of each other. His Lingering Light spell still burned in the air from the night before, and would burn for many years, providing an unusual sight for travellers, and unfortunately warn the monsters that a spellcaster was about.
As Arolith thought of a particularly nasty trick, the halfling did his usual disappearing trick, which was a remarkable thing to achieve in this deserted wasteland.
Standing beside Dorn, Karven tried to comprehend the look of antipathy he had seen on Camrae's angular, but generally passive features. It was a bit of a shock to see him and Aletta with equally grim expressions. The paladin knew the advancing creatures were evil, but paradoxically, they were also honourable and had fought with humans, dwarves and elves against the Necronian Empire in ages past, as well as the Formorians in more recent times. So why were they so hated? The bards spoke of vicious cruelties, but surely they exaggerated?
The paladin motioned for calm. "We'll talk first, all right?" The others reluctantly agreed.
Upon a white field of cloth was a dragon in crimson, the gesharn's banner. Most of the burly, muscular humanoids stood nearly seven feet tall, with pale blue-white skin, where their flesh was thinest, it shaded to purple. Their skin itself was shiny and leathery, without trace of fat, and their eyes were large, sadistic looking and had small yellow irises. A pair of short, white horns grew from above the eyes, and their helmets had slots to accomidate them. The iron chest plate that each wore was painted dark green, with short kilts of yellow-dyed sheepskin protecting their legs, the gesharns' stormy-blue coloured helmets were each painted with pale, incomprehensible runes. Everyone bore a shield and carried their race's traditional weapon, the hrun-mach, a strange sword that resembled a sabre. The blade of a hrun-mach was made from an unusual, crystal-like material, if you looked at the almost colourless substance for more than a few seconds it made the eyes water and the head ache, perhaps caused by glitter reflecting from the thousands of spikes and fine shards that sprouted from the blade. Instead of a normal edge, the main cutting surface of a hrun-mach was made of an array of fine spikes, like a saw blade comprised of needles. It was said that the horrible weapons were made from icicles taken from a frozen waterfall in Hades, a waterfall made from the tears of the damned. Gyrus thought of the dreadful injuries the weapons could inflict, ugh! 
"Surrender or die!" The leader barked in the human tongue, his pale eyes boring into Karven. The gesharn's hot breath reached out to him in the cold morning air.
Dragon standard? the paladin thought. "We look for Blood Scale, you know of him?" he asked hopefully.
The gesharn leader assumed that they were another band of adventurers here to attack his master, and before more could be said, he roared to attack, "GUR GEDASH!"
Four gesharns died as they tried to rush Camrae, who was crouched behind a fallen tree, his Lightning Bolt playing merry havoc with them.
Dwarven steel flashed out, and Dorn smiled as he cut the leg from one of the brutes.
The remaining gesharns knew fear as another Lightning Bolt  flew from the elf's fingers, catching three of them in an electric embrace. Camrae nodded in appreciation of Arolith's skill, the gnome had used his magic to create a simple, but realistic illusion. Having already seen the power of the copper haired mage, the monsters believed the next bolt to be as real as the first; their minds caused the reaction to being hit by lethal energies--they screamed their death agonies! Many creatures might have died from their own fear and belief in the illusion, but these tough warriors were innured to pain, and the stoical gesharns were merely struck unconcious.
Karven wished he had kept his dragon-corroded helmet, for a vicious swipe nearly tore his face off. The gesharn leader narrowly missed death himself: Moon Shadow created a shower of sparks as it scored a furrow down his breast plate.
A dark smile crept across Aletta's lips as writhing clumps of heather seized the remaining attackers' feet, trapped, they fell easily to her broadsword and dagger--the ranger's hatred adding strength to the blows. Metal shrieked nearby, Dorn tore his axe free from an enemy's guts, and waded in beside Aletta. They grinned at each other as the last of their opponents fell.
 There was a clanging  thunk as Gyrus's lead sling shot drove a mighty dent into the side of the leader's helmet. The big gesharn's eyes closed, and he collapsed at Karven's feet.
The paladin winced as he smiled at the cocky halfling, who sauntered forth, twirling his sling. Thin trickles of blood came from several parallel scratches across Karven's left cheek, if that hrun-mach had bitten deeper...He touched Tymaril's symbol to the injury, in case the hrun-machs really were made from Hell's ice. 
A series of wet thunks sounded as Dorn's hatchet finished off the unconcious survivors of his brother's magic--the gesharns were sent into eternal slumber. Karven turned away in disgust, he had tried talking the dwarf out of it, but he had to admit that there wasn't much choice. There was an uneasy look in Aletta's eyes as she watched Dorn dispatching the helpless creatures. Killing in hot-blood was one thing...but she took comfort in the fact that their end was swift, and it was pointless taking gesharns prisoner, death before dishonour was their creed.
A horn blew deep and long across the valley, a moaning wail arose as others joined it.
"Vell, I think ve are doomed," Dorn said flatly, and pointed with his axe at the lines of dark figures that emerged over the hillside, and began to descend towards them like ants from their nest, except most ants aren't six feet and a half feet tall and habitually use weapons designed to cause a painful death.
Three hundred gesharns marched towards them, split into three groups, each approaching from a different direction; there was no way to escape. Gyrus tried of course.
Twenty huge gesharns surrounded them, each a powerful warrior, well trained in battle. Their fifteen score brethern stood in silence beyond them.
Looking at one another with fear, the six friends were determined to go down fighting if they had to.
"Yumiahn!" The circle of warriors parted at the command, spoken in their own gutteral tongue.
Wearing a cloak made from black lion pelts, the chieftain of the tribe (in his own tongue, the leader's title was more akin to 'general' than chieftain) walked up to them, he towered over Karven who stood ready to strike his death blow.
"You fight well!" The chieftain spoke, and pointed to the dead bodies of his kin. "Slay them quick; scouts good, but die fast. Saw dead clachmorg, you killed a Stone Walker, servant of our Mother? Slaves to us you now are, or wish you honourable, warriors' death?"  He pointed with his sword, which was an oddweapon, seemingly ancient, it was a human sword, but with a handle, pommel and guard all made from one piece of green crystal fitted with gold embellishments. Around his neck hung a huge pendant, an upside down triangle of dazzlingly bright mirchak, a red metal prized for its naturally occuring enchantments. This gesharn lord was a wealthy and dangerous fellow--wealthy, for the items, dangerous, for in his society the only wealth you had was that which you won in combat.
"Ah, do you know where we can find Blood Scale?" Gyrus  asked hopefully. A gesharn had stood on him, and thus he had been discovered.
"You  wish to see Wyrm King?" Blood lust was replaced by curiousity, the gesharn general hoped to please his bad tempered master.
"Yes," said Karven, this would be the awkward bit, as they knew it would be, getting an audience, alive. After that its was in the lap of the gods. "We have business to discuss with the Master of Flame, take us to him, Warlord of Many."
"Why  should I not just kill you here, let you be 'worm' food, heh, heh!" The leader had learned humor from humans, and he enjoyed jests, even if his brethern didn't appreciate them. If this human showed weakness, he would let the priests have them all; torture, branding, good sport maybe? Elves and dwarves, yuch! But such were known at the Wyrm King's hall, traitors and thieves.
"Because Blood Scale likes us, he needs us! We die, and he'll fry your bones in his breath of Hell!" Karven glared up at the gesharn, setting his will against the other's. Forceful creatures only respected force; though fear threatened to engulf him, the paladin concentrated on Jal Vardiss, and let the anger burn throught his eyes.
The warlord blinked, powerful, powerful. "Drop your weapons and we go."
"No! We go, with our blades!" Karven declared, the gesharn was setting him a series of challenges, back down, and die.
"Ah! We go see, eh? Maybe Wyrm King fry your bones, eh?" He turned to his bodyguards, but continued to speak in the human tongue, "Watch elvish scum, sneaky tricksters."  He was trying to provoke the elf, so he could kill him real slow. But Camrae kept his mouth shut, ignoring the brainless piece of dung that mangled an already simple language.
High up the mountainside they were led, and from it they could see the peak of Grey Cloud Mountain, wrapped in its perpetual wreath of thick, dark mist. After a short while, the path passed by abandoned ruins, dwarven and ancient, and their feet were upon a road paved with stone that had been used for countless generations, and the solid granite had a wide gulley cut two fingers deep into it. But the bearded folk were long gone, as were the Highlanders who once lived here, their fire blackened skulls hidden under the coarse grass and heather.
They slept, well guarded, and continued, coming down into the valley of the Slice Gorge. Winds hurled themselves down the length of the forty mile long chasm, and seeped over it edges, as if trying to pull food down into that colossal maw.
Standing by the centuries old bridge that crossed the abyssal canyon, Karven shivered in fear. Ignore it! Don't look! he thought hard.
Slice Gorge had been created in the titanic earthquakes that had wracked the entire world a thousand years ago--The Winds of Wrathful Torment. Rock had split, fell and buckled, leaving this eight hundred foot deep trench in the earth. Dark were the rumours spoken of it, horrid things from the realms below had been given access to the surface because of its many fissures. 
Little remained of the eldritch dwarven carvings upon the three hundred yard long bridge, and as they began to cross the ridged span of stone, Dorn cursed the fact that orc-kin now used it. It was a mighty expression of architecture and ingenuity, for the dwarves who had built the crossing didn't have the great sorceries of human wizards, instead, they had to rely on their skill and earth magic to complete a structure most would have thought impossible to construct without the aid of an archmage.
Some ogres stood lazily around the four small towers that had been built into this half of the bridge for defence, a stout wall and heavy portcullis stretched between the first pair of bastions, and a thick gate lay between the others. The small keep on the far side was a useless pile of dragon wasted slag and rubble.
Gyrus talked to Karven as they walked over, the words being whipped away by the breeze, but the paladin was conmforted by his friend's kindness--the halfling knew of his special terror.
Late in the afternoon the gesharn battalion stopped before a high rampart of earth and logs. The Grey Cloud Mountain stood imposing its strength upon the gesharn town at tis base, and glinting dimmly in the mists around the lower peak, were huge walls--a castle of stone flaoting in the clouds!
The great gates of the gesharn citadel creaked open, showing the heavy, garishly coloured homes of the inhabitants.
"This be mine!" The chieftain spread his arms. "City, gold, and army best of all!"
The town was large, and many fell creatures inhabited it, never mind the five thousand gesharns. Orcs were there, always in groups of ten or more, for their was little love lost between the two races. Runty goblins darted around in gangs, though all were wary of the little swine, for their use of poison was well known. Ploughing through the crowds who had come to gawp at the returning general's retinue, ogres treated everyone with sullen hostility, and hurled tardy fools around like cloth dolls, though even they avoided a couple of ormaks who were arguing over a sheep.
"Look!" Aletta whispered, and Camrae saw what she pointed to, a giant who towered over the houses, whose light-blue skin and shiny silver hair had a reddish tinge from the lowering sun. A cloud giant proud and tall, his weapon a great bow, easily the size of a small tree. His kind laired in the cloud castle high on the mountainside.
The gesharn chieftain made his home in a fort, well guarded by elite troops and magical glyphs that glowed eerily green over all the entrances.
"Wait, Wyrm King sleeps, bad temper, hm? Two days or three. You stay in my hall, watchout for scum, thieves, orcs outside."
They were shown to a large room, obvioulsy used by refined folk, for it was well laid out with a bath and several beds. It seemed the dragon frequently had guests.
"Scum-ratbag-orcrutting-pukeeating-ghoulkissing-slimyBASTARDS!" Aletta ranted, finally able to let out her true eelings about their 'hosts'.
"Orcs are bastards, ain't they?" said Dorn, and gave the ranger a hearty smack on the rump. Before she could fly into a rage, the dwarf grabbed her arm and brought her down to his head height. "Ve're not alone, that vall by the blue tapestry, there's some bugger back of it." Apart from the fact that dwarves have an instinctive 'feel' about architecture, he had spotted a pair of hot eyes staring out into the dim room. Obviously these ratbags didn't get many dwarven guests.
The paladin could feel eyes boring into him, and so he wasn't to surprised at what the dwarf did next. Walking seemingly casually up to the suspect wall with his brother, he suudenly rammed his massive, steel clad shoulders against it. Wooden planks splintered and cracked, and a wailing goblin voice retreated into the distance.
"Said I broke his nose," translated the dwarf. "Pity it vasn't his skull; sneaky little turd!"
Camrae berated him for giving the game away, their 'hosts' would now know that they knew they were being spied on by them. Dorn thought that one through for a minute, "Vhy does everthing you elves say have more knots in it than a drunk's beard? The spy's gone, vho cares vhat they do now, they can't hear us!" The wizard was worried, they needed subtlty, to blend in, to avoid trouble, but with that blade crazy maniac, what chance did they have?
Dorn wasn't daft however, for when Aroltih and Gyrus started fooling around with tthe secret panel, he soon put them off the idea of investigating the gesharn's fort. Scaring a snake into a hole was one thing, putting your finger in the same hole was quite another. Orcs were bad enough at booby trapping their lairs, but gesharns were even worse, hadn't they seen the magical runes around the place? Didn't they know that gesharns were part demon? In truth, the dwarven scout was just as scared as the others; he was brave, but then his friends didn't really know about gesharns. The sooner he could get them out of here the better. The ice of Hell was thick, yet they stood upon its middle, where it could crack at any moment, and send them into the Abyss.
It took all of Aletta's will power to keep calm that night, and she was short tempered with Camrae, who knew she would make up when circumstances were better. Gesharns! Shisepprii! The elven curse came oft to her lips, and she felt like running into their feast hall and slitting them gut to gizzard. Another source of her annoyance was that she couldn't forgive herself for being caught by the necromancer. The last thing she had expected was to be attacked by an invisible wizard, and that golem! Sleep came, though she often rubbed at her neck, and suffered dark nightmares without halflings, without bronze haired wizards.
The next day, Karven came to understand the malign ways of their hosts....


              *                *                  *                 *                 *

They had eaten, after the ranger had checked the food for poison or signs of life, when a gesharn, who wore fine leathers with an ornate shoulderpad, knocked Camrae to the ground.
"Stinking elf, spill meat over armour! From Tomark this be! Gold pieces of five hundred it worth to humans, but more to me for I won it in the Summer Rammy last year. Stain my honour! Honour fight, got guts for it, tree coward!" Amazingly, the gesharn spoke in elvish, but then gesharns were more intelligent than most thought them to be and studied the customs and speech of their enemies.
Disdainfully, the mage brushed himself down, and translated for his friends. He was aware of Karven's worried gaze. "Yes, and I'll see yours. Since you are the challenger, I choose weapons--throwing knives." It was stupid perhaps, but Camrae had had enough, and besides, he at least might be able to keep control, Aletta and Dorn were on the edge of exploding.
The chieftain just 'happened' to wander in with his retinue. Never would his kind ignore the chance to spill elven blood. "Good! Fight! You pick weapon, me choose way--Four Square!"
The gesharns cheered this in their short, fierce way. The Scroll bearers couldn't comprehend the meaning of 'Four Square', yet they soon learned.
There was a large sandy area that was used for personal combat, with numerous odd sections and devices, and one of these was a square which was marked out by wooden beams, fifteen feet on a side. At each corner a tall plank, three foot wide, was sunk into the ground.
The chieftain explained the rules, "We tie you in opposite corners. Have four daggers, tie ally near you. Each throw at ally--friend? Yes, friend you say. Throw at friend, try miss him, hit plank. You hit friend, or miss target, enemy get to throw at you till dead or no daggers! Nerves, pleasure?"
The elf was saddened by such cruelty. It turned out that the opponent was a priest of the gesharn's evil deity, Geish-Tak, the demon queen who was supposed to have sired the race. The confident patrol leader was strapped in by a leather belt, a battle scarred humanoid was tied to his right by the chieftain's command--the high priest! Subtle indeed, wound him, and he would suffer after, slay him to gain advancement, and the elf may kill him with his throw. This was the way of his cold-hearted kin, torment upon twisted torment, on themselves or others made little difference, except when elves and dwarves were involved. Yet, this test also encouraged loyalty, a quality seemingly at odds with their dark natures. 
"You, female, you friend! You go!" The wily chieftain had felt the boring stare of the half-elf. Gesharns truly loved cruelty, and the pained look on Camrae's face was a joy to behold.
Karven tried to stop it, but the gesharns pushed him back with the points of spears and the edges of hrun-machs.
"It's all right!" Aletta fiercely declared. "Camrae will show these ghoul-kissers!"
The ranger shoved rough hands aside, and entered the square, where she was tied with much relish by the brutal beings. The elf mouthed his love for her, silently. "Don't miss!" She answered.
"When hear drum, throw!" the chieftain commanded. "Enemy hit friend, you throw at him all daggers--only at drum! Begin!"
Four daggers of sharp steel were given to the elf, each opponent picking them at random from a pile on top a shield. Tied up as he was, this would not be easy. He tossed the blades up and down a few times to get their weight.
"Hope you slit her throat, take her eye, eh?" the evil priest spat at the elf, and then leered suggestively at Aletta. "She lives, we breed!"
"Was your mother by any chance," Camrae clamly replied. "An orcish slut?" His heart hammered in his chest despite the show of equanimity.
A drum suddenly thumped nearby. Scowling, the gesharn threw, and the blade struck half an inch from his superior's face. The big warrior realised his mistake in getting angry, Geish-Tak would dislike such lack of control, not to mention his high priest, who had a quartz slime for a 'pet'.
With a faint whir, the elf's dagger buried itself deep in the wood above Aletta's head. The crowd growled in resentment, seeing the advantage afforded by the ranger's short height--five feet six against six feet eight. But still, the elf's face!
Once more the lord of the gesharns barked a command, and a mighty ogre swung its enormous claymore; the blade sheared through the thick plank with a splintering crack, missing the half-elf's head by a hand's breadth.
"That's better, fair now!" laughed the warlord. He was enjoying himself, this was better than the races last night! Bloody clerics had won again, they always seemed to know which victims the kobolds would catch first, bastards! With luck, he'd be less one priest, maybe two.
Again, the drum, steel flew, and racing hearts beats slowed, at least, the elf's and Aletta's, for blood was oozing down the old priest's face!
"Blood! The elf can hit you now, Rehagboh!" the chieftain cried. He knew Rehagboh had dreams of becoming both high priest and chieftain. It seemed Geish-Tak didn't favour him after all.
As the drum sounded once more, a faint smile of revenge played around Camrae's lips as he threw, and the dagger slid three inches deep, into the gesharn's stomach. But it wasn't dead, no, not that one. Cursing the elf to Hell's deepest pits, more for ruining his armour and pride than for the injury, the patrol leader threw at his high priest, straight this time despite the pain. Most gesharn's were cold-blooded stoics, and this one was a fanatic, he would complete the game at all costs, never would a tree-lover see a true warrior lose his nerve.
An orc called out for the priest to throw at the elf, so a gesharn, disgusted at the notion of cheating, shaved the coward's nose and lips off with a blow from a hrun-mach.
"Go on, kill the son of a bitch!" Alleta shouted, aided by Dorn's vicious encouragemnts.
And that is what the elf did, his last throw took his opponent where the neck joins the shoulder. The gesharns went deathly quiet, an elf--their hated foe--had won.
They were released, and Camrae held Aletta tight; she was alive, praise the gods!
Angrily the gesharns looked at the elf, and there might have been trouble, but the chieftain said that Blood Scale wished to see them on the morrow, so they were not to be touched. 
Cruel were gesharns, but they kept their given word, and thus they were not molested further, though they wisely stayed inside the fort all day, just in case.
Meanwhile, the high priest was taking care of the loser, an iron constitution and desire for revenge had kept him barely alive after the duel ended. The spiritual leader of the city decided to heal him, he had failed, but it had been a fair test of war skills. A further test of skills was required to see if Geish-Tak wished him to live. To the horror of the patrol leader, he was given a hrun-mach, and thrust into the tunnels of the dreaded kobolds.
The chieftain's day improved, he was in a large room in the city's communal tavern, and here gambling was underway. There were creatures from many races, even some humans, and they all looked at the enchanted floor of orange chalcedony, which acted as a scrying mirror.  What made the chieftain happy was that the hour glass was half full before the patrol leader died, Rehagboh had almost made it, which proved to the others how tough gesharns really were.

               *                 *                 *                  *                *

The gesharn's tavern stood near their chieftain's fort, but he did not stay long, for he has work to attend to in the morning. As the night wore on, there were dozens of fights, and Magrahl the ogre was in a foul mood as he left, drunk and broke. A bunch of orcs quickly made way for him.
"Yir mother was an elf and yir faether a dozen dwarves ya ugly big bastard!" an orc at the back shouted.
Screaming in rage, the ogre grabbed the nearest orc and bit his face off! In seconds there was a snarling, shrieking mass of bleeding flesh in front of the tavern as the snout-faced humanoids retaliated.
"The orcs are attacking, kill the swine!" shouted a goblin voice near the inn. Twenty gesharns rushed outside in response, straight into the battling orcs and ogre. All hell broke loose as the town's inhabitants gave vent to their racial prejudices, like wild fire it spread, the tavern crowd augumented by passing patrols.
Orcs fought alongside their huge ormak kin against the goblins and gesharns, while the ogres shed havoc on everyone. With a coughing sound, fire blew out from the tavern's upper half; chaos reigned.
Gyrus collapsed to the floor in tears, laughing at the mayhem Aroltih had wrought with his ventriloquistic spells. Cruel maybe, but they deserved it!
The gnome peered out the arrow slit at the ensuing battle, his ears had betrayed the moment when the watchers in the walls had departed, so they had made the most of it. The riot would make doubly sure no one was looking in on them, and besides, a gnome could never resist driving goblins round the bend, especially if the cart had dodgy wheels and the road was on a cliff. "Yes!" he silently cheered as an incautious goblin got squashed by an ormak's smell foot.
"The Scroll?" suggested Camrae, eager to find out what they were to accomplish. The mage was sure that they weren't being scryed on. Unknown to them, the dragon and his allies had alrady tried magical vision on them, but found it pointless; scouts and spies were used instead, which was why the gesharns had been waiting for them. As for Chiasmus's mirror, its enchantments were designed not to be noticed.
Karven once again opened the slim tube of ivory, so normal a seeming thing to hold so costly and strange a map. If the magical parchment even suggested fighting the dragon, they had agreed to forget the quest and go home, none of them was that stupid or greedy.
They didn't realise that the magical scroll was weaing its power upon them. The parchment was almost sentient, imbued with devious and lingering enchantmets, its call sung to their dreams of glory and craving for new places and excitement. Thus they didn't question for long they strange path they were on.
"Armour and potions, buckles and bows,
Shiny and bright, a hammer hidden in light,
Are not what I am, nor bone handled daggers.
Take what you will, for I am hidden,
In an old parchment quill."

              *               *                 *                 *                 *
 
                                              CHAPTER 12
                                           Against the Wyrm.



The scowling look on the chieftain's face was the closest thing he ever showed to fear. A score of his best troops surrounded him, and yet he still didn't feel safe; that blasted riot outside his own gates! He had secretly feared an orcish rebellion for some time, and that's what almost happened. Rahmious, the creepy human wizard, had hit them with a cloud of hellish gas that had them vomiting their guts up all night. Well he'd have a dozen of the survivors fed ground glass and acid as a warning to the rest. Imagine if the kobolds revolted as well! Hell's ice!
But it was also the guards sent to accompany them to the great one's lair that gave him real trouble--ten ogres was one thing, and the scarred human wizard another--but the pair of cloud giants? His father had been eaten by one of them, probably served up as part of a fancy meal. He would kill the blue skinned swine, if he could.
Dorn wished to borrow Moon Shadow for a wee while, so he could obliterate this bunch of road slime they were surrounded by. Oh, to put a blade between the shoulders of that flesh-cursed spellcaster! The dwarf hated the slimy, scarred human on sight.
"Now, my master has allowed you an audience," the huge, ragged tear on the wizard's cheek danced a macarbe pattern as he spoke. His thick, scarlet cloak kept him warm in the chilly air. "I am Rahmious the Evoker, your guide."
With great reluctance Camrae was forced to part with his belt pouches with their precious components, Rhamious informed them that his master had no fear of them, but a wizard, was a wizard. Their weapons were put in a chain mail pouch one of the giant's wore, it was hard for them to give up their defences, but there was little choice.
"Ghermiholach, mighty chieftain, the Great Flame wishes you to remain and keep alert, in case another riot develops," the red robed evoker gracefully said to the gesharn, who snorted and left, glad to avoid his ruler's gaze this day.
Smiling, their guide led them on through the town, the giants on ahead, clearing a path with brutal decisiveness; their huge footsteps and swinging weapons drove most onlookers flying in panic. A foolish orc splattered the road in a grizzly shower as it was crushed by an enormous ball and chain. At this, the ogres laughed.
"Forgive their crudity," said Rhamious. "Cloud giants are violent creatures, though not stupid, like most of these rabble."
Karven eyed the man flatly, the man didn't feel evil, but..."Are you ensorcelled, Rhamious?" the paladin asked as they marched up the steep, fortifed incline that presumably led to the lair.
"Yes, you are perceptive! How refreshing! Though, it is not by magic I'm ensnared: gold and knowledge are my chains. Do you realise how much information, how many spells a dragon learns in its life time? Or how much it pays to those who help it? Slaughtering helpless villagers isn't my goal; I advise, suggest and protect. The amount of thieves there are!" The evoker shook his head in disgust at such dishonesty.
As much as Dorn would have liked to clobber the human, he still controlled Arolith's big mouth, and his own.
Apalled by such lack of conscience, and worried lest they say to much, Karven remained silent as well.
"So, now we are away from them," Rhamious pointed back down at the town.. "What are you here for?" Although he was smiling, he was ready to cast an incendiary spell if these folk should also be another band of thieves.
"Ah, well, we've got something to sell your boss," said Gyrus, warily eyeing the fortress that guarded the lair--great towers and a massive gate, all covered in ominous looking runes. "We've been around a bit, but it seems only Blood Scale can afford what we have."
This seemed reasonable, and not unusual to Rhamious. There was a short ceremony before they proceeded, each was politely blindfolded by the evoker with magical cloths that blocked both sight and hearing. So the six comrades entered the dragon's lair, prevented from seeing the magical glyphs that would reign ten kinds of Hell upon anyone stupid enough to try forcing their way in.
The blindfolds were removed once they had entered the enormous cavern, and the heavy gates had shut behind them. Spell crystals lit the way, their unwavering light giving sight to carvings long unused to viewers.
The halfling's nose for trouble itched badly--dragon, DRAGON! I just hope he's been fed lately. thought Gyrus. Not caring whether any saw his nervousness, he linked arms with Arolith, who nodded at his friend, and then continued to study the walls. What clan's hall was this? The gnome had a worrisome idea that he knew which one.
Only the giants and wizard accompanied them as they travelled down the great shaft bored by dwarves of long ago, their flagstones in places uprooted by great claws. Aletta was afraid, and no wonder, but the enclosing rock made it all the worse. She stayed near Camrae for comfort, her fingers longing for the hilt of her broadsword.
It was a long journey, perhaps half a mile, and during it--as they passed by massive butresses, giant statues of dwarven gods and heroes--their guide questioned them. Naturally it was Gyrus with his gilded tongue who explained that they were a group of adventurers, and has discovered a fireine; knowing Blood Scales passions for such gem stones, they had come here.
"So why visit Cho Bounty?" asked Rhamious, with a friendly stare. Many spies worked for the dragon.
"Ah, well he was supposed to be rich, but he wouldn't pay enough, huh! Couldn't afford it!"
"Good, good. Meet my master." With that, the wizard clapped, and an enormous section of wall to their right slid backwards, scaring them with its sudden movement. The floor vibrated with the weight of hundreds of tons of moving rock, the secret door once used by dwarven smiths, moved slowly to one side.
A warm roll of heat blew out, and the smell of hot steel, coal and burning sulphur filled the halls.
"Commmee innn!" said a low, powerful voice that echoed deep into the ancient tunnels.
Rhamious bade them enter, and the gallous dwarf licked his lips, and led them in.

               *                 *                 *                 *                *

Around them was a dazzling hoard: man sized ingots of gold, silver and shiny mithril, and war machines all plated in darkest adamantine. Armour, swords, gems and tiaras, all set out in an odd pattern only a dragon could follow or an elf appreciate. Boxes of spice, bolts of silk and tomes of magic, all carefully protected by mine carts of solid iron. Sparkling jewellery, necklaces and coins, lay beside stolen crowns. Pearl covered gowns, mirrors of silver, shiny and round, reflected blazing light from fiery jarukans, the gem known as the 'stone of emperors' for its brilliant orange glory. The eye grew dazzled by the spectacle and the brain befuddled. Much of the ancient treasures belonged to the dwarves who had once lived here, but the owners were long gone, killed by poison gasses and dark monsters from the worlds below. Driven out onto the surface, the survivors never returned, the metal mostly gone and the place accursed.
And the dragon was the king of this enrapturing sight.
Rising from his treasure bed, Blood Scale appeared over the lip of what had once been the dwarves' largest furnace, whose heat lingered a thousand years later, making comfortable the great, intelligent beast.
Magical glows from the ceiling played upon the crimson scales, each larger than a knight's shield, and shimmered off the coins and jewels imbedded between them. The dragon's head was the size of an enormous warhorse, surrounded by an armouring frill of plates and bristles like ogre spears. The ivory horns that protruded backward from the top of its skull had a faint, mauvish tint, and were fifteen feet long, if not more.
The eyes! The eyes of the dragon! Orbs of purest snow white, around pools of burning, lambent flame. Stare into a fire, a roaring forge fire, and give the flames intelligence, pride, malevolence and ancient wisdom. Those were the eyes of Blood Scale, the great wyrm of the Highlands.
"You have three minutes of your time," said the dragon, hissing out each word with careful deliberation.
Gyrus was brave, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, the dragon fear rippling the hair on the back of the halfling's neck.
"We, we have come," Karven said, swallowing his shivering terror. "To offer you a treasure, oh Mighty Wyrm. Precious and valuable, look!"
Arolith shakily handed over the jewel, the paladin held the fireine up, its magical glow undiminshed by the dragon's radiant splendor. The ranger's gaze never raised to look above the sanguine scales around the wyrm's maw, aware of the dangers of looking at the wise beast's eyes, but it wasn't pleasant to look at five foot long fangs either.
Almost paralyzed, the behemoth stared for a long moment at the fiery crystal.
"Rhamious, examine the jewel!" Blood Scale ordered, his heart filled with lust.
"May I?" the evoker asked, and examined the gemstone with a magical lens. "Yes, it appears genuine. It is enchanted, as they all are, and with an aura of transmutational magic. It seems genuine, master."
A claw like a giant's scimitar beckoned the wizard forward, and he passed through a certain spot, where there was a gap in the invisible forcefield that the dragon had created. The centuries old creature wasn't stupid enough to greet rogues or disguised adventurers without protection.
Ah! The crystal was perfect! The wyrm spoke words of magic, and a pair of ghostly hands lifted the fireine up from Rhamious's grap, and held it before Blood Scale's flaring gaze.
"Dragon of hottest fire," Karven didn't like dealing with such an evil creature, but they were all in too deep to pull out now. "We have heard how you liked these gems, and can afford them."
The huge head shot forward until it was only ten feet from Karven, the eyelids raised, and the dragon scowled.
"What do you mean, afford?" said the wyrm in the most sinister of tones. If not for the magical forcefield, the steel clad warrior would have been cooked by the heat of the monster's breath.
"We offered it to others, but they couldn't match our price, not even Cho Bounty." Gyrus called out. Karven was relieved for he hated lying, but morals don't stop your legs feeling like jelly.
More than mere hunks of muscle and magic, red dragons were creatures of cunning intellect and vast perception. But the aura reading spell it cast with what seemed an angry growl revealed to it acceptable knowledge--the human was honourable but fierce, far more Evil than Good.
It was well for the friends that Camrae's Shadow Aura dweomer was in operation. He had cast it on the paladin before they left their rooms, masking Karven's virtuous spirit. They must appear to be rogues, otherwise....Cho Bounty had wisely given him the spell, knowing the danger.
"Huh! So Bounty couldn't afford my gem!" The dragon let out a coarse laugh, his words revealling much. "The golden one is a pathetic wretch, a pauper. Behold my riches!"
Blood Scale swept up a huge claw full of coins from the depression where he slept, and let them fall like deafening, jingling hail.
"Your gift pleases me." Normally he would have taken this gem, and perhaps slain these mortals, for they were not overly powerful, famous or part of one of the various thieves guilds. But his ego had been stroked, the chance to get one up on that treacherous Bounty couldn't be igmored. "In return, you may each have one hundred pounds of gold. And you must spread word of my wealth, and tell everyone that I am far richer than Bounty the Apprentice Wizard!"
So far, the archmage's plan had worked, Cho Bounty had known of Blood Scale's weakness. Now they had to find the 'old parchment quill' that the Scroll has spoken of.
"Your fearsome Majesty," Karven wasn't lying when he spoke the words; evil perhaps, but the monster had an awe inspiring presence. "Your gift is most gracious. Cho Bounty offered four thousand pounds of gold for it, but we'll gladly accept." He wasn't lying, Cho Bounty had offered the gold to the ones who brought it to him!
"RAARN!" the dragon roared, and flame billowed in deadly clouds around its face. Blood Scale knew the price to the very ounce such a gem would cost, and it was a lot more than Cho Bounty had offered, he had to out do him!
"A thousand pounds of gold, each!"
"Thank you! Truly you are the richest dragon in existance! Such a hoard of beautiful things. It is a pity we don't have your strength of titans, we could never carry such a weight."
The dragon was prepared for this. Gold was heavy, denser than dwarves, which was why it was impossible to steal a dragon's riches: who could run away with tons of gold?
"Take what you like from my hoard, to full value, I know everything's worth. Much is here that you should like." Blood Scale cancelled his forcefield and several deadly wards, letting them explore his riches.
Rhamious glowered, the elf had better not take any of the spell books! He had worked for five years to aquire them, and he wanted the rest as well. Both of the cloud giants that guarded the entrance heard a magical word, and they strode into the cavern at Blood Scale's silent command, just in case.
Around the great war machines they walked, under the dragon's dominant gaze, coins crumped and tinkled underfoot.
Camrae knelt by an ebony block, the wood and many other items had never been scorched by Blood Scale's nightmare breath, as magical protections and the dwarven mine carts guarded them against an angry outburst or melted thieves. Into the wood were thrust three daggers, obviously a matched set, he withdrew them. Every one was made from adamantine--the alloy of adamant and iron--and the grey-black blades had an edge that could shave steel. The hilt and pommel of each was made of shiny silver, the handle of ancient ivory, set with three bands of engraved silver for a firm grip. They were beautifully balanced. The mage remembered the Scroll, 'bone handled dagger'...There was a small piece of bone, shaped like an wyvern, emplaced in the middle of each handle.
"May I have these three daggers as my share, oh Soaring Flame?" asked the elf, politely, realizing they were enchanted and thus very valuable. Curtly, the wyrm nodded its agreement. The only creatures that most red dragons considered worthy or notable were elves, who lived almost as long as themselves. Elves were also quite flavoursome, and their blood was rich in magic.
"As a wizard," The dragon continued. "You'll also be interested in spells. You make two spells. Rhamious, see to his choosing." The envoker nodded, understanding that the elf was not to get any spell that might imperil the dragon.
The ranger hefted several of the magnificent weapons which were carefully stacked in groups, a number of them obviously magical. She stopped by a curious item: hanging from the jewelled hilt of a dazzling longsword, was a tiny bow; no, not tiny--for the mithril handle was of the correct proportions--but strange. She lifted the odd weapon, the metal grip was a perfect match for her fingers, but the bow limbs themselves were only inches long? The mithril was heavily engraved, Aletta was ashamed not to be able to read her mother's language, so she asked Camrae to decipher the runes.
"From small to large, I change my size, my name is Troll's Bane." As he spoke the name, the air shimmered around the strange bow, and the tiny wooden limbs grew and grew until he held a longbow, whose dark red limbs were made from the wood of an erdeith tree. A mighty and curious weapon! The elf took a stance, and tried to draw the bow string, which was made from fire giant hair, but as he suspected, he couldn't pull it far. Erdeith was used by the elves to make the strongest of bows. He handed it back to Aletta, who promptly drew the weapon, it was magnificent! She spoke the bow's name--Trollsbane, in Elvish--and nodded in understanding as it shrunk back to its former state. An ideal weapon for a woodrunner to carry, for it was awkward carrying a full sized bow.
The ranger held the bow up to the dragon, and a quiver of arrows she had found nearby.
"Take it." Blood Scale had never really liked the thing, its elven creator had hit him with one of the thing's deadly arrows. "And no more." 
Laid out over a huge slab of mithril was a set of shiny, blue armour, Karven eyed the plate mail with great delight. The metal was stained warm sea blue, and bright silver was worked into it in simple, graceful designs. Dorn gave it a look over as well, the armour was dwarven made, steel alloyed with mithril, but the ornamentation was elven. And if it wasn't enchanted, he was an orc-kisser!
Karven tried out the helmet, like the rest it was coloured blue, and set with a silver crest that ran over the top. The most unusual part of it was the mirror like piece of mithril set above the open face, fashioned in a 'W' shape. The paladin found that it slid down, protecting the nose and mouth. He hardly noticed that the warhelm covered his ears, that worry slowly fading against a background of fear and wonder.
Reluctantly the dragon parted with the armour, as had its original owner, who had been Charmed into removing the beautiful metal, before his flesh had literally been boiled into steam.
There's such a lot here! thought Gyrus, as he stufffed handfuls of interesting items into his pockets: rings; old coins; plaques of ashakin, which was made from layers of translucent shell and carved into amazing designs...Something tapped him hard on the shoulder, he turned around to see Blood Scale staring right at him.
"That is ten thousand, five hundred and forty two gold pieces so far, halfling!" The dragon had been keeping a particular eye, and ear out for the tiny one. Not a mouse could squeak in this chamber, or a rat steal a coin without him noticing. 
Gulping, the little thief cautiously continued to pick up items, evaluating them before he dropped them into his waistcoat. Damn! He was running out of pockets. Gyrus started putting things into the rim of his hat. Should have brought bags! Hmm? Ha, ha! Under a dark elf shield, he found a belt with two strong pouches attached, just the job! It was empty, but the happy rogue soon began to remedy the situation.
"Hold, you have your limit!" roared the dragon, and his hot breath knocked Gyrus flat.
"Wait a minute!" Few would have argued with a dragon, but a halfling thief who felt cheated was one of them. "That's not twenty thousand gold pieces!"
"Do you see that silver buckle on the belt, do you see its shape? Three circles joined, with a wizard mark on them, it a magical belt you fool!" Blood Scale had forgotten that mortal's didn't have his magical sight, for the rune was invisible.
Gyrus soon found out why the dragon valued the belt, for as he played around with the two pouches, his entire arm up to the elbow disappeared inside one of them! Wow! He could still grab what he put into it, it seemed to come to his hands. Each pouch  was as big inside as a washtub, and even with all his treasure, they didn't weigh anymore than when they were empty. What a thing for a thief to own--boodle bags!
The dwarf wanted nothing from this cursed place, Arolith had told him it was the Hall of Reviak Smoke, named for the foul gas that had slain the original builders. So this was where Blood Scale laired? Well he could keep it, still, it wrankled that orc-kin should walk these halls. One day perhaps, Varheim willing, there would come a cleansing.
Grunting, Dorn used his considerable strength to help his brother. Blood Scale was amused by the amount of effort it took theses creatures to move one of the half-ton mine carts but a few inches.
"See, told you!" the gnome said proudly, having discovered where the dragon hid the more inflammable treasures. Covered by dozens of jewel encrusted shields was a pile of books, papers, scrolls, boxes and all kinds of odd paraphernalia.
"Ah!" Arolith screamed as the mine cart disappeared up into the air. The malefic face of the red dragon peered down at them, Blood Scale was keeping them under his monolithic scrutiny.
"Eh, thanks!" said the gnome, as he continued his search in better light. Beakers, potions, amulets, trinkets--what to take?
Lacking time, Camrae couldn't fully decypher the writing on the numerous magical scrolls and books that Rhamious cheerlessly showed him. Still, it was the evoker's duty, and he made damn sure the elf didn't see the Tome of Seansen the Skykiller! The elf choose two scrolls, one dweomer dealt with quickening the recipient's reactions (not their running speed or such like, but speed of reflex and thought, it was time his combative magic was more varied), and the other was a ward against the powers of the undead, which could prove very useful!
While Camrae read scrolls and books, Gyrus picked the lock of the odd, box-like backpack Arolith had found. Inside the wooden case was a large, central compartment that held a several pages from a spellbook. On either side of it was a series of tiny drawers, the gnome pulled them out, some contained odd items: little swords, lodestones; beads; marbles; tiny statues of monsters. Spell components! Some bottles of ink, an old piece of papaer and several quills--quills? One of them was a bit odd....
"What do you want, gnome" Blood  Scale growled, the dragon's thin patience was almost gone at the sight of his treasure being handled.
"I'll have this backpack, and that belt with potions?" Arolith picked up a black leather belt which had ten small bottles strapped into it, Aletta said there were healing potions, amongst others.
"Take them, and you, dwarf?" Air hissed like forge bellows as the dragon's head swivelled to confront Dorn.
Many powerful weapons lay about, and suits of dwarven armour made for kings and noble warriors, but he could not take anything made by his kin folk. The bearded people hated theft, and it would be theft, to buy his slain peoples' things under such circumstances. It would be another matter if he led a conquering army, or slipped in and reclaimed the treasures by stealth. No, Dorn was no thief, he was a dwarven scout, and proud of it. He scratched his oft-broken nose, a sure sign of trouble.
Arolith knew his brother's moods, and realized he was angry. Frightened, the gnome looked around, and saw something.
"Hey! Look! That's valuable!" The thaumaturge pointed, and tapped Dorn on the shoulder.
The dwarf's eyes lit up, almost entirely hidden by the scrolls, was the handle of a mithril warhammer, he pulled it out. Completely crafted from the shiny metal, its head was shaped like an anvil. Gold wire spiralled down the roughened grip in a design like a scroll, and the sigil of Varheim, a hammer inside a triangle, was engraved on both sides of the shaft and head.
"Take it!" Blood Scale ordered. The wyrm had hidden the mithril weapon for it was one object he couldn't even touch, which took much of the value from the expensive hammer.
So the dragon wants me to take it, okay. thought Dorn. "It's mine then!" The scout recognized it as a holy weapon of Varheim, an omen perhaps? He would give it to his clan's priests, for it shouldn't be in a place of such evil.
"You have," hissed Blood Scale. "Treasures to the value of one hundred and ninety eight thousand gold pieces. It is but a rock from a mountainside, my hoard is vast. Remember and tell the bards well that only I could afford your gem, I Blood Scale, the Burner of Tomark, can afford what Cho Bounty could not! Tell them!"
Roaring, the dragon blew a cloud of flaming, blue speckled gas across the roof of the cavern, heat washed over the Scroll bearers, bringing them out in sweat as much of fear as of heat. Obscured by the flames, Blood Scale had unnoticably cast a spell on them, ensuring they would speak of his regal, magnificent self.
"Go! Return if more gems you find."
Obeying the dragon's orders, Rhamious led them fron the presence of Blood Scale, relieved to be still alive.

               *                 *                *                 *                 *

There was soemthing strange about those adventurers. Blood Scale might have been fooled by Camrae's aura-switching spell, but a mind-reading dweomer had provided some odd things. The dwarf wished his race to reclaim the hall, and kill him! It had been tried, it had been tried! The female was goodly, presumably, so was the elf, spells rarely worked against wizards. Halfling and gnome, pfah! The human, odd....
The dragon passed through an illusionary wall, to the chamber where he kept his fireines. Here stood the last of the great dwarven furnaces, where in resided fire elementals, the strange, vicious creatures giving out welcome warmth, he wan't worried by their presence, for even elementals feared him! The dragon 'fed' the flame-borne beings with rare woods and oils now and again, treating them like watchdogs. But the impressive glow was not from them, it was from the two hundred fireines imbedded in the small pyramid of adamant that rested inside a large protective circle on the floor.
Ah! The dragon radiated in their scale-tingling light, invigorating him. The large crystal he had just recieved would almost complete the pattern--so many killing, so many bargains, so many ransoms, it was a pleasure to remember. When the pattern was completed, he'd be able to cast spells at any creature in thirty miles, how pleasant! There were already certain benefits....
When Rhamious returned, he would get him to find out more about these people, there had been trouble with some of his Pyzag informants. If those six adventurers were not what they seemed, as most folk were, he would have to see about it.
Unlike Chiasmus, Blood Scale had no objections to getting personal with his victims, indeed, that was what made it fun.
He would sleep, and later, he would hunt, for the dragon was angry, treasure was gone, and it hurt him like a severed claw.

              *                 *                *                  *                 *
Unsurprisingly, the friends had no wish to hang around the gesharn's town. Rhamious didn't question that much for he wasn't too keen on the place himself, and besides, dragons were notoriously mercurial. There was an elven saying, 'When a dragon gives you gifts, it's because he likes a rich dinner'.
While they were all a jitter because of their experiences, it didn't stop Gyrus from examining his 'boodle' when they camped, on the other side of Slice Gorge.
"You did VHAT!" screamed Dorn when he heard the halfling bragging.
"I said, I stole this amulet!" grinned Gyrus, holding up the platinum disc, which was set with aquamarines. "He never even noticed!"
"You rat brained maniac! Dragon's know every piece of their hoard, intimately! If we're lucky he's asleep, and by his mood yesterday, it won't be for long." Aletta stood next to the angry dwarf. "Do you know why Blood Scale got his name? When he wasted half of Tomark two hundred years ago, he rubbed the provincial governor down his chest! His scales are as hard as steel."
The ranger shoved her nose down against Gyrus's. "He'll probably just squash you like a gnat!"
The halfling was close to tears. "Ah, I didn't mean it! I thought all those stories were just rubbish! How could it know where-"
"It's alright pal. As Dorn often says, 'we're doomed'" Karven might be appalled by the stupidity of his small friend, but he couldn't help liking him, and you had to admire his courage, if not his wits.
"There's no point in running," the dark-haired warrior said to his friends. "We can't outrun a dragon, or a wizard and a horde of monsters, can we?"
Karven's friends looked at him. The elf considering the probabilities, possible escapes. Gyrus was worried sick, what had he done? With a bitter laugh, Dorn conceeded that they were well and truly doomed, it would be better to fight like heroes than run like rabbits, but he was concerned for the halfling and Arolith, who were not warriors.
"No!" Arolith exclaimed, when Dorn suggested that he and Gyrus should go quickly while they could. "I may not be a dwarf, but I've picked up a lot of your mule-headed ways, brother of mine! Here I stay, frightened or not!"
"Are you mad?" Aletta stormed. " No one can face that beast and live! I admire your honour, but maybe there is another way, Camrae?"
"There is," replied the elven mage, sadly. "Gyrus's Coin of Tyche, it could Teleport us away. But then what? Blood Scale would hunt us down, brutally, for dragons never let thieves escape them, ever. Gyrus was lucky with that assassin, Blood Scale could hire dozens more, or more likely, destroy us himself, and our homes and families. You've seen our people attacked by gershans, would you wish on them dragons?"
Camrae thought for a minute before continuing. "We could use it to Wish the beast dead, but that's risky, he might choke to death while eating us! Or the Talisman can create a destructive spell, but even a Wish would have to overcome Blood Scale's resistance to magic, which is bound to be considerable. Another option is to summon Cho Bounty."
The archmage had warned Camrae when they set out that he couldn't scry on them around Blood Scale's lair because of an impenetrable shield the wily dragon had raised. They would have been safe after two days journey as Cho Bounty said he would keep watch for them at that distance, apparently it was dangerous to pry around the dragon because of an artifact called 'The Heart of the Ever Burning Flame'.
"It is us or the dragon, I can see no other way Aletta."
Why the Hell had she ever gotten involved with this bunch of idiots in the first place? Her philosphy was that it was best to run and fight another day, that she had learned from her elven swordsmadsster, what was the point in getting killed? Although she hated gershans, and would gladly battle them, Aletta preffered to avoid dangerous situations. Unfortunately, and all too often, her temper got the better of her. The half-elf would make her decision whether to go or stay in the morning. A tiny part of the ranger's mind said that by then it would be too late, but it was extinguished when Camrae sat next to her.

              *                 *                 *                  *                *

If today was their last day to live, they couldn't have picked a better one. Warm glowing sunshine swiftly rolled down the mountainsides, burning off the ghostly night mists, and many flowers opened their colourful hearts to the daylight.
The paladin dropped his old suit of armour--greatful though he was to it--and doned the suit of blue plate mail. It was incredibly light, not more than twenty pounds, but to Karven's amazement, it seemed but a fraction of that when worn, obviously Dorn had been right when he said it was enchanted. He practiced a few times with Moon Shadow, though he realised it might be pointless.
They has decided to fight Blood Scale on the old dwarven bridge, its towers and ramparts would give them some cover from attacks, and the stone could not be set on fire like the hillsides and forests. Camrae had explained that dragons couldn't fly if they were injured, and that their magic resistance only worked against spells that directly attacked them; which was important because Dorn knew something that the gersharns didn't--dwarves had a way with stone, and tresspassers.
Concealed by invisibility spells, they approached the portcullis that lay between the first pair of towers, their hands tightly linked for the magic screened them from each other as well as the bridge's guardians. Unsurprisingly, most of the ogres were snoring so loud that they could be heard outside, and against the wind too! The monsters had let weeds grow up around the approach, and they took cover in them while Camrae and Arolith went to work.
Neither of the two bored, ogre sentries noticed anything strange as they succumbed to the sorcerous weariness that fell upon them, metal clunked and thick tongues drooled from ugly mouths as the monsters slid into slumber. Satisfied, the two friends uttered more words of power, and disappeared again. The spell they used didn't give true invisibility, it merely confused the minds of those who looked on them, fooling the eye into skimming over their bodies. Fast movements or casting another spell broke the fragile enchantment.
Surrounded by snores and the sighing wind from the dark chasm, the elf and gnome swiftly walked to the portcullis, clambered up its rusty surface, and then shinned up the smooth wall at the top like a pair of flies on a wall! The Spider Climbing spell soon had them on the other side, and they descended the old dwarven staircase. While Camrae checked out the closest tower, Arolith went to the furthest two and deposited Cho Bounty's silence stones outside them.
With a great deal of care, and a tiny flask of oil Gyrus just happened to have with him for squeaky things like locks and hinges, they quietly raised the portcullis. Arolith had easily found and disarmed the bell trap on it, the bridge was dwarven and he knew their minds well.
It was an eerie sight seeing the heavy iron grating ease up with no one in sight (the elf and gnome weren't invisible, merely out of sight), Karven led his friends onto the bridge. There were whispers, and the portcullis lowered, though a gap was left just big enough for an armoured man to roll under should they need to flee. The sleeping guards above it were swiftly dealt with, Karven understood the necessity, but hated the deed which Dorn eagerly saw to.
As his invisible friends jammed the tower doors on either side of the portcullis with lengths of wood, Camrae walked up to an arrowslit in one tower, pointed his finger through it and his Lightning Bolt slaughtered the guards inside, ricocheting around the narrow walls to ensure none escaped.
Snores turned to snorts in the other embrasure as some of the ogres awoke, to get smacked in the face by more electrical death. But ogres are tough beasts, and four survived. The elf's next magic enveloped them in a cloud of stinking green gas, coughing their guts out they tried the door, which was stuck fast. Eventually, the big monsters stumbled out of the upper exit above the portcullis, where Karven and Dorn waited, the paladin became visible as the pair's blades hewed through flesh.
With a whistle, Aletta unleashed a bolt from her new bow, and was delighted to see it punch up to the feathers in the ogre's chest; staggering, the monster howled as it tripped and fell off the battlements, which had a wall on only one side. The dwarves had constructed this set up so that if someone took the outer wall, they would have no cover from the defenders in the inner towers.
Moon Shadow tore into a bulging, hairy stomach, its owner was too sick to defend himself and soon died. Another slid on a patch of conjured grease, tumbled down the stairs, and got repeatedly brained by Arolith's pick-hammer.
The last two fell as well, and Dorn raced round to clobber them before they got back up; his wickedly sharp cutlass biting into one's neck just as the last monster managed to get to its feet, swinging a great club. A spinning dagger slid hilt deep into the ogre's neck; the brute tried to clutch at the wound from which blood sprayed in a fountain, the action was in vain for its heart stopped beating before it even hit the ground. Camrae spoke a word of command, and the dagger pulled itself from the wound and returned to his hand, he had deduced the weapons' powers from the runes engraved on the handles. The magics they were endowed with were not of the greatest power, though undeniably useful, what impressed Camrae the most was the feel, the quality of the blades, they fit his hands well, and he thanked the gods for allowing him to have them.
Dorn scowled at the dagger-tossing elf, this was no fun! He'd only got a couple of hits in!
For over four hundred years the great bridge had stood, but the heavy gates showed little sign of their age as Karven and Dorn pushed them open--Arolith had already slipped the bar on his earlier journey. Not a sound did they make, for the power of the silence stones still held, Camrae removed one and they hid in the numerous little alcoves built into the low ramparts; more dwarven defences that would now aid against those who had foully taken the bridge.
A cloud giant of palest blue appeared outside one of the towers, and began to roar in anger! Jerked awake, the snoring monsters inside heard its great voice bellowing commands.
"Lazy rats! Get out here or face my wrath!"
Rubbing sleep from their eyes, the eight foot tall creatures blundered out, frightened that they had angered the mighty being, who was thrice their height and vastly stronger.
"Stand there!" the giant ordered, pointing to the side of the bridge. The ogres sullenly, but speedily complied, and started to slip--the ground was slimy!
With a snarl, the cloud giant swung his ball and chain at their heads! Howling in terror, two of the ogres hurled over the ramparts, and shrieked as they plummeted down, down, until they splattered over dark rocks.
The remaining wart-faced monster squawked and jumped back into the doorway, and as the terrified ogre tried to swing it shut, the enormous ball and chain came hurtling in--AHH! A gnome appeared nearby.
"Dumb, aren't they?" Arolith said to the illusionary giant, who winked, and disappeared. The gnome walked through the doorway, and smashed the stunned ogre square on the forehead with the spike of his pick-hammer, the result made him grimace in disgust. Dorn clapped his brother appreciatively on the back, that had been really funny! 
The last tower was a bit of a mystery, so they took cover in the other one while Gyrus hammered the door with his mace and hid in a pile of trash beside it.
After a while, the door opened and an ogre stepped out, the leader of the band. He was a true ogre, not one of the lesser race he commanded, humans named the greater, original race of ogres ogren, though they were properly called balkoyn. His skin was dark red, his hair white, long, elegantly groomed with several braids; steeply slanted eyebrows reached up to the hair line; while the face was thin and cruel. Despite the seemingly slim build, he was tremendously strong and wore armour made from dark polished metal fashioned in triangular, curved sections, which he just finished buckling. For a weapon he had an elegant claymore with a blood red enamelled line travelling up the center of the blade, despite the sword's weight, he could swing it easily with one hand due to his size and strength. Though his blood was not mingled with that of humans or orcs, his origins could be clearly seen in his all-black eyes, proof that he was indeed an ogre, a race cursed by the gods aeons ago.
"Glumbagh? Where be ye? Out, or you're liver I'll eat!" He snarled, expecting his squad leader to appear, beseeching and humble to his lord. The balkoyn's lips curled in a smile at the thought. Wait! The gates were open, so where were--
"That's it, he's mine!" Dorn bawled, and strode out, cutlass in one hand and a dagger in the other. 
Black eyes goggled at the sight of the dwarf. The ogren recognized the fellow, wasn't he supposed to be an ally? The thought was dispelled as Dorn swung at his knee, the leader of the bridge ogres jumped straight up into the air to avoid the blow, and lashed out with his long sword as he came down. A swift sidestep prevented the blow from splitting the dwarf head to crown.
It was a deadly fight, not only had the balkoyn the tremendous strength of a common ogre, he also had speed and agility to match an acrobat. The scout nearly lost an arm, as the balkoyn switched its grip so that it held the sword with the blade down the way, and then began swinging the weapon in a circle of eight pattern. This skillfull trick resulted in a blow shaving sparks along Dorn's left arm and chest, he hurled himself backwards, off his feet to avoid death. Before the balkoyn could further enjoy the moment, the scout tossed his dagger. It was an awkward throw, yet it worked, the blade flew between the monster's legs and sunk into the back of its right thigh, behind the armour that protected the front of its legs. The balkoyn snarled in pain and jerked to a halt as its bare feet missed the rythme of a ballestra it was about to perform.
An arrow whizzed over Dorn, and the balkoyn dropped the claymore and clutched its right shoulder in pain as the missile pierced armour and grated across bone; then a cylinder of energy exploded with a bang on the wrist of the injured limb. A sickened look of agony came to the monster's face, and it looked in betrayed wrath at the ranger and wizard. 
"Oi! That's not bloody fair! It's a fair-" The dwarf began to fume as he got up. Seeing them distracted, the balkoyn used its good arm to free the curved shortsword from its left hip, spun it fast, caught the handle so he could use the weapon to a thrust at the dwarf's neck--but his opponent wasn't entirely stupid. Breaking off his conversation, he lashed out sideways and back with the cutlass, shattering the metal and bone at the side of the monster's knee. The thrust spoiled, the balkoyn's blow slid along the dwarf's shoulder blades, hurling him forward.
Rolling on his back again, Dorn prepared for fight or defend, but he saw the balkoyn's lips begin to chant. There was a flash of metal, and the shocked monster looked to its left shoulder, and saw its face reflected in the odd coloured metal of an axe blade, then toppled and died. Karven went up and pulled Moon Shadow free.
"I vas having a good fight! Ya bunch of spoilsport bastards!" Dorn continued his protest while the paladin healed his swollen arm. His elven friend grimly informed him that balkoyn's were treacherous, poison-using spellcasters, and their real fight was with the dragon, they couldn't afford to lose one of their small number, so he and Aletta were forced to act. "Just don't bloody do it again, right! It was a fair, one-on-one fight, you stained my honour!"
Honour! Well, to an extent, the elf could understand, but he patiently explained that it wouldn't have been a one-on-one fight if the balkoyn had finished the spell it had been preparing to cast, so he had hit the honourless coward before the dweomer could be completed.
"Vhat spell? He vas going to cast one but I--" The dwarf's mouth formed a frown as he saw the smirking elf pointing at something the the balkoyn had dropped, a tiny ivory statuette of a demon, engraved with yellow runes that seemed to be solid, yet transparent. The scout knew enough about the great race of ogres to realise that Camrae had probably saved his life, crap! He hadn't even seen the bugger palm it, fuming, he stomped off to one side and began to sharpen his cutlass, glaring at the elf while he did so. Meanwhile the mage flicked the unholy statuette over the bridge with his dagger.
Gyrus checked his dwarven friend was alright, then gave him a jar of healing ointment, explaining that the inscription on the container said it also cured other maladies, including poison, so he'd better use it. The dwarf grabbed another jar from the halfling, since he had several that he'd pinched from the dead ogre leader. He looked at one of the lids, imagine an ogre having healing salve made by a priestess of Hevalina, the Mistress of Compassion, he thought. Rotten bastards! They deserved their black eyes, and worse!
They found the source of the ogre's ointments, perhaps it was fortunate the lady was already dead. Aletta took it hard, she was too upset to scream or shout, and just wandered to one side and mumbled prayers to her goddess not merely for the dead priestess, but to drive off her own feelings of helplessness and guilt. She took hold of herself, she could make a difference, by killing every black-eyed bastard she met.
 There was no time or place to build grave or pyre, and so the paladin carried the broken body away from the polluted bridge, and placed it under a rowan tree, and prayed for the woman's soul. Here could be seen the dragon's evil, that it used vile folk who could do this as its servants. Having done what honour demanded, he didn't know whether to cry or be sick. The priestess looked like she had once been a lovely woman, and he could understand desiring someone so pretty, but...why do that? An older, wiser man might have known that evil corrupts and twists that which is good and pleasurable, for it hates and fears love above all things, but the young paladin had no answer.

               *               *                  *                 *                 *

Late in the day, a rigid talon gouged a yard long furrow in a sea of glittering coins, Blood Scale stirred, and awoke.
Scales rippled and muscles bunched, the red dragon's head soared up as it stretched, rock shook as a coughing roar of flame washed over the ceiling. Refreshed, the great wyrm concentrated on a certain spell, and walked with sinous grace into his jewel room.
The adamant pyramid was two feet high, and the rare gems imbedded in it varied from the size of the nail on a halfling's little finger, to one as big as an ogre's fist--The Heart of the Ever Burning Flame. Even Blood Scale was wary round that strange, almost accursed thing. Bounty may have stopped him from personally aquiring it from the Monastery of Pearls, but he hadn't stopped Kara the Assassin.
Words of binding were spoken, and the new stone sat in its place. Eldritch glows enveloped Blood Scale, and he peered deep into the fireine, seeing his wonderous self in its depth.
The great dragon was considering going after those adventurers and slaying them anyway; treasure, treasure. Saying a word of power, he caressed the Heart of the Ever Burning Flame with a claw. The little thief thought he had stolen the amulet, how foolish! He had wanted him to take it, and a form of compulsion spell had made sure of it. The piece of jewellery was enchanted, making scrying magic much easier.
What was this! The Heart of the Ever Burning Flame refused to show the whereabouts of the halfling, what was wrong? The ancient mind concentrated, and a cloudy image of the elf appeared, on the Slice Gorge Bridge? Curious, perhaps those stupid ogres had attacked them, in which--
There was a sudden bang! Shards of crystal and waves of magical force hammered into the great wyrm, knocking him back more in surprise than pain. Cho Bounty's spell, hidden in the fireine, had went off prematurely, before it could absorb enough energy from the mystic pyramid to accomplish Cho Bounty's devious spell.
For three seconds, there was the silence of ice-buried tombs.
"RAAAHHH!" Stone splintered as Blood Scale roared. Then fire like that which had forged the world erupted from his mouth.
Ancient furnaces made of foot thick adamant glowed and buckled under the cataclysmic onslaught of dragon fire, granite detonated in thunder claps as it distorted and died. The huge dwarven furnaces sunk eight feet into the molten floor.
The giant, horned head swung towards the illusionary entrance, and reared back as demented rage boiled in Blood Scale's brain. No intellect could restrain such unbridled hatred as he rushed forward.
Rock glowed cherry red, and then exploded as the enormous, secret dwarven door exploded, and Blood Scale bashed through the smouldering remains.
Everyone of the foul beasts in the gesharn town, be they giant, ogre, goblin, chieftain or priest, froze in horror as the Wyrm King arose in the air, sizzling fire dripping from his jaws. An unfortunate ormak giant stood too high, and Blood Scale's foreclaw latched onto him, and ripped his head off.

              *                 *                 *                 *                 *

"Vhere in Varheim's name is it!" Dorn cried, searching for the secret room he knew existed somewhere in one of the towers. The halfling by his side could find no trace either, time was growing short. There was a frightened, screaming noise from outside, time had run out.Grimacing, the ranger finished a prayer and snatched up her weapons, while nearby Camrae put away his spellbooks..
Karven stood on watch at the top of the righthand side tower above the gate, which was closest to the gesharn town, and he saw a sight that stilled the hearts of all who had seen it--dragon flight!
Low over the hills came Blood Scale, vast sweeps of his wings hurling him forwards with a speed greater than an eagle's, the low sun setting his body ablaze in a halo of crimson light.
With shaky feet, the paladin ran down to his friends. As agreed, Karven chanted the words written on the dragon's scale.
"Get this 'rong and and I von't have to kick your ass!" Dorn smiled at his human friend.
Camrae hurriedly cast spells of strength on the two warriors, and another to make them all much faster in combat; the dweomers he had recently aquired were already proving their worth. Meanwhile, Aletta asked her goddess to bless them, then the ranger, elf, gnome and halfling raced for their positions in the four towers.
Human and dwarf stood ready on the center of the bridge, Gyrus was in a tower close by, under orders to stay concealed with his magic stone ready to transport them away if things went bad. Which was a nice way of hopefully keeping him alive without hurting his feelings.
Half a mile away was the red dragon, flame and brimstone trailing from his mouth like a burning meteor.
"Thank you," Karven said to Dorn. He pulled the 'W' shaped piece of mithril down from the top of his helmet to protect his face, leaving diamond shapes for his eyes to peer out of.
"Vhat for?"
"Being my friend."
And then Blood Scale flew, hurtling at them!
"GRAA-HHUUUU!" With a deafening scream, the dragon breathed death at the pair who dared to stare at him.
Spraying from an expanding sun, howling yellow winds enveloped and engulfed them, the warriors were flung backwards by the blast, spraying through molten rock as Blood Scale thundered overhead.
Arrows and a silvery marstar flew against the red fiend, and all bounced off as though striking tempered steel. A crackling blast of lightning slashed out as the dragon sliced by Camrae, but the spell had no effect either.
Oh, where was that secret door! Gyrus had tears running down his cheeks, no, no, don't let them get hurt! He could feel the wash of heat and the deafening noise even in the base of the tower.
Soaring on the gales that always rushed down the Slice Gorge, Blood Scale gained alttitude. Part of his rage released, he regretted using his breath weapon upon them--too quick--and his treasures were almost certainly consumed by the holocaust. Wind whistled over his infamously sharp scales as he turned for another pass, hoping for signs of life to exterminate.
What! The pair still lived, they walked! What game was this? Of course, they had protections from fire! He coughed flame, his venom was almost gone, but there was always claws. He was too enraged to bother with spells or subtlety.
Flying with impossible grace, the red wyrm flew low once more. The ranger's arrows spat at him, and one pierced his wing! Aletta grinned in triumph, her paternal grandfather, Wolfgang the Dragon Bane, had given her the magical broadsword, and her elven grandmother had equalled the gift with a quaiver full of enchanted arrows; both would have been pleased at the foot long tear in the dragon's wing. But the wound was but a pin prick.
"ALBANII!" Karven roared, and swung Moon Shadow at the on-rushing talon that would impale him. Ancient ivory splintered, the paladin was drenched in scalding fluid and flung aside by the terrfic impact.
Half blind from the glaring fires, Dorn still swung his blade, to see its edge shatter. Like his friend, the stout-hearted dwarf got bowled aside, rolling on the still red-hot stone which would have roasted him, if not for the magcial ward against fire.
Light sizzled straight at Blood Scale, and electricity sprayed over his crimson coat of rigid mail. Spasming pain made the great mouth snarl, the elven wizard's spell had managed to assail him! Damn his wood-loving heart to the Sunken Plains of the Abyss!
Across from the smiling Camarae, pleased at the success of his spell, Arolith threw down on the the magical disks Cho Bounty had given him, and Cho Bounty appeared on the bridge!
Frightened by the appearance of his nemesis, as the dragon thundered by on tearing winds, he smashed down with his tail, forty tons of muscle, bone and scales splattered flesh and blood like a fly struck by a fist. The bridge trembled, and blood dribbled from the gnome's ears due to the titanic blast.
"Vhere the crap is he?" Dorn croaked, his face and beard matted with blood. He pulled the mithril hammer from his belt.
"Up there, in the clouds, I think." The enchanted suit of blue armour had prevented Karven from being gouged apart, but he didn't feel like he could survive more of such battering. He lifted his visor and spat blood, if those damn claws had hit him straight on...!
"Found it!" Gyrus's voice echoed up from a turret. He had discovered the secret room, centuries ago abandoned and forgotten; the strange coin suddenly pulsed in his pocket. There was a tiny crack in the wall, that was actually a key hole, and he quickly set about it with his lock picks.
High in the swirling currents and grey mists of the sky, Blood Scale thought. They had survived his breath, and one pass, his claw throbbed in pain at that. With three words, he enacted a spell that took the pain from his cracked talon. That couldn't have been Bounty, his magical aura would have lit the bridge up like an alchemist's flare, it must have been a summoned being, a genie perhaps; too late to be sure now. The dwarven bridge would probably take his weight, but he wanted the treasure intact, and them dead by breath and claw. There was a way.
Tucked into the joints between his scales were many coins, gems and other items. Conjuring once more his ghostly hands, the wyrm pried a steel bottle from his hide, and drank the highly magical fluid it contained. Not for nothing was he known as sly....

              *                 *                 *                 *                 *

While they waited below, Aroltih ran out and gave his brother one of the magical healing potions he had gotten from the wyrm, and another to Karven. Fortified by the elixirs' power, they braced themselves.
"Vhy you hang around?" Dorn barked at his brother, who held another magical plaque.
"You pair need help!"
There was little to say to that, but though he and the friends he loved were going to die, Dorn managed one last comment, "You need a brain!"
Swooping down with draconic grace, Blood Scale grimaced with the horrible taste in his mouth, he'd soon wash it away with the taste of man-wine.
The dragon fear hard in their throats, the trio on the bridge watched in facinated horror as their doom grew near. Aletta's flashing arrows flew at the monster once more, but despite her skill and Troll Bane's magic, they ricocheted or missed. Green glowing bolts were disrupted, and Camrae wished he had all the skill of his father.
With a crushing impact, the great wyrm landed, smashing parapets and tearing up stone with his near two hundred ton bulk. Everyone of his opponents juddered or fell due to the terrific vibration, it was as well the bridge was dwarven built, anything less would have plunged into the chasm below.
Falling over, Arolith flung his last disk, and another huge red dragon appeared before them! Fear is not the word to describe what they felt at that moment, blind, terrified panic was the emotion that filled their hearts. And then their new adversary turned around with athletic grace, and launched itself at Blood Scale!
Perhaps shocked by the appearance of this new foe, Blood Scale did what he did best: kill! Lungs the size of a house filled, and blew a freezing blast of bone-splintering cold from the depths of a frozen hell. The frost breath created by the potion caused the new dragon to scream in agony, and many of its scales shattered.
Ice suddenly sprouted in Dorn's beard as the dragon's fridgid breath touched them. Karven was less affected, though he was suddenly shivering and numb. The pair saw Arolith's enthralled, blue-in-the-face expression, and grabbed him as they ran towards the towers.
With awesome noises, roars of rage and triumph, the two wyrms clashed, blood spurting and flesh tearing, but it was obvious that their strange benefactor, brought into being by the incredible illusionary powers of the ivory disk, would lose.
Feeling the bridge quake down in the cellar, Gyrus hurried his hands. Snick! The lock opened, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was six inches short of four feet in height, the giant blades that suddenly sprang from the walls would have eviscerated him just as surely as Blood Scale's claws. "Oops!" He jumped back just in time to escaped the blades that would have chopped a goblin off at the knees. "Bloody dwarves!" the halfling cried.
With no time to search for further traps, he rushed into the secret room. There was a strange column of brown glass, and upon it was a small silver wheel, set with a blue opal. Runes of shiny metal surrounded it, but the halfing didn't read them, he just swung the wheel as hard as he could.
One of the twenty ton blocks on the bottom of the bridge wasn't what it appeared to be, the stone was actually cut in half, and the middle portion of it was a metal tank, well camouflaged. From this suddenly poured a shiny river of quicksilver--mercury! The tank had been strengthened by the presence of the liquid metal, and as the reservoir drained, it was sowly crushed by the weight above and beside it. Very slowly, the blocks of fused and elementally-bound stone started to move, and the bridge began to collapse.
Dorn and Karven dragged the protesting gnome from the bridge, Aletta and the elven mage leading the way. Gyrus's face appeared in a door beside them.
"I did it! Run!"
Just then, the gigantic wyrm ripped the throat from his magical adversary. Destroyed, the illusion vanished, and the rearing monster fell heavily on its enormous forecalws.
Already weakened by incredible fires, hellish cold and halfling sabotage, the great span of the bridge buckled. Stone cracked, burst and flew apart. The lintel stone of the tower Gyrus stood in crashed down, and he dove backwards to avoid it.
"Take Arolith!" Karven roared above the noise, and pushed Dorn towards the end of the bridge. The paladin rushed through falling, twisting masonary to reach the halfling.
Seeing his opportunity, Camrae held a piece of lightning-struck runestone, and began to chant, he motioned with his eyes for Aletta to leave him, not only was there danger, but he wanted to enjoy this while he could.
As Gyrus fell and stumbled, he grabbed his magic stone. "I wish for HELP!" He cried.
Blood Scale bounded forwards, refusing to let his prey cheat him in death. Through the tumbling rock and dust, a slashing swathe of lightning tendrils slammed into the dragon, burning the flesh under the armoured hide, knocking him to the side and back. Perhaps in his pain, he would have been glad to know that Camrae was writhing on the ground, sparks of electricity sizzling over him, making the elf spasm in agony.
Before Blood Scale could recover his balance, another incredible blast of lightning struck him, but this one came from the side, and he looked in painful astonishment to his left.
Surrounded by shiny scales of burnished, metallic yellow, wise eyes of righteous rage stared back at him--an electrum dragon! It is not easy to frighten a mighty red wyrm, but the sight of another dragon nearly as big as itself, a lightning-spitting electrum dragon, managed to achieve it.
Triggering a simple spell, the evil wyrm caused the smouldering pieces of rubbish, grass and stone around him to burst forth in choking smoke.
The bridge fell, aeons old stone plummeted down into the enormous gorge, and with them went Blood Scale, concealed by a cloak of stinking smog. 
Rage burned in the electrum dragon, his most diabolical and implaccable enemy was fleeing, weakened and surprised; but he heard screams.
Built to last, the dwarven bridge still stood in parts, but they were starting to fall as well. Two figures were caught on a toppling section; electrum dragons were noble beasts, and he couldn't desert these brave folk. Enormous claws bit into stone, and Dorn and Arolith were borne to safety.
Despite the pain caused by dancing sparks, Aletta managed to pull Camrae to safety.  Before she could sort her thoughts out and try to help further, she stared in awe at the dragon who, to her, had come from nowhere. 
"Your friend's magic consumes him. Let me help." The elegant voice of the dragon spoke, and one of its claws gently pushed Aletta away. The ranger looked in fear as the huge claw covered her lover, she heard strange words, and the claw left.  The elven mage wheezed and gasped, but the electricity had gone, and he seemed to be recovering.
"Tyuuch!" Dorn spat out a mouthful of rock dust. He looked at the big, shiny lizard that had helped him. "Thanks!"
"Where's Gyrus?" Camrae asked, now that he felt better, he groggily got up to his feet, staring at their new friend.
Dorn looked sadly down over the crumbling edge of the ruined bridge. "Down there, vay down there."
"He may be all right then!" The mage said in mingled relief and hope.
"Vhat the Hell are you on about!"
"Remember the ring? The emerald one the assassin had? It's a Cat Fall ring, he can't be hurt by falling, and knowing him he jumped well clear." Though he might still have been injured by collapsing stonework, the elf wasn't as relieved as he would have liked to be. That halfling and his silly secrets!
"What of Karven?" thundered the dragon.
They all looked at the beautiful, majestic creature in alarm.
"I thought he..."
"Didn't he go by you?"
All of them looked in anguish down the side of the Slice Gorge. Eight hundred feet, without magic ring or halfling luck. Karven had always been afraid of heights, and of dying that way. His fear had turned into an awful reality.

              *                 *                 *                *                  *

                                             CHAPTER 13
                                                   Home.



The huge, glistening dragon opened its claws before them. "Come, quickly, they might yet live! Step into my grasp and I will carry you down. Hurry!"
Anguish disposed of any worries they had, and the four did as they were bade. Dorn and Arolith held in the cage of one huge set of talons, Camrae and Aletta in another. Tears fell from the elven mage's cheeks, for his people were not ashamed to show their feelings, feelings that came to them quick and sharp.
Down into the howling winds of the Slice Gorge they plunged, the dragon almost falling over the edge in his graceful way. Arolith unhappily noted the dragon's metallic, spicy odour. He was actually flying with a dragon, but....
The canyon's bottom was filled with a sulphurous stench, and boiling pools of tar were dotted amongst the incredibly sharp, jagged rocks that gave the place its name. And now there was a huge pile of rubble as well.
Softly the dragon landed, and released its troubled passengers, who rushed over to the remains of the bridge, calling out the names of their lost friends.
To use most of his spells, the dragon would have to take his more usual shape. Scales shrunk, smoothed and melted away, the wyrm's whole body condensed in almost total silence. Features changed, until, eventually, Cho Bounty stood upon the obsidian rocks.
Minds numbed by shock, the four remaining companions never noticed.
"Oi! Up here! Help!" a voice wafted down from the heights above.
Gyrus--a bruised and somewhat battered Gyrus--clung determinedly to a narrow spire of rock, still wearing his grey feathered hat. He couldn't climb down for the pinnacle was smooth as glass and just as sharp. The ring had slowed his fall, but the strong winds that had blown the halfling onto the spire would also crush him against its base if he tried to come down, so the little thief was well and truly stuck.
"Vhat!" Dorn exclaimed, and pointed at the levitating Cho Bounty. "Vhere did he come from!"
Gyrus was just as surprised, which was why he so quickly released his determined grip on safety, and started to slide. Rising swiftly below him, flying on sorcerous energies, the archmage caught the halfling before he got sliced to bits, and brought him down to the ground.
"How...?"
"I suggest we start to look for Karven, now!" Cho Bounty pointedly ordered the halfling, he then cast a spell that would detect magical emanations, hoping that the paladin had kept hold of his enchanted axe. Heavy rocks were flung aside by arcane power, but there was no sign of the human warrior.
Over heaps of shattered granite blocks they searched, Dorn bad temperedly hurling and kicking chunks of stone out of the way.
"Here!" cried Aletta, pointing to the twin, glinting tips of Moon Shadow. The half-elf tried to move the four feet long piece of stone that trapped the upright axe, but she would have had as much luck shifting the original bridge from which it came.
Shouldering by the ranger, Dorn set to. The monolith was stuck in a crevice, under which Karven was probably trapped; the dwarf tried not to think in what condition. The paladin was, had been a strong man, but the dwarven scout was even stronger, he heaved...to no avail, the stone weighed over a ton.
"Dorn, support that end! Take the strain!" Cho Bounty tapped the dwarf's shoulder, and then he recited the words of a spell, while pouring powder on the stone.
Swiftly, the block began to shrink. Dorn started and Dorn Arolith goggled in amazement as it slimmed away; three feet, two feet, until a tiny rock the size of a marble remained.
At the bottom of the 'V' shaped nook lay Karven. His suit of magical armour bore little sign of damage, but blood poured from the gauntlet on the paladin's right hand, the flesh underneath crushed by the falling rock. Red liquid dripped from under the shiny face plate, and ran across his metal-clad chest in a frightening stream.
Dorn's rough hands gently lifted him up. "Give's the blasted potions!" he swore in despair and frustration at Arolith. The elf carefully unbuckled the paladin's helmet, remembering how proud his friend had seemed when first putting it on.
"took..your..time?" Blood bubbled on Karven's lips as he spoke.
Speechless, they stared at the battered paladin. Dorn put a bottle of liquid to his friend's lips, who choked it down in agony. Meanwhile, the halfling rubbed some of the healing ointment 'boodled' from the ogres into the mangled remains of Karven's right hand. Flesh writhed and expanded, and while still looking like it had been chewed by a goblin for a week, he would still have his fingers.
"We had better get out of here," Cho Bounty said, while looking over the mists that began to grow, for total darkness had descended. The only light came from the archmage's staff, which had mysteriously appeared in his hands. This was not a place to linger.
Very delicately, their powerful benefactor took Karven's hand, and told them all to do likewise, forming a linked circle. Carefully he spoke....
Aletta stared in amazement at the huge metal statue that appeared behind Dorn, huh? They had Teleported, but to where?
"My travel room," the archmage quickly explained. He then touched Karven's hand and said words that indicated to Camrae, how mighty indeed was their new friend. Suddenly, there was no injury upon the paladin's hand, or anywhere else on his body.
Before they could ask too many questions, Cho Bounty hurried them through his apartments to the swimming pool, which he claimed was good for healing, and called for Triliad the priest to tend their wounds.
"Why are you still alive?" Arolith demanded with good-natured bluntness of his paladin friend.
"Luck," Karven slowly replied. His worst nightmare had come true today, and it would take some time for him to get over it. He still felt that he was falling, and occasionally jerked as he landed again and agin in his mind. "And Camrae's teaching! He smiled in eternal gratitude at the puzzled elf.
"What do you mean? I helped teach you the rudiments of magic, but you can't cast spells, you're wearing armour! Of course! There was one simple spell you paid particular attention to--Cat Fall."
"Which doesn't need gestures or items, and is very easily cast" the battered paladin replied.
"Vhat the Hell does he mean?" The dwarf felt like tugging his beard out by the roots. Here were these pair of idiots talking kobold crap when he was desperate to find out what had happened; Arolith must be getting to him!
"Spells can have three basic things needed to trigger them: words, movement and material."
Seeing Dorn's furious looks, the elf hurriedly continued. "Verbal components are the most important. Movements are mostly hand gestures, but they need fluidity and grace, wearing armour would make them impossible, which is why we wizards don't use armour, besides the fact that it's frankly annoying to wear. But some spells need only words, you could cast them wrapped in chains, so long as you weren't distracted by them."
"In other words," Karven continued. "I'm terrified of heights, and I have enough training to use a few simple spells, Cat Fall I studied a lot, and I know it can be cast in armour. So, as I fell, I cast it, slowed down a bit and banged into the rocks. I admit I'm not that great a spellcaster! Then that bloody great slab fell on me! Burst my ears and I thought my hand was gone. Dorn, your's was the best looking face I've seen for a long time!"
"Not surprising, you vere in a troll hole you twit. Here, take better care of your axe next time!" The dwarf's face went red under his beard as he gave his friend the still pristine Moon Shadow, which had survived the eight hundred foot drop without a scratch.
"So, where did you come from? Aletta pointed at Cho Bounty. "And where's the dragon?" The ranger had an awful suspicion that she already knew.
"Well, you're not the first to know," the archmage said in a resigned manner. "I am the dragon, though most people know me better in that guise as Cho Aderrhmohn the Benevolent--he who rarely flies but brings good luck. Most of us can change shape, and human form is ideal for learning new spells, and being friendly." He smiled.
His guests did a great deal of thinking. An archmage was one thing, but a dragon? True, electrum dragons had a noble reputation, and Cho Aderrmohn was regarded with particular warmth....
"Thank you, from all of us," Karven said with as much dignity as he could muster.
One last question remained, how had Dorn known that the bridge could be destroyed from within?
"Huh! I'm a dwarf, the builders vere dwarves," the scout explained. "Steal my bridge and I'd damn vell make sure it vould fall on your head!"
The truth was not quite so simple however: while in the gesharn's town, Dorn had a dream of the great bridge falling apart. Like all folk, dwarves listened carefully to their dreams, for the gods often spoke to mortals in the dead of night, when the soul was half way between worlds.

              *                 *                 *                 *                 *

They were soon asleep, for Cho Bounty knew that it was the best cure for jangling nerves, he hoped they wouldn't mind his dweomer when they awoke.
In the morning, they talked with their rescuer in a great banqueting hall. Cho Bounty explained that the fireine he had given them had an enchantment woven into its fabric; the crystal would have exploded after a week, right in Blood Scale's face, destroying his gem collection and dyeing the brute bright green. But things had went awry and he had been travelling cautiously towards his enemy's lair when the Wish spell had Teleported him to the bridge, right into the middle of the fight. Karven and Gyrus had survived because the halfling had asked for help, and the coin had undoubtedly done so in their cases.
"So what went wrong?" Aletta politely asked. She may at times be bad tempered, but she wasn't unkind, and besides, the archmage was a decent person. Having been on the receiving end of racial bigotry, she could feel a certain sympathy for their host, human or dragon, he was still good of heart.
"The Law of the Gnomish Beard: if it can go wrong, it will go wrong!"
Arolith harrumphed in displeasure at the commonplace saying. Gnomes were intelligent and creative people, if their ideas went wrong, it was generally because humans were around. Everybody knew humans were jinxed, it was because they were half-witted triple-sized halflings, making them twice as smart as an orc, three times as crazy and two thirds jinxed because halflings were twice as lucky as anyone else. This explained the number of human catastrophes compared to gnomish accidents (gnomes had a lot of accidents), and humans proved that the gods worked hard, for it was a constant miracle why they hadn't made themselves extinct.
"Well, it almost succeeded," Cho Bounty continued. "I would love to have seen Blood Scale's face when his precious gems exploded!" he chuckled. Secretly, he hoped that The Heart of the Ever Burning Flame had been destroyed as well, but it was a remote chance at best for the early detonation had probably been caused by the arcanism itself.
They spoke of all the things that had happened on their journey, and several of their host's friends came in to hear the tale as well. A graceful woman sat beside Karven, and he wondered whether she was a dragon like their benefactor. Gyrus beamed at her, a picture of innocent lechery.
Camrae told his audience that it was fortunate that Karven wasn't an accomplished wizard, for if he had cast a spell of levitation, the falling rock would have caught up to him with terminal results. It was a subject that would give the paladin nightmares for months; he had seen Gyrus jump from a hole in the ruined turret as it collapsed, and instead of fear, Karven responded to the situation with the berserk desperation of a man who knows he's doomed already. Strangely, as he jumped into space, he found the falling quite pleasurable, but his mind fought against the whirl of emotions, and he stuttered the beginnings of the spell. It was something he would rather forget, but found it impossible to do.
"Ah, well I was going to give you this on your birthday Karven, but you can have it now," so saying, Gyrus began to take the magic ring from his finger, the one that had saved his own life. He wanted to present it properly at the correct time, but his friend was pretty badly shaken up.
"It's alright Gyrus, I mean, I can always cast the spell again." He carried some notes on the spells he knew, they definitely came in handy. "Besides, I don't like climbing up high places, like bedroom windows, you hold onto it."
Karven was touched by the halfling's kindness, but wanted nothing to do with falling, of any kind, ever again.
The halfling gave the emerald ring a quick polish on his waistcoat. Karven's got a point, he thought. Oddly, there seemed to be a difference in the thing today, he would ask Camrae to examine it again.
Since it seemed like a good time, Arolith took the new backpack from beside his chair, and gave it to the elven mage. " Here, I think you'll find it useful."
The illusionist was the only one of his friends who knew Camrae's birth date, it was today. The elf kept it a secret because it would remind him of his many still to come, and his friends so few.
Camrae was glad the smiling gnome had kept his oath of secrecy, even though it had been extracted under duress, Arolith had disliked Web spells ever since. A spare key for the Gyrus-picked lock had been inside, so the mage quickly examined the contents. The components were most welcome, many of his own were gone.
And here was the goal of all their efforts: a large, ancient quill, there were others, some from rocs and cockatrices, but this aged, yellow item must be the one mentioned in the scroll. There was a feeling of great age around it, but they would examine it later.
So they spent a while in pleasant company. Karven was amazed by the archmage's fantastic household, its treasures and riches--to think people could live like this! Later, Cho Bounty had them meet in his study once more.
"So, what of the Scroll?" the dragon-mage asked.
Camrae explained, and took out the quill. The two wizards examined it for some time, even trying to write with it, but the old feather showed no mysterious properties.
"It's too heavy," Aletta said as she tried the quill as well. The half-elf had experience with the 'sword of scribes' in her youth, much to her displeasure.
Surprised, Cho Bounty examined it once again. The ranger's knowledge had shown what his seven centuries of wisdom had not. There was nothing inside though, for the sorcerous lamp on the desk shone clearly through it, but...Taking a thin knife of elven steel from a pouch, the archmage sliced into the quill, and struck something hard.
In moments, an object was revealed: a thin, hexagonal rod of some dark material that had been obscured by magic. A mixture of revulsion and excitement caused Cho Bounty to shudder--a piece of the NecroSphere. It had truly begun then.
The eldritch rod was of a shiny material, but it wasn't adamant, for this thing was lustrous and had an odd, warm feel, not like metal or glass. A tiny crystal like a bleak diamond was imbedded in each end; a simple thing, a disturbing thing. For an artifact capable of blasting the world from existence, this fragment of the NecroSphere had no aura of power, at least none wizard or dragon could perceive.
But Gyrus didn't feel troubled as he took the rod, after his friends had examined the thing, and put it inside the mystical tube in his jacket; as usual, Karven opened it for him.
At Cho Bounty's urgings, they read the Scroll once more, to see what else it might reveal.
"From the dragon, to your homes,
Feel the sunlight warm your bones.
See the wizard in the tower, 
Let him use his elven power, 
To transport you to the city,
Which has an evil smithy,
Where human bones are ground to dust.
By the crossroads thick with rust,
Is a castle with a bloody crust,
Built on a slaver's graveyard.
Travel there, you must."
Gyrus was going to comment that the Scroll's writer was a terrible poet, but the last four lines made him break out in a cold sweat.
"The Crimson Keep of Emgeren, the Iron Duke," he croaked.
His friends looked at him, wondering what was frightening the halfling so badly.
"Ah, it's in M'Earln, in Kalik." Gyrus squirmed in discomfort, he did not want to go back to that horrid place. Still, he had always hoped to bring his sisters home, and now he had the cash to buy them back, and mighty friends to protect him; but still...the Iron Duke, that evil bastard?
  
              *                 *                 *                *                 *

Where things of power are, there is contention, this is a fact throughout the worlds. And the Scroll-bearer's enemies had not forgotten them.

              *               *                   *                *                  *

With a deafening clang, the huge doors of hardened steel blew open, and Sevegar the Destroyer rushed into the temple of Baal in the depths of the Fortress of Ash. Hh snarled, and his dreadful sword--Hell's Bane--spitted an evil cleric; with a hissing sound it drained his spirit, and the corpse shattered to dust as it struck the floor.
Gore sprayed across the glittering chamber, lit by flames of the sacrificial altar. Thick red fluid drenched Sevegar's back, but he ignored the slaughterous passage of Daz Pazik, his mighty golem.
With half his worshippers and acolytes dead, the high priest drew a heavily ensorcelled blade, and at his command it burst into flame, but this was not a fight he expected to win.
"You're next!" Sevegar pointed at the priest with the shiny blade of his dark sword, which had no trace of blood along its length, despite the havoc it had wrought.
The Baalite bravely prepared to meet his death, and was amazed to find himself still alive! That blasted immortal had caused murderous havoc, and then left--why?

               *                *                 *                 *                   *

Feeling much better with himself, Sevegar the Destroyer walked up the broad stairs that wound their perpetual way around the endless length of Sohrello. They call this 'The Fortress of Ash', if only they knew! he mused.
After spending two weeks in seclusion, during which he had savoured Balor's growing frustration and fear, he had decided to act. Formorians greeted him warmly, for they loved a hero, and was there ever any finer than the massive warrior who strode amongst them?
The Sea Lord wore his infamous helm, its flaring, adamant shape supported the symbol of the Black Sun, and numerous fire opals, all lustrously deep and set in silver. By the gods, he was still a handsome bastard!
At a major concourse, where several trade areas met, an execution was being carried out. Sevegar glared when he heard the charge, attempted rape, and even more at the sentence: beheading.
The stern-faced judge looked in fear at the Sea Lord, for he was a supporter of Balor, and the immortal warrior knew it. The prisoner was a member of the judge's battle-clan, a veteran of many combats, and almost pure-bloodied, with little hint of the Blight, hence the lenient sentence. But the immortal warrior saw a different form of blight in the man's soul, a gnawing cancer of corruption. How he wished he could burn it out of so many of his countrymen, for he knew it grew worse year by year, century by century. What has happened to our honour? he ground his teeth in anguish.
"I am a Lord, am I not?" The judge quickly agreed with Sevegar. "Then by those rights I can dispense justice. The sentence is too kind, let it be instead...castration!"
Screaming, the condemned man felt an awesome agony erupt in his groin as Sevegar lifted him up, and held him out over the balcony. The prisoner sobbed for mercy as he writhed, the floor four hundred yards below his jerking legs.
"Die!" Sevegar turned his victim upside down in mid-air, and wrenched, the muscles in his arm writhing with the power of the savage jerk.
It was a long fall, and Sevegar bet with his lieutenant whether they would hear the thud at the bottom--they did, just. The Sea Lord turned to the judge, and with a soul freezing smile, placed something wet in his hand. "Proof of sentence!"
His retinue eventually caught up with him again as he approached the Crystal Tower, his confident mood had outdistanced them, but they would help here, help to intimidate those Baal worshipping cowards who surrounded Balor.
Sevegar's elite troops were a frightening sight: whether it was Derr in the Grey in his deathly silence; Daz Pazik's chilling bulk; or the two dozen Storm Lords, each twelve feet high and plated in dark purple metal; anyone would be easily convinced that death was approaching.
Inside the Crystal Tower, whose walls were made of a pearlescent form of glass, the elite of the Formorian race lived. Its quiet halls unlike the bustle of the vast fortress beyond, but like them, fast movement could be accomplished by the use of the ancient Teleporters built into strategic sections of the corridors.
Balor wasn't surprised at seeing his arrival emerge from nowhere. The audience in the Throne Room hushed as the two rivals glared at each other: the barbaric Sevegar, the immortal warrior; and the cultured Balor, of regal bearing, who looked pleasantly human, but had the heart of a fiend, quite literally.
"You're usual dramatic entrance my brother, can't you just knock?" said Balor, the Formorian Lord of War. His lackeys duly appeared amused, not too amused of course. "I have heard of your 'discourse' in the new temple. There was good reason for their presence, and well you know it!" He didn't elaborate further, both knew of the Hell that existed beyond the Land Gate, and their people's troubles with what lived there.
"I left half alive, brother, just enough to help us," the Sea Lord responded with a frosty smile half hidden by his huge fangs.
How could he be rid of this millstone that seemed tied to his very neck? Balor almost despaired, no wizard, demon, blade or dragon had succeeded in permanently killing his younger sibling. Only great and evil magics of the most foul types had permitted Balor to live for nearly five millenia, but even so, the great weight of the years had taken a heavy toll on both body and spirit; but not Sevegar, who acted like a child with the appropriate boundless, mindless energy. Damn him!
"What have you in mind?" Balor ordered the court cleared, the Sea Lord could get embarrassing or brutal, he wished neither to upset the present power balance. The War Lord felt reasonably secure though, he wore a simple helm of mithril that obscured his left eye, should danger threaten, metal would move, and the hellish powers of his dreadful eye would be unleashed. It would not destroy the immortal Sea Lord, but it would give him time..No, the plan was not certain, and while his brother was truly immortal, the same could not be said for himself. He had spent too many centuries of effort to waste it all in simple, but oh so desired revenge.
With a laugh that in other men might have been pleasant, the Sea Lord explained his own plan. When he had finished, Balor felt his own, vile heart skip a beat, surely Sevegar could not be serious? But he was. Even Balor, who, despite his brother's opinions was neither stupid nor cowardly, felt an awesome fear.
What plans were drawn, what foul pacts made with the aid of evil priests and necromancers are hidden by a veil, for those unwise enough to peer behind it lies stark raving horror.

               *                *                 *                 *                 *

Now Chiasmus also worked, recovered from his dreadful injuries. He was extremely grateful Sevegar had left him in peace, and thus his own plottings were nearly complete.
Close to the necromancer's island home, a ship had been wrecked and sank without trace; or so it was thought, the crew had died wrapped in the chill clutches of soul withering magic. Thus did Chiasmus come by his new found wealth, both in gold and corpses.
A fair maid, the captain's daughter, was his special prize, and he worked upon her sodden body, until it seemed alive, and very like a certain half-elf whom he believed dead at the hands of his flesh golem. The elven wizard, and his painful magic, would be erased with love's kiss.
That accursed dwarf--Chiasmus often rubbed the enormous scar that crossed the small of his back--would be consigned to the shadows.
And so he would have the Scroll, and perhaps its contents. His one fear at the moment was that his murderous activities would be discovered, for his isle lay not forty miles from Pyzag, and the King's executioner. The archmages of the Hall of Glamours would make sure that his spells and protections were stripped from him before he was put to the torch. The necromancer bent to his task with renewed vigour.

              *                 *                *                 *                 *

Thirty days after the friends had left Will' Ash, they returned, appearing near the great seasoning sheds as a result of Cho Bounty's magic. Their benefactor had been disturbed by something, but wouldn't explain what. Dorn, pessimistic as usual, believed he wanted Chenvar's treasure and was sad to see the Scroll leave his grasp. The others ignored him, used to his ways. Still, the Scroll's power had grown over them, a deadly compulsion to continue the quest, no matter the absurdity of it; they were like flies caught in the amber web of an ancient spider's liquid schemes.
Will' Ash was a steel town, set in the fork of two rivers, it feed humanity's need for tools, weapons and armour. The sound of hammer and roaring furnaces echoed across the valley, and wagon loads of ingots and ore trundled through dusty streets. It was a large place with nearly sixteen thousand inhabitants, the town could have been far larger, but it was far up country, near the edge of civilized lands. Trade went on barges down the river, eventually ending up at Port Parrick, which was how the friends began their journey.
Many people viewed them as they returned home, from the Crescent Blues--the mercenary guards--to the thieves and apothecaries who strode out on the board walk of Main Street. As newcomers found out, although it was a rough place, one where you would expect evil, the inhabitants by and large were kindly; if not averse to settling disputes with swords or fists.
Aletta wasn't impressed by the town, this outpost of humanity. It saddened her heart to see the belching fumes and great spoil heaps. Yet the pollution was skilfully contained, for the druids were well regarded and their advice sought and used. It wasn't many years ago that a bunch of folk had dragged a merchant out and gave him to the druids, for the greedy swine had let acid from his foundry run into the river, rather than pay for a wizard to transmute it into something safer. The druids had put the man in the river, and drew all the damage from it, and put it into their prisoner. Between the Great War and the Formorians, the land of Alba had suffered enough, and its people, some of them at least, got very angry with those who behaved like a damned Necronian or reaver from N'Skell. So, in some ways, she wasn't too displeased, it was certainly a more cared for environment than Uisich!
Of them all, Karven felt the most worried, remembering the taunts, the frightened runs from Jal Vardis and his mob of thugs. He saw several of the gang, but they didn't recognize the stranger in shiny blue armour, and if they had, it is doubtful that they would have argued with a man who carried a Corlis steel battleaxe on his shoulder. Several acquaintances waved in warm greeting and the paladin suddenly realised that he did have friends here, not like Dorn and the others, but folk who at least liked him, and had a kindly word--in his self pity, he had forgotten that while people did not regard him as a great leader, or admire him like a handsome bard, they did trust and like him. Karven had a certain dignity and honour that folk remembered, and compassion that had made the lives of many a little less easier to bare. Even the roughnecks treated him to gruff, but warm welcomes, while they may have once thought him a bit of a soft touch, over the past few years his notorious fits of rage, and the part he'd played in defending the town, had earned him a reputation: Karven wouldn't bother you, but you'd better not bother him, cause win or lose, you wouldn't enjoy fighting him, not at all!
A lot of people shouted after Gyrus: barroom buddies, larcenous acquaintances, and a few relatives, not to mention several females of different races. Dorn made a face at his friend and asked if the only females in town Gyrus didn't know lived in the stables.
"I do actually, but they said you'd been there first. I didn't want to get you jealous so I left them alone." The halfling's witty reply reduced the scout to a gasping state of barely controlled wrath. 
The day's heat was oppressive, the strange warmth of the season lingered and built in intensity. Gratefully, the paladin led the way up Unicorn Hill, to where his home stood: a small building of stout rock that had sheltered five generations of Karven's family.
Ardlen was working on a new clock when his son entered; startled, the grizzled ex-soldier almost went for his awl, but Gyrus's cocky smile explained it all. Karven's grandmother, a humorous old woman who dotted on the paladin and Gyrus, set about making a welcoming feast. The house echoed to the delighted yapping of Patch the terrier; the friends played with the old--but still daft as a puppy--house dog.
There was talking and drinking, and all things associated with returning home. Later, they decided to visit Camrae's people before night fall, after Gyrus disappeared inside his home to empty some of his 'boodle bags'.
The town sat on the border of the Tall Willow forest, and a heavy stone wall of dwarven stone blocked the Northern valley that lead out into its deepest part. Dorn's folk lived under the craggy hill to their left, but they continued on into the forest, passing through the gate with its familiar sentinels. Sir Heathmond the knight flew over head on his wyvern steed, the valiant warrior ever alert for the goblin scum who had killed his brother; he waved to the travellers below.
The forest was mostly oak and huge silver beech trees a hundred feet tall, and along the banks of the numerous small rivers were the tallwillows themselves, enormous and ancient. This was Camrae's home, and the mage felt all the worries of the past weeks dissolve as he saw the beautiful willows, their cloaks of green leaves shimmering in the stirring breeze. Soon they came to an old stone arch, the elven wizard made a pass with his hand in the air, and red sparks and blue swirls of energy flowed and rippled. The arch showed a different area on its other side than that which had previously been there, it was a Gate, and would let them by-pass a dozen miles of travelling. Used to the strange arcanism, Karven stepped through, followed by an eager gnome and a very dubious dwarf. Camrae waited until Gyrus sauntered through (the halfling was less confidant than he appeared, wizardry, hmm!), and then gestured Aletta through. The ranger was the most nervous of them all, she'd been used to courtly magic, but this was something else again. Soon, they all stood at the approaches to the city of the bronze elves: Leah' Meahnssen.
Not even Aletta had noticed the scouts who suddenly appeared before them, cloaked in dark greys and forest green. The elves had great bows and slender swords. The ranger was well aware of their prowess with such weapons, an elven warrior could make a bloody mess that a Highlander twice his size would have trouble emulating.
But they let them pass after words with Camrae, although they stared hard at Dorn, who stuck his tongue out at them. The elven rangers swore disgustedly, and vanished; dwarves were so crude!
One minute there was forest, the next there was a vast city that spread out amidst the hidden valley it had been so cunningly concealed in--Leah' Meanhnssen, though presently the travellers could only see those parts that were built up into the hillsides. Powerful illusions made it impossible to find should the elves wish it so, but the travellers were expected. Like most great and ancient towns the home of the bronze elves had a mighty wall which blocked the entrance to their homeland--a wall of living trees.
The captain of the wall, a female clad in silk armour and fine chain mail, was displeased by their arrival. Again Camrae spoke, and after a while they entered the wondrous city. The problem lay with the bronze elves, they were a proud and somewhat arrogant people, it had taken the savagery of the Necronian Wars to shake them out of their complacency, and even now they held other races in a casual sort of disdain. Visitors were generally frowned on, especially if they were grim faced dwarves.
The city was elegantly laid out around Loch Silveren, and it was a place of such beauty that it threatened to take the hearts of any who viewed it, and waft them across the surface of the sparkling waters.
Huge trees had been worked into natural outcroppings of stone to provide many of the sylvan folk with homes, what was not rock or wood was dressed stone of the most enchanting colours. Many houses were built around the enormous ramwood trees, which stretched up straight and branchless until near the top. Several palaces stood on the lakeshore, and numerous towers and complexes of the most bizarre and outlandish fashion provided majestic proof that archmages were no stranger to this place.
Just as in Will' Ash, young children surrounded the six travellers, their eyes filled with curiosity, and a greater intelligence than most humans'. Dorn's bushy beard sent them into giggles, and the dwarf pretended to fume as they played with it, he picked one bold rascal up and set him on his shoulder as they marched along, much to the young elf's delight.
The Lewioth was the city's heart, literally, for here the poets, bards, wizards and anyone with a joyous soul showed their talents, and as usual, it was crowded. The triple arch of rowan trees rang to the sound of sword blades as two weapon masters showed their skill.
Halakiss of the Giants Doom saw his eldest child approach, and was gladdened. The strangers brought curiosity, his son, love. They embraced, the ancient and wise elf shed tears of life.
Swords were stilled as Halakiss asked for quiet, and led his son into the heart of the grove, and asked him to share his adventures with them. The swordsmen were not unhappy, for a story was a wondrous thing, and the privilege of hearing it first was not to be missed.
The liquid, beautiful tongue of the elves wove its simple magic as Camrae spoke, telling the tale of his journey. He spoke of the Scroll, Cho Bounty, Blood Scale and all of their adventure, except where he changed a few facts that had best be guarded. It may have been caution, or it may have been the Scroll's influence, for the bronze elves had a vast store of knowledge, and their sages would know the lore of the NecroSphere.
Hands tapped upper arms in the gentle applause of the elves, and Ghensii the bard promised a poem of the tale. The assembly was greatly pleased, especially by the trick played on Blood Scale by his adversary, Cho Bounty. Camrae reluctantly kept Cho Bounty's real nature secret, for non-eleven scholars studied in the great library of the city, and it was best if none knew of the draconic archmage's secret nature.
The heroes were invited into the circle in the grove and the elves applauded them as well. Secretly, Dorn was very chuffed with himself, they may only be elves, but he was famous! And he would be more famous still, that he would!
Elves didn't have taverns as such, and thus they sat on the grassy knoll that was used for such a place. Camrae's father talked with them; Gyrus gazed with longing at the elven archmage's shirt, which was made from woven moon silver! It was gorgeous!
For a powerful wizard, Halakiss of the Giants Doom was a surprisingly pleasant and affable person. It was he who had guided a much younger--and greatly amazed--Karven around the library, and encouraged him to speak with the sages and bards. Always wise, the elf realised that his people should have more to do with the outside world, and the young paladin had been an excellent example to certain fools. 
Halakiss  gracefully invited Aletta into his family, and she was happy to accept; it wasn't a marriage bond, but an acknowledgment of love and trust. She was surprised by the archmage's grace, for elves treated her worse than humans, since they considered her to be 'tainted' by her non-elven blood, a thing of pity and a danger to the races' survival.
Warriors talk of battle and sword-play, and unsurprisingly, the two wizards talked of magic.
"Chiasmus Macklin," Halakiss suggested. "The necromancer you describe is very like him, there were rumours of him having a taste for the black Art. Also, the wereghoul said 'Ch', and I doubt it was 'Cho' he tried to say. Wizards that powerful would, I'm sorry to say, have defeated you with ease." People called the elven archmage 'Cho' Halakiss, and so he knew what he was talking about.
Magic-users of great power were not common, and thus they often knew of one another and frequently met at gatherings in places like the Hall of Glamours. So it wasn't unusual that the elven mage should know their attacker, but he could have been another using a magical disguise. The elf didn't know that Chiasmus had forgotten to use a spell of shape-changing in his attacks on the Scroll-Bearers, he had been to eager to unleash his powers and obtain the prize.
"Ah, I'm sorry about all the trouble," Gyrus said very sheepishly to Aletta. "Here, ah, sorry!"
Light sparkled in the sapphires of the platinum amulet, Aletta stared at the halfling, and bent over and kissed him. She might have a hot temper, but the ranger was basically a kindly person, which was why she chose her present calling over the one her father had tried to impose on her. At this rate she'd soon be covered in baubles! 
That infamous smile plastered itself to the halfling's face once more. Phew! Gyrus thought the ranger was still mad at him. Wasn't his fault in the first place, what did they expect him to do when he saw the big, shiny, expensive amulet, leave it there? Blood Scale's devious magic still hid amongst the jewels, part of its powers spent, but even Camrae had been unable to detect the lingering enchantments, which might yet bring trouble.
The night was approaching, and the elf and the ranger would stay here for a few days. The forest around the elven city was relatively safe, but Halakiss knew the dangers inherent in that statement, so once again they were transported to Will' Ash by arcane powers. But before he left, Karven gazed deeply at the beauty of the elven town, so different from that of the gesharns, and more pleasant than his own; but home, be it halfling burrow or a king's palace, was still home.. Many people had been left heart broken by the beauty of Leah' Meahnssen, but Karven had a rare blessing--he could see the wonder in a cloud or wet roof top, which was why the paladin was so often happy, and enraged by the presence of sullying evil.
Arolith led his brother into the halls of the Hard Axe clan, the gnome may have had problems with his adopted people, but he missed them. Dorn bawled at him to slow down, he might get skewered by the ballista crews who would mistake his big nose for that of an ugly goblin's! The halfling sniggered at the joke, and led his paladin friend through the street.
The comfort-loving thief was thoroughly overjoyed at the prospect of being able to relax in a properly built house, Leah' Meahnssen was gorgeous, but it wasn't exactly cozy. Hmm, he'd have to go see his folks. Gyrus's father had never gotten used to his offspring's profligate lifestyle, and kept moaning about the horrible fate that would befall his only son. But still, he loved them; Gyrus waved goodbye to Karven, and set out along the river bank to the sandy ridge where most of Will' Ash's halfling population lived. His mother, two sisters and the gods' knew how many cousins pounced on him the minute he stepped through the door. Ah! The perils of popularity! The fires of matrimony were being burned bright that night, but he escaped their fiendish female traps with the aid of Uncle Philo the Philanderer (so named because he'd outlasted two wives and was currently sparking the widow Briardown). The pair emerged from the root cellar, and sneaked off to the nearest pub. Several well proportioned human females smiled at Gyrus, who felt his toes curl--ah, civilization!

              *                  *                *                 *                 *

In a remote, soulless spot, Chiasmus sat staring into a roaring log fire. The ocean sent its death knell hammerings through the cliff beneath his feet, and the grasses swayed in the  wind, shimmering ghostly silver in the light from the nearly full white moon.
No guards were here to protect him, nor villagers, for all knew of the beast that laired in the cave below, and feared its hunger. Thankfully it was wary of their lord and his magic, at least that was what the people believed; Chiasmus on the other hand found it hard to believe his serfs were so gullible! The necromancer, wrapped in the warm depths of his cloak, prepared.
The wind stilled, and died in an eerie circle around the cliff top, even the evil wizard had been unable to feel the approach of the fiend from below.
Huge, smooth hands of yellow flesh bit into the rock with talons a foot long, and the terror of the shore line exposed itself. A giant thrice the height of a man, wrapped in a robe of stormy blue silk, which stood out starkly against the dark lemony colour of its skin.
Chiasmus looked up, looked up with great care indeed at the beast's face. The mouth was a gaping cavern, from which four great fangs or razor sharp enamel emerged. Elf-like ears and long, dark braided hair added to the fiend's vile features; but it was the eyes which betrayed it, for no mortal being had eyes such as these, not even a dragon.
The orbs were crimson red, set with white disks, and in the centre of each eye, a point of sable darkness the size of an ancient coin. The gaze pulled at Chiasmus, threatening to drown him in its liquid warmth, but he shook the compulsion off. This beast was blood giant, and its gaze was a lure of death.
"Giant! I offer you blood!" The necromancer pointed to a huge cauldron that rested nearby, a fire burst into flame below it at his command, warming the contents. The giant sniffed, walked, and drained the red essence of ten men in a draught.
"What bargains offer you me this time, Chiasmus? More ships?" said the vampiric giant, its voice a cold, hollow sound. The sepulchral tones brought unpleasant memories of life to the unliving nightmare's cold heart.
"That last feast fed your hunger, but you want more? What about men, dwarves and elves to slake your thirst?" The necromancer wasn't much interested in poetry or other artistic clap-trap, but it did seem poetic that after meeting Blood Guts and Blood Scale, that the Scroll bearers should now meet a blood giant. Chiasmus was almost amused by the thought.
"Tell me more, human." And as the giant walked, and listened, a growing path of smoking, shrivelled grass was left in his wake. Great footprints around which all life withered and died.

              *                  *                *                 *                *

It was odd how warm it was this year. Karven thought as he walked to the alchemist's on an errand. As always, he wore his armour, though Moon Shadow was hung on the dwarven rig at his back and he had left his helmet at home. Will' Ash was often attacked, for the woods to the West led to the Gore Loch Moor, and to the South lay the great forest of Agrehn Coille. And both areas were inhabited, not just by elves, but by human bandits, orcs, trolls and the like.
His father wanted certain chemicals, for it looked like he had finally struck gold with his new, tiny time pieces. Things were going well at last for Ardlen, years of study and craft bringing him a fine and honest profit.
Here and there, people went about their business, and the whooshes, hammering and clanking was proof that a new batch of ore was being refined. The smiths used the charcoal from the tallwillow trees to make the town's famous steel, hence the great seasoning sheds and the place's name--the ash got everywhere.
After getting his father's goods, Karven entered Exigal's store, and the merchant-priest cast a happy gaze at the Aschentium trade piece the paladin held. They talked in the back room.
"I want five hundred gold pieces worth of food and clothing delivered and divided up amongst the families living on Armer's Wynd, and I don't want my name mentioned. Give a hundred gold pieces to Rolatte, you know, the priestess of Hevalina, and Doctor Amrose the physician, the pair are always skint, and be tactful, they can't stand each other." The healer priestess and the healer wizard had a long going and notorious theological gripe. "I'll be back tomorrow, there's some other things I want, so hold the rest of the money till then."
The merchant readily agreed to the young man's charitable request, and the poorest folk in Will' Ash were greatly cheered by their fortune--this was one month they wouldn't lack.
For over a year, an evil man had waited, biding his time, hiding in cellars and dark places. Protected from the wrath of the law by a half-witted, but gentle man named Jake Slowtongue, Jal Vardiss saw the paladin leave the shop.
"Formor Face!" he hissed. Caked in charcoal, his hand reached down, and pulled a hatchet from his belt.
Warned by a chill feeling, Karven shifted, and the axe blade sliced across the back of his skull, and bounced off the hard plates of his enchanted armour. Stunned, the paladin's vision swam and he stumbled forwards.
"Formor Face, Formor Face!" a voice chanted, one that sent white hot spears of rage through his mind.
Vardiss was not mad, at least not completely, he was just plain evil and that was why he hated Karven. He had been revolted, and afraid of the strange youth since they first met; there was something disturbing about him. The brutal killer didn't realise it was the aura of goodness that all paladins had, even when they are young and unknowing of their destiny. The fear had grown over the years into a consuming desire to kill the younger man, for he knew that Formor Face would slay him one day. He had to stop him!
A happy, thankful grin appeared on the grimy cheeks of Vardiss, and it changed to the one he normally wore; pure, frothing, bigoted hatred as he brought the hatchet down to kill.
Half blind, the dark haired paladin saw the axe's decent, and flung his left arm up. Metal and wood clanged together, and then Karven grabbed hold of his attacker's arm.
Vision clearing, Karven fully recognized the soot-blackened face of his assailant--Jal Vardiss. Years of suffering and torment flooded through him, and he snarled.
Vardiss was a strong man, and he had made use of his natural abilities to intimidate lesser men, but the strength of Formor Face! Karven's gauntleted left hand bit into him like a dwarven vice, and yanked him savagely down. Yelping in fear and pain, Vardiss dropped the axe from his numbed fingers.
Blood sprayed as the paladin's metal wrapped fist shattered Vardiss's nose and cheek, fury backed by Tahljzhon and clad in enchanted steel made a weapon as potent as an iron mace.
But Vardiss wasn't easily subdued, fear and hatred lent him power, and he slipped a knife from his boot even as Karven smashed every tooth in his mouth to shards. But still he managed to drive the thin, stiletto blade up into the paladin's groin, only to have it jam between links of chain mail.
Karven never felt it, his mind in another plane. He twisted Vardiss's forearm, and hammered his right fist into his most hated enemy's elbow. Bones splintered with a wet crack.
The paladin started to pound Vardiss's head off a stone wall before he realised what he was doing. The place was covered in blood. No! He wasn't a killer! Not a callous butcher like Vardiss. The berserk rage died, many men would have gladly killed such an evil, abhorrent enemy, and thought little of it. Had this been a fair fight, Karven would have slain him if that was what it took to stay alive, but this was plain butchery. He dropped the unconscious man to the ground.
The various fights and battles he had been in poured through his mind, Karven's soul was on trial. Most of his opponents had been evil creatures, not men, and little could be done to change their ways, he knew that. Magic and a hot iron could change their minds, but not their hearts. you fought and you killed if necessary, but not without reason. Dorn had made sure neither orcs nor gesharns survived, should he have stopped him? HE hat tried, but Karven could no  more persuade a dwarf to love an orc, than himself to care for Vardiss.
He was not a butcher, not a Chiasmus, not a Blood Scale! The paladin's hands reached out, and the cracked skull of Jal Vardiss shifted and healed. There would be justice! But it must be true justice, someone else would have to fairly judge the bastard.
The crowed watched the big knight in blue armour slowly sit down on the anvil outside the smithy, an odd look of surprise, contentment and satisfaction on his features. Not a bad fight!
A smile came to the paladin's lips when he recognized the familiar sight of Brother Marlin, the old cleric shook his scarred head at the scene, and then he too cheered as his failing vision beheld Karven.
But the priest set about his healing duties, and as Brother Marlin cleaned the injured one's face, he knew who the man was: Jal Vardiss, the murderer of Lord Beranon's son, amongst others. Several folk recognized the outlaw, and angry words rang out, the crows swiftly turned into a lynch mob. The smith himself readied a sledge hammer, ready to smash the villains skull for the death of a nephew.
"Back! He goes before the court!" Karven's angry eyes glared at them, and the mob felt its passions leaking away under that gaze. 
Lengths of chain wrapped Vardiss's arms, while Brother Marlin tended to the nasty wound on the back of Karven's head. 
The paladin turned to his prisoner, "I hate you, you're a piece of orc shit, but I'm no murderer, I won't kill you in cold blood, but try to run and I'll cut your leg off!"
The mad rage in Vardiss's eyes cooled as his enemy pushed the central spike of Moon Shadow's blade under his nose, but he spat and cursed at him never the less. Brother Marlin promptly whacked him on the back of his head with the flat of his sword, "See how you like it!"
Charged with emotions, Karven found it difficult to speak with his old teacher, but the wise cleric's words soon calmed him; he too had been in battles, and fought hated, inimical beings, human and otherwise.
Sweven Keep was the closest thing Will' Ash had to a castle, and here it was they took Vardiss, the following crowd halted at the drawbridge. Inside, the lord's troops wore grim smiles when they learned who the law breaker was.
Lord Beranson, whose family had ruled the town for three hundred years, had the cleric and the paladin escorted into his study. The lord was a tall, burly man, by nature a warrior, but shrewd. His ancestors had known that to survive in this wild land the dwarves and elves nearby had to be treated with great courtesy, and so they had all prospered.
"You have done me, and the town great service young man. You are Karven, the son of Ardlen the clocksmith? And you Marlin, you old goblin basher, I'm happy to see you as always."
A young lad of some twelve summers ran into the hall, eager to see the stranger in the shiny blue armour. His father caught him up, and shook hi.
"Hmm, it's the goblin again! You should be as lessons with sage Nomean! Well, today you deserve a treat, for this fellow caught the bad man that hurt you."
Karven was quite taken aback when the young lord bowed to him, and then shook hi hand. His life had went through an almost total reversal over the last few years, and this courtesy filled him with happy pride.
The old cleric knew a circle was complete, his student was no student any more. Not frightened of kicks and taunts, he was man who knew how to fight, but more importantly, knew mercy as well.
Full of curiosity, Temian, the young lad, met the man whom he had seen battling in the log yard last year; a fine example and inspiration his father called him. Unfortunately, the boy would almost certainly see his killer executed tomorrow. Marlin remembered the anguish on Lord Beranson's face when he had told him that Temian had been killed, murdered by a cretin who had thrown a Blasting Crystal into a fight. The boy had been killed when the timber pile he and his comrades were on had collapsed.
Children loved seeing exciting things, especially a good free-for-all. Death was too high a price for sneaking off to see a fracas. Dauthos had been willing to let the lad's soul escape his care, for it had been an unnatural death, and his return was balanced by the passing of others. Even so, Lord Beranson had been ordered to undertake a perilous quest in return for the favour, Dauthos demanded that he slay an undead horror, for the Lord of Death hated those who dared to defy him.
 The Lord of Will' Ash called for his sheriff, who was, as common, a cleric of Tymaril, the god of justice. The trial was arranged for the next day, and witnesses were sent for, which meant that Karven's friends would be called back into town.
One last duty remained. Lord Beranson went over to the wall and removed his favourite sword from its brackets.
"Karven of the Axe, common man, now warrior, citizen of Will' Ash. Stand before me, you're lawful lord by royal grant and divine permission."
Nervous, confused and with growing wonder, the paladin did so.
Using the point of his sword, Lord Beranson drew the shape of the Alban Cross in the air in the air in front of Karven. He then ordered the young man to kneel, and tapped him once on each shoulder; the last act signifying his submission before a superior. No one, short of breaking his legs, would have been able to forcibly make the paladin kneel in supplication, but this was an honourable request that he could hardly believe.
"You are now Sir Karven, lord's-knight. In war I call your axe, in peace your support. The title lasts until death or dishonour, for we Alban's are not fond of pretentious noblemen, nor cowards. Rise."
The lord smiled at Brother Marlin. "Though what good the title does I don't know," he said, realistically. "For I haven't any fine land to grant you, but I'd always welcome another sword, or axe! Would you wish to be one of my men-at-arms? Or join the town's Crescent Blues? In either case you'd be a junior officer, and the pay's better than in the foundries or logging camps."
Feeling on top of the world, Karven thought for a moment about the offer. He had never really decided what to do with his life, he lacked the incredible skills of his father, or the dedication of Camrae; thus the young man was neither clocksmith nor wizard, and he had always felt that there had to be something more to life than working in the lumber gangs all his life. For the past two years, he and his friends had been trailing through the Southern forest, Dorn was supposed to be scouting, but it gave them time to explore, have fun, get into some scrapes and make money (it was surprising what could be found just a few days from town, you could pan for gold, find crystals in caves and strange items in ancient ruins, or get your head bit off by an argewiest). One of their forays had let them warn the town of an impending invasion and so they had earned people's gratitude, which was mostly forgotten in the ensuing carnage. But there adventures hadn't accomplished much, he needed something more, now there was the Scroll.
"I would like to enter your service, but my friends and I are on a quest. If it doesn't displease your lordship, I would like to continue with it."
"Certainly! I remember my own youth only too well, eh Marlin?" Lord Beranson smirked at his old companion and sword-brother.
The cleric reddened, remembering certain escapades, he should have left Beranson hanging on that blasted goblin cooking frame! The gnomish battlewagon would have squashed him as flat as the goblins. Why did your friends always bring up embarrassing incidents? the priest mentally complained. Next he'll be telling how that dragon stole my treasure!
Walking home, pleased as punch, Karven thought over the day's events. He did not like executions, but in the case of Vardiss, there wasn't much choice, the bastard liked hurting people. He didn't have an excuse like Jake Slowtongue, who'd been beaten and abused in the most dreadful fashion (Jake was addled, but gentle, which was a wonder), nor had he been brought up poor and wanting, the paladin had seen that drive several folk into a life of crime or banditry. Alban law was quite merciful, criminals had to repay those they had harmed, and thieves generally had their own property confiscated or destroyed so they would know what it felt like. Duels weren't seen as murder, just bloody stupidity, and the offenders were made to pay wereguilds and healer's bills. Someone who kept thieving or whatever had a Geas put on them, so they couldn't break the law. Execution was regarded as too quick for most severe crimes, the offender had to learn they'd done wrong, also a hanging might be soon forgotten but a chained man doing work with the glowing brand of a Geas on his head was seen every few days. Wizards had found that some wrongdoers had problems with their minds, and they could fix such things, but mages with the necessary skills were rare. Execution was reserved for extremely dangerous individuals (since they could escape and cause even more harm), those who were genuinely evil (which was rare), traitors or those whose crimes were truly horrific.
A voice called him from his thoughts, a huge muscular woman walked up to him. She was clad in chest armour of dwarven steel, while her limbs were protected by chain mail, and for a weapon she carried a glaive, a heavy spear-like weapon with a large single edged blade that could cleave or stab.
"Karven! Hey! Where ya been?"
The paladin smiled, it was Vennia, nearly seven feet tall and built like a dragon's backside. The big woman was sometimes mistaken for a man, which often ended in broken teeth. There weren't many people in town that could beat her in a straight fight, and Karven wouldn't give himself good odds in such circumstances. The idea of being beaten up by a woman was pretty humiliating, so he was glad they were friends!
They talked for a while, Karven learned that his pal had joined the Crescent Blues, who valued her abilities greatly. He had met her in the big seasoning sheds where Marlin taught all the town's children how to use weapons and read, as well as Taljzhon to pupils who were honest and wished instruction. Vennia had also been a victim of Vardiss's gang, until she got mad that is. Brother Marlin said that three of her victims would be unlikely to father children, the cleric was unsure whether this was a totally bad thing in their cases.
Karven felt it a pity he had never been greatly attracted to her as a woman, for she was good person. Many thought her stupid, but Vennia was just slow speaking, someone who valued her words. Unlike many men, Karven wasn't put off by her size, for some idiots were afraid of women stronger than themselves; love was supposed to be about gentle passions, not brawling! At least, that was what he thought. Karven had known love once, not the horny feeling of adolescence, but something vastly greater, but she had died in the goblin raid last year and it wasn't something he like to dwell on.
He said goodbye to Vennia, with regret, and went home.

               *                *                *                *                  *

In a large cavern, perfectly hewn from the surrounding stone and far under the streets of Will' Ash, a celebration was in progress.
Dorn and Arolith were dancing a dwarven gig with their mother, whose honey gold braids flew as her gnomish son spun her around. The band beat on their drums and blew the pipes loud, causing numerous curses to be flung at them from far off folk trying to sleep.
The King of the Hall, Wahldabar Hard Axe, the Giant Bane himself, would have ignored the bellows for quiet, if he could have heard them. He and everyone else in the home of Aral the Axe was full of dwarven whiskey and good cheer. When dwarves celebrate, they CELEBRATE!
At a ceremony earlier, in the temple of Varheim, Dorn and Arolith had been honoured, so now they had the titles Giant Killers and Wyrm Foes to add to their names. Those who had complained of the gnome's lack of fighting ability were shut up, he had faced Blood Scale and lived, had they?
Dorn was in ecstasy, like his paladin friend, he sought to be accepted, but more than that, he wanted a name that would live in history forever! Dwarves were never as cruel or chaotic as humans, so the addition of gnome to the hall was a burden, but no reason for contempt. Still, Dorn had heard the whispers of some, and set himself out to prove that his family, all of his family, were worthy of respect. It was the main reason he had become a scout, one of the most dangerous lives there was. Besides, he truly loved his brother and appreciated Arolith's stealth, something dwarves were normally lacking. So, by being a scout he would also prove, in a way, Arolith's value.
And they  had done it in spades! The two brothers had been deep in the Greydepths when Dorn had surprised an orc war band that was trying to ignite a tar pit, thus causing havoc as the vapours rose up to the dwarven levels. That was how he had gotten the big scar on his face, and found a new vein of Corlis ore. But it had been Arolith who had spotted them, cloaked by an Invisibility spell; fortunately the gnome's true father had passed on his book of magic before he died.
The dwarven king received news that the humans wanted to see one of his people, but he was too busy playing 'pat-the-goblin'. It's difficult trying to talk to your king when he's trying to knock your head off with a leather padded club.
The message eventually reached Dorn, as, unfortunately, did the king's club.
"Ooops!" said the club. The king stared at it for a while then wagged his finger at Arolith. The gnome shrugged, and the king laughed.
Arolith retired to his chamber with a couple of dwarves. Like the gnome, they were gem cutters, and they certainly appreciated his skill, for gnomes had a wonderful ability at cutting facets on jewels. They gasped at the diamond and perfect, sky-blue topaz Arolith showed them. Where had they come from? Blood Scale's hoard! While the dragon had been busy, so too had Gyrus, halfling's don't wear shoes, and it is really amazing what can be hid between their toes!
At the same time, said haling was also getting a message. When humans in chain mail knock on your door, it's wise to be cautious. There was a twenty pound sandbag fixed inside the entrance to Gyrus's home, luckily for the big soldier, the little thief didn't let go of the string he held behind his back.
"Gyrus the locksmith, Lord Beranson commands your presence tomorrow at the trial of Jal Vardiss," the soldier ordered.
With a sigh, Gyrus went back to his bed, which was regretfully empty, he was a bit tired from all the excitement of the past weeks, besides, he knew once the tales had been told for a few days he would be even more irresistible. Probably want me to fix up a padlock for Vardiss's big mouth! thought Gyrus. The halfling was sometimes troubled by his erstwhile profession; to keep out of trouble, and his stomach frequently filled, he had become Will' Ash's only resident locksmith. At least Gyrus's customers could be assured that his goods had been well tested, and the local thieves guarantied that any lock marked with a 'G.P.' wasn't trapped.
By his lord's command, Sir Heathmond flew to the elven town of Leah'Meahnssen. the cavalier wasn't overly the wood-dwellers, they were haughty folk--much like himself in fact--and they didn't fight fair, which was why he landed his flying steed a fair distance from their concealed archers and wizards. It was something to do with the knight in blue armour, he wondered who the fellow was, he should offer him all the courtesies of one knight to another.
Elves live for centuries, and thus they decided to tell Camrae later, he was swimming in Loch Silveren. Let the youngsters have their pleasure now.

              *                  *                *                 *                 *
The court was held in Sweven Keep. The sheriff, armed with spells that could detect lies and evil, soon came to a verdict: Jal Vardiss would die at sundown, hanged by the neck on Gallows Hill. Such a death was terrible pronouncement, for it was believed that to die in such a way prevented the condemned man's spirit from dying honourably, and at twilight, if his soul wasn't embraced by his god, it would linger and perish.
Dorn and Lord Beranson later agreed with each other, it was too quick, but impalement was only for traitors, and the stake and flames for wizards and worse. Karven was grateful that Vardiss's end would be quick, it would be terrible to linger for weeks and months, knowing the day of your death. Alban's weren't cruel, they didn't favour punishments like the Messenik Empire's, who generally crucipyred murderers, or threw them into the Arena to be eaten by god knows what. And if a man was proved innocent, he would almost be certainly be raised from the dead (which was hard to do if the he'd been burned to ashes).
The victims of Jal Vardiss were bade to attend his execution, as were his family and friends. A large crowd gathered at the top of the small hill, where two oak trees grew. The gallows stood in front t of them.
While many jeered or spat at the condemned man, and his family lay silent, one wondered what they were going to do to his friend. Jake Slowtongue stared at the scene, he didn't remember that his own father had been hung on this very spot. The scars of his parent's unjust punishments criss-crossed over Jake, and a huge red mark lay across his temple. But the healers couldn't restore his lost wits, for simple Jake didn't want them back; time, eventually, might help. Jal had wanted to stay at his house, and he had good naturedly agreed, not understanding that a hue-and-cry had been raised to find him. Strangely, Vardiss had never hurt or threatened Jake, it might have been one spark of decency in his dark soul, or simple fear of harming a madman who had the gift of prophecy.
Spitting, hissing and screaming, Jal Vardiss was led onto the scaffold. Lord Beranson looked at him, and spoke his doom.
"Jal Vardiss, you are accused of the wilful murder of three people: two men, friends of yours, and a child, my son." Under ancient law, even if someone was brought back to life, it was till murder, Dauthos leniency extended only so far. "Have you any words to prove your innocence, or for your family or forgiveness?"
Pale, riddled with fear, but still Vardiss's proud spirit wouldn't bend. He had done all theses things to enforce his own ego, his power over others, and thus he spoke, he screamed from the gallows, "I'll not die! Formor Face, I'll kill you, I'll--"
Disgustedly, the lord motioned to the executioner, who yanked back on a lever. A plank shifted under the old scaffold, and Jal Vardiss fell, and died.
People winced at the splintering noise. They left the priests to the burial, and to make sure that the foul curse was never carried out. Jake Slowtongue had to be led away; what was wrong with his pal?
One face in the descending crowd smiled, and beneath his heavy cloak, Chiasmus the Necromancer dropped a dark gem, and muttered even darker words as he trod it into the ground. He returned to the Inn of the Crossed Keys, tonight would be the night of the long shadows.
As the friends talked, and decided to stay at Karven's home, they weren't aware of the evil man who followed them for a while.
The necromancer had learned from certain sources that they came from Will' Ash, and that they would return there. Also, when some of them had went away from the halfling and his accursed veiling magic, he had seen the band, and thus he knew of the encounter with Blood Scale. Oddly, it had gotten easier to scry on them afterwards, Chiasmus didn't know of the dragon's cursed amulet, but he did know Aletta lived, not for much longer though.

             *                  *                *                  *                 *

                                           CHAPTER 14
                                      Night of the Shadows 



Upon the Gallows Hill, a cold and lonely wind blew its shifting currents over the gravestones of unhallowed men and women. A place of uneasy spirits that the light from the cloud shadowed moon caressed, and quickly left, as though fearing to linger.
Sheltered by the stone base of the gallows and the great oak trees, the black cloaked necromancer worked. Scrolls and potions he had brought, much of his arcane wealth, but it was now or never, Chiasmus feared Sevegar was going to suddenly appear and kill him.
Using a scroll made from the flesh of a ghoul, the necromancer intoned a spell. Not once, but five times, five times he called out his summons to the dead of the graveyard, and they answered. Crawling, creaking they dug through their coffins, zombies burst from the ground like bloated maggots, and the pale bones of skeletons shone white. The first of his army, to guard him now.
Another scroll, and the loggers' cabins at the base of the hill were enveloped by dark forces; two Death Spells and sixty hardy men died. The scroll turned to dust as its power was consumed, there was to be no alarm.
Magic now strengthened the seventy zombies and skeletons around him, dweomers that would give physical protections, others that would release vile energies when the undead were destroyed, thus eliminating anyone capable of destroying them.
He then created a Kurazat Gate, it took him half an hour to lay out the necessary diagrams, then while chanting, he spun his right arm in a circle, then hands seemed to mime pulling something apart, it was not a mime though. A dark circle appeared, like a piece of the night air had simply been cut out, the circle changed, showing a glistening sea shore, and damp salt air rushed through.
Chiasmus called out, and a creature walked through this tunnel in reality. Nine feet tall, armour skinned, fang mawed and stinking, an undead, zombified troll, several more of its kind emerged from the Gate. Behind them came a fair maiden, beautiful with golden hair--Aletta Karlsen! But that was an illusion, of the flesh and necromantic variety, not of the magic of deception, the zombie's features had been altered, and set with a trap. Dozens of other, sea-stinking undead poured through, the remains of the ship's crew he had wrecked.
The Gate itself was ten feet wide, and it dulled as something blocked it, and impossibly, the sixteen foot tall blood giant pushed itself through. The fiend's staring eyes glowed.
Grinning, Chiasmus gestured to his ally, "As you see, an army, beyond, a town full of warm, wet flesh. As promised. Here, a Teleport Crystal to take you home. The bargain is complete, but wait for a few minutes."
He took a simple purse of black leather, and from its magical, deceptive depths, drew forth a candle decorated with vile symbols and loathsome demons. With an alchemist's match he lit the wick, and its eerie, flickering light began to burn. Revelling in his power, Chiasmus began to chant unholy words of summoning.
"By dark, by night, by shadowed light,
I bring you forth by twilight might,
To serve me now by fear and fright,
That which has no mortal sight!"
The fuel was made from the fat of an assassin, the wick from the hair of a barrow wight, and as it burned it created shadows on the oak trees, living, unliving, undead shadows. Things that could only be seen as vague, twisted, human-like shapes. Given birth in the fires of the destruction of Necron, the shadows had survived and multiplied as only the undead could. Chiasmus pointed at a house on a hillside across the town.
"There you will find a dwarf, slay him! I command you!"
The hateful things were forced to obey their summoner, and went their way, eager to kill, to destroy the bright flame of life that they coveted but could never have.
"Now we advance!" said Chiasmus, confidant of victory. No more would he rely on such wilful creatures as Langanis, this army was perfect! Even if it failed, or in the ruins afterwards, they would be hard to blame him, for all knew blood giants had eerie powers. He was cautious as ever.
With dreadful steps, the undead marched on. At the base of the hill their lord bade halt, and he drew forth a dragon's bone, tipped with a skull carved from hematite--a necromancer's rod. With arcane syllables he animated the corpses of the dead loggers, and more undead strode forth. Chiasmus now cast fog spells to cloak them, and Will' Ash slowly vanished beneath a grey veil. Clouds of noxious vapours rolled out to slay even more, the undead immune to the gasses, as was Chiasmus thanks to a bracelet he wore.
Evil words dripped from the blood giant's lips, and the graveyard where the good folk of the town had been buried, erupted. The things that emerged were not folk, and they were definitely not good.

               *                *                  *                *                 *

In a room above the saddler's shop, Jake Slowtongue woke from a terrible nightmare. Others might question the reality, the warning of the sickening dream, but not Jake, he couldn't tell the difference between dreams and reality, truth and lies.
Not understanding the danger, for he had heard of ghosts and the undead, but didn't understand what the terms meant, Jake did what his mother had told him. When the dreams were bad, and they came even in daylight, run to Brother Marlin's temple..."And ring the war bell!" he said.
Half naked, Jake ran out into the night. Through the streets he raced, and into the thick, clammy fog, but he knew where he was going and soon arrived outside the temple. The sword, shield and axe on the door shone with a defiant glow, Catha's symbol was reacting to that which stirred, and marched. Jake grabbed the bell cord, and pulled with all his might!
Clang! Clang! Clang! The bell tolled hard, and although the still, foggy air tried to muffle the warning call, the cry to arms could not be silenced. It was answered by a chorus of barking, howling dogs--the town awoke!
Chiasmus cursed, many had already died silently by the Death Cloud spells, premature, but.."To the temples, go! Kill all there!" He ordered the zombified trolls and numerous zombies. The priests would cause trouble, and he was prepared for this.
On the roof of the Sweven Keep, the warning was heard, and a frightened sentry ran to the great beacon. The Alban Cross was impregnated with oils and magic, and it burst into eye searing, brilliant flame. To arms, to arms!
Dozens of undead were loosed upon the town by Chiasmus, seeking to hide his actions under a foul cloak of chaos and horror. Homes were burst into, and slaughter reigned. Flailing, rotted limbs were met with swords and axes.
The great troll shuffled forward at the head of its company of undead. Wary of the strange thing, Jake Slowtongue still stubbornly clung to the bell, realizing too late it meant to hurt him. Huge claws tore into the gentle man, shrieking, he was lifted up, and the troll bit savagely into his head.
"NO!" Brother Marlin screamed in frustrated anger as he saw the simple man's skull burst. His face a mask of vengeful wrath, the priest cried out, "CATHA! Nath MOUHR!" And swung his sword in an arc towards his enemy.
A swirling blade of burning, enchanted steel flew from the priest's sword, created by faith, it grew into a whirring, scything instrument of retribution. The troll's left arm was sliced off, and the fiery weapon hacked deep into its side, and ploughed on. Before the spell-born weapon faded, it tore five of the zombies to pieces, but Chiasmus had expected this, and the necromantic traps laid in the walking dead vented forth in wave of chilling, exploding sorcery. Marlin was flung backwards by the blast of the negative energies, and the unholy powers sickened him. The destruction of the zombies also showered the old priest with broken bones and grave-slimed flesh, lacerating his flesh, and besmirching him  with corruption.
Injured perhaps, but Brother Marlin wore a shirt of dwarven chain mail, and his sword was potent, he spoke a word, and the blade glowed with the holy light of the Sun. A fight was it they wanted?  "CATHA! ALBANII!"

               *                 *                *                 *                 *

On the other side of town, sleepers awoke for the war bell was sounding!
In Gyrus's burrow home, gnome and dwarf donned their battle gear. They could hear the halfling cursing, couldn't an honest thief get at least one night's peaceful sleep? He had been out slaying giants and dragons for weeks! Probably more turd-brained goblins? So they emerged, ready and waiting, Gyrus had a dwarven crossbow that he had to struggled with to cock, it was quite capable of killing an ogre. Seeing Dorn stare at his potent weapon, Gyrus shrugged. Small folk need big advantages, as his father often said, while showing guests his crossbow collection. The Pickett family were all a little paranoid, they had right to be after Gyrus's twin sisters had gotten kidnapped. That was why they had moved to Will' Ash, which was far from the sea, and filled with sword wielding humans.
Ardlen's home was only a few yards away, and he stepped out with his son and guests, a deadly crew indeed. While Karven's father had no arcanisms or potent spells, he did have good armour and a claymore made out of the finest dwarven steel. All could see the strange fog below the Unicorn Hill, and the paladin's hair stood on end. "Magic!" he exclaimed, surprised to see such things in his home town.
Camrae bathed the scene in bright light as he flung four coins to the ground. He had cast spells of brilliance upon them--the elven mage had worked on them for a while, realizing their use, for many fell creatures hated the radiance of the Sun, which the enchanted pieces of silver emulated.
The elf's foresight saved them, for the glare suddenly revealed three dark shapes! Enraged by the painful light, the shadows rushed at Dorn, and the dwarf gasped as he was touched by two of them, his blood froze and muscles stiffened--grey marks appeared on his skin where the unnatural beings had touched him. But he spat rage and hit back. As his cutlass was being repaired, he struck with the mithril hammer found in Blood Scale's hoard, and it blasted the shadow a terrific blow! Green, unearthly light rippled through the creature, revealing a vaguely human shape.
Ordered by their master, the shadows swarmed over Dorn, ignoring the others, who went to their friend's aid. The dark fiends were untouched by normal blades, but Moon Shadow and Aletta's broadsword hewed into them, but the damn things wouldn't die! Gyrus sighed, dropped his crossbow, and grimly strode forth, Lullaby at the ready.
Frightened, Arolith cast a spell, and a wall of flames surrounded his brother, but the monsters paid no heed! The spectral beings saw through spirit eyes, and so they could see souls, energy, light, the rest was just faint images, and the illusion, since it had little real essence, was merely a dim glow to them. Camrae's Mage Blade was not so easily ignored though, it flew around the halfing like a green-glowing hornet, and a ghostly fiend screamed as its damned unlife was ended.
Blades lashed out in a deadly dance, shadows attacked with unholy powers, yet the battle was over in a few minutes, for the creatures were badly injured by the touch of Dorn's mithril hammer. But the scout was left greatly weakened by the attack, his head ached, and his limbs were badly chilled. The shadows had been created by heat beyond imaging, but it is coldest in the Sun's shadow, and so it was with the undead shadows; their touch had been like the kiss of winter, but even worse, not only had the scout's flesh been frozen, it had also aged where the horrors had touched it, for they fed on the life they hungered for. The creatures had not been the most powerful of their kind, the legendary shadows who guarded the dread remains of Necron had a touch that could freeze a man solid, or age him until he literally crumbled apart. Dwarves lived far longer than humans, so a couple of decades stolen from his youth wouldn't trouble Dorn too much, but it was still very unpleasant. His brother rushed inside the burrow home, and emerged with his potion belt.
"Yuch! Tastes like orc crap!" spat Dorn, as his brother poured a potion down his unwilling throat. Then his weakness past! The power that flowed through his limbs! An old wall jutted out from the side of Gyrus's burrow home, the dwarf drove his shoulder against it, and ploughed right through the ancient brickwork! YES!
"Potions of Supreme Might," Arolith explained to the peeved halfling. "They make you as strong as a giant. We were going to knock the wall down tomorrow anyway!" The gnome gave a similar bottle to Karven, who drained the liquid, and felt the same fantastic power flood him. Aletta and Dorn were handed elixirs that empowered their fighting skills, then Arolith and Gyrus took a pair for themselves, whose use the sneaky duo kept quiet.
They could hear screams and battle cries from the town below, Aletta hurriedly cast  healing spells on Dorn, then Karven gave battle orders. The ranger took cover with Camrae near the house, Troll Bane ready, Gyrus and Arolith went to ground in the halfling's garden, while the paladin and his father crouched behind the rock pile in front of the house. Dorn hid behind the wall he had ruined.
Eventually, the enemy appeared, on shuffling, rotted limbs and spindly bones--the walking dead surged up the road towards them! The necromancer was back! Almost instantly, the corpses were trapped in shiny, moon-lit webs, and their mindless companions behind them ambled straight into the spell-woven strands as well, for their instructions had been simple: go forward and kill! 
Fighting her revulsion for the unnatural beings, Aletta steadied herself, but she missed, the arrow smacked into the webs, and they burst into flames! The ranger stared in astonishment at the ensuing blaze, an amused Camrae took time to point to the arrows she had gotten from Blood Scale, obviously some of them were enchanted with fire spells, elves used such weapons against ghouls and trolls.    All of the zombies and some of the skeletons still lived, and advanced, but again webs held them tight. The road side trees and bushes were alight, yet Aletta once more released fire, for this was a cleansing to destroy the unnatural.
Half a dozen remained from thirty, Karven and his father rushed out at them! With razor edged claymore and Axe of Cleaving they smote the smouldering zombies, the brutal melee fast and furious. Father and son fought side by side and Dorn waded in as well, screaming a dwarven battle cry. Rotted hands reached for their eyes, but the slow, flame-scorched foes were soon obliterated, though Ardlen had been gouged about the face by fleshless fingers.
More zombies! In the wavering light of the burning foliage and cloud-shadowed moon they watched them approach, and the three warriors prudently withdrew.
"Camrae, dozens of them!" the paladin shouted.
They came into the elf's sight as they travelled up the slope, forty one actually, he could see perfectly in the poor light. A tiny spark of mystic energies flew at the monsters, the mage's Fireball exploded in an engulfing caress of fire, cold flesh and bones were carbonized in seconds.
Smoke and flame poured from the walking corpses who had survived the spell, and were almost upon Karven and Ardlen--when Dorn rushed into attack them, and the deadliest sight ever seen in Will' Ash erupted. Powered by potions the berserk dwarf was a whirlwind of destruction, zombies literally exploded in grizzly showers, and the two human warriors ploughed in beside him. Whistling arrows and occasional flashes exploded as Aletta picked off lone undead, wary of the three fighters getting hurt.
The melee was furious! Hack, slash and smash until their enemies were destroyed! They would have been pulled down by the fiends but for the titanic strength granted by the potions. Karven grabbed a zombie and ripped its body apart, freeing his father. When it was over, the three of them, wheezing and panting, smiled grimly at each other, and fell back for a breather. 
Things were actually going according to Chiasmus's plan, apart from the swift demise of the shadows. He was in the branches of an old beech tree, looking at the battle. The necromancer drifted down on the magical currents of his Levitation spell, and ordered the Jotha' zombie double of Aletta off during the second wave, along with a contingent of putrefying sailors.
Up the dirt path walked the mighty giant, and where his steps should have shaken the ground, they produced not a sound, a legacy of his unnatural heritage. And those hellish eyes burned bright, already he had torn the heads from eight humans, and drunk their blood as a man might a bottle of wine. Dragged from their beds or paralysed by the fiend's crimson gaze, the people of Will' Ash had given it a mighty feast, and more was to come! The undead monster had little fear of mortals, except for storm giants, its hereditary enemies.
As it neared, Camrae was distracted by something behind him, Aletta! Where had she...but she was here? What game was this?
The half-elven ranger was equally taken aback by the appearance of her double, dressed even to her sword and bow. But her instinct for the truth of the wilds was revolted by this thing, it was no illusion! Before Troll Bane could spit death, Aletta's mirror image attacked her!
Sparks flew as the zombie double's broadsword clanged off Aletta's adamant studded Ever Armour, she spun away, drew blades, and they tore into one another; leaving Camrae unsure which to attack, as Chiasmus intended.
Roaring, the blood giant kicked out at the rock pile, Karven and his father were sent flying as it blew apart, and then the yellow-skinned monster stared at them. Crimson orbs glowed, and the beast's eyes appeared to recede into the depths, the white disks going back, back, the black depths of its pupils sucking you in as they fell, far, far away....
Ardlen's face grew blank as he was hypnotized by the undead giant's awful stare, and his son began to fall under the spell. Yet Karven was only affected by its soul sucking eyes for a few seconds! Something was blocking the paralysing gaze? Though he didn't know it, the mithril visor of his helmet was originally enchanted to protect the were from the petrifying glare of basilisk eyes, and it worked just as well against blinding dragon fire and the dreadful stare of the undead! Realizing the danger his father faced, Karven screamed and rushed forwards, Moon Shadow ready to tear flesh asunder.
Meanwhile, magic was working. Gnome and halfling were hidden by the thaumaturge's Invisibility spells, they searched for the necromancer, their greatest threat; at all costs they must distract him before he cast a Death Spell. Instead they smelt a stench of horrid proportions, twenty bloated, undead horrors marched through the woods towrds them.
Searing blue flame rolled over the garden as two jars filled with Oil of Elemental Fire exploded, and the sea zombies shrivelled under the magical flames! Their attackers appeared, and Arolith was knocked off his feet by the blast winds that came from the erupting inferno. The gnome hurriedly cast more Invisibility spells.
By the side of the house, Aletta and the evil zombie still fought, but the ranger's skill was a match for its hatred of life, and she was gaining the upper hand. Dagger blocked broadsword, the half-elf then lashed out with her owen enchanted blade, tearing flesh that wa so like her own that it almost hurt. And Camrae was in an agony of indecision, Aletta was in peril, but which was which? The blood giant was a lesser worry, for he feared for his love, and knew the dangers if the zombie won and distracted him mid-spell.
"Aletta, do you love me? he cried, realizing the answer.
"Yes!" "Yes!" Came the twin replies, for the zombie was clever, but not clever enough; Camrae's ivory handled dagger punched straight through its unbeating heart. The double had been just a bit too slow, and a little too bloodless--the undead have hollow veins.
"Bitch!" the ranger spat as she tore the zombie to ribbons, and it exploded! The double edged trap was sprung, distraction complete, the Demise of Doom spell threw out a wave of dark magic as the Jotha' zombie was destroyed. The ranger was flung over the drystone wall beside the house, the wizard rushed to her aid, but despite her beauty, Aletta was tough. She swore disgustedly as Camrae tended to her, the damned thing's guts were everywhere! Despite her revulsion, she stiil had time to thank the Korvis and the All-Mother for her victory.
What of Chiasmus? Where were his Death Spells? The necromancer had learned his lesson the first time, they would need further weakening, just in case the giant failed to finish them; and so the obsessed, evil wizard was busy casting his darkest magic. The black diamond he had rerieved from beside the gallows was glowing, wrapped in green wreaths of sorcerous power, the gem was spinning in mid-air, faster, faster, and faster as Chiasmus's hands twisted and turned. The last syllable of the spell was spoken amidst the unearthly husgh that had fallen among the beech trees, though the sounds of the battle raged from nearby, and echoed up through the mists from the town below.
From the balck diamond poured forth a dark gas, a hissing, writhing coloum that collapsed and took shape--the ghostly, but unmistakable form of Jal Vardiss! His soul trapped and brought forth unto the world once more, he was filled with hate and rage, uncaring of his unnatural flesh, he desired only to kill. Jal Vardiss had become a wraith, a spirit of vengeance.
Chiasmus was exultant! It ahd worked! This was a true jhezian-loh-morh, a wraith to give it a simpler name, filled with the chill of Hades, it could suck a man's very soul from his body. Victims of such wraiths were doomed to become creatures like Jotha' zombies, angry and hateful, and as for the victim's soul, it was condemned to wander Hades until it somehow escaped or was released. The Hell of Souls was not an easy place to leave!
"HAAH!" Formor Face!" The wraith screamed in a vaporous wail, and it would have attacked the necromancer in its lust to kill, but Chiasmus glared at the dreadful being, and spoke.
"There, there he is!" the necromancer urged, and pointed. "Go kill him, go now!" His command was backed up by a spell that controlled the undead. Yet still he was a little fearful, his experience with Langanis was sobering, but he was the master.  
As the wraith rushed eagerly forth to slay, its ghostly body passed through bushes, they withered and were left as unhallowed mockeries.
Dorn came to, he had caught a glimpse of the giant's abyssal eyes and had frozen momentarily. As he watched, the paladin ducked under a huge, clawed fist, and sank Moon Shadow deep into the side of the beast's knee. The magical blade burst into radiance, and the ruby on the axe's pommel sent out a shaft of light. Dwarven forged, it had a hatred of evil giants.     
"VARHEIM!" the dwarf screamed, and rushed from his hiding place.
Ignoring the pain in its leg, the blood giant stared hard at Dorn, but the dwarf didn't bother to look up! Enraged, and tingling with the smell of vein-wine, the fiend called upon ancient, ancestral, but now corrupted powers. From the eyes of the profane terror, two writhing tendrils of energy arced, joined together, and the Lightning Bolt sprayed around the fast moving scout, who was blown back across the shattered ground in tormented agony.
Smoke poured from the dwarf's chrred clothing as he groggily tried to get back up. His scrambled brain thought that the elven mage had blasted him with a spell. "CAMRAE! Ya stupid sod, y' hit me!" he swore in an agonized, wheezing shriek.
The elf heard his grumpy frind's outraged tone, and prepared to help. He concentratedon the powerful spell written in Cho Bounty's bronze book of magic, Camrae hoped he had finally mastered it.
Foot long talons lifted Karven from the ground, and flung him through the air. He hammered into Gyrus's wall, knocking a hole through it near Dorn's earlier effort. The paladin staggered to his feet amidst the tumbling bricks, determined never to give in. Dorn cralwed over to him, his eyes spinning crazily, the dwarf thumped his head against the wall, and they stopped!
"Oh my bloody head!" Dorn croaked.
The giant smiled as it saw their weakness, but jerked in pain as a burning arrow ploughed through its forearm, where it sizzled like a hot needle in fat. And then with a crackling roar, a sheet of fire exploded in a ring around him! The fnatastic heat of the magical blaze made the undead fiend scream in pain, this was no illusion, it was a true Wall of Fire, whose blue flames and screaming prisoner made an awesome sight in the magically lit night.
The amazed paladin walked over to his father, and shook him hard. What a reversal, he was helping Ardlen! The elder warrior, skilled in sword, simple enchantments and the peaceful crafting of clocks--such an unusual blend of talents--looked at Karven as his mind returned. He was proud! It hadn't seemed strange when his own son ordered him in battle, it was like the old days in the army,and how he had fought! How they had both fought, he felt tired, but strangely younger.
Howling in agony, the giant tried to force its way through the flames, but Camrae's magic burned the flesh on the monster's arms to the bone as it tried. The screaming fiend grasped the magical crystal that hung around its neck, and vanished with a thunderous crack of displaced air.
Wincing, Dorn let his human friend's magic heal some of ther dreadful injuries inflicted by the giant's electrical attack.
"Anyone but a dwarf would have had the decency to keel over and die after getting hit that hard!" Camrae commented from the safety of the stone wall as he saw what was going on. Still, he was glad the scout lived, he loved the barrel-shaped idiot--the gods' only knew why!
Wearied smiles turned to fear, for the chill of the grave descened on the space between the two homes, the undead's graceless presence brought soul-frost to the air. Silver flashed as Karven brought forth his holy symbol, and he warily circled, Moon Shadow held ready. The others could feel it as well now.
"Formor Face!" a hellish voice shrieked!
Karven stood in horror as the spirit of Jal Vardiss rushed at him! In a flash his conscience assailed him, was this just retribution for his callousness towards the dead man?
Ghostly fingers, filled with the despair of Hades itself, touched him, and Karven screamed! His soul, his spirit, his very being was raped and defiled as it was attacked by Vardiss, whose vaporous face contorted in hate filled pleasure!
At the same time as the wraith went for the paladin, help arrived. Several warriors of the Crecent Blues, backed by twenty axe-weilding loggers and hammer-armed steel workers, came up the hill at a run. They had been after the giant, and saw the flashes of mage fire on the hill.
And now Chiasmus struck! He had followed the wraith, and Levitated once more into a nearby tree. Distracted by the still burning Wall of Fire and Jal Vardiss's attack, they were unprepared for the wave of ghastly sorcery that descended over the--Ventulis's Death Spell. The necromancer sent the vile force of his power in a wave up the road, so it would eliminate the fools who came to aid his victims.
Before he could even scream, Ardlen collapsed, his life expunged. The warriors and local folk suffered the same fate. Karven felt a stomach churning wave of darkness descend over him, and injured in horrible ways by wraith's attack, almost died, but his stubborn spirit fought back. Around him his friends also felt the dreadful power, but they too fought it off, for its energies had been greatly sapped in killing Ardlen and the brave folk who had come to fight the giant.
The necromancer had made a deadly mistake, he hadn't really taken the warning lesson of Langanis's defiance to heart. Chiasmus still lacked wisdom, he was too engrossed with his powers to think clearly, and thus forgot some basic facts about Ventulis's Death Spell. That foul magic attempted to severe the connection that bound body and soul together, the hardier the soul, the more resistance it offered, and so more power was required, and the spell had only so much negative energy. Also, like a flooding river, it swept away the weaker things first, thus every simple creature the houses, from flies to rats, was killed first, and then turned to people, beginning with the weakest spirits. Ardlen wasn't a warrior by choice, and his magic was subtle, but not very powerful, so he bore the brunt along with the band who had came after the giant. The others, though momentarily shocked, were unharmed.
Chiasmus swore as he realised his error, not only had he grown in power by his recent experinces, so had they! He should have cast the spell directly on them, and he hadn't the energy left to cast another. Hurridly, the necromancer pulled a wand of shiny blue material from his magical purse.
An unseen hand touched Dorn! He spun, but a gnomish whisper stayed the hammer's strike. Greatfully he downed the magic draught that suddenly appeared in his hand, for though he meant to aid Karven, he was still sorely injured. But his body suddenly jerked, and his eyes stared. The mixture of potions flowing through the dwarf's veins were reacting uncontrollably!
Chiasmus grinned as an arrow bounced off his mystic wards-- the evil wizard had renewed his Steelshield spell--but it was followed by a Mage Blade that, vanished! Having encountered Camrae's spells before, he had protected himself with a powerful abjuration which surrounded him in a rippling field of distorted air and magic that stopped spells coming in, but not going out, the barrier would absorb the force of several dweomers before fading. But the necromancer stared in horror at the crossbow bolt that suddenly skewered a branch right in front of him! Then bright flames erupted around necromancer's mystic barrier, but not inside. He still jerked in surprise, and lost the place of the command phrase he was speaking, damn! He looked for the spell's source, but couldn't see one--the gnome, of course! The black-cloaked wizard started again to unleash the powers of the wand.
The ranger swore joyfully as she saw a bright surge of magic fire burst around the necromancer, and swore again as electric death flew at her! Camrae was too wrapped up in the completion of his spell to duck, and as he finished his gestures, the half-elf knocked him to the ground. Two Lightning Bolts arced through the air!
With a mighty calp of thunder, the necromancer's Lightning Bolt in a single, brilliant stroke, blew apart an old tree stump, arced over, and the dry stone wall exploded in fragments!
Understanding the nature of Chiasmus' protective spell (one of the benefits of being an archmage's son was that he had seen a lot of dweomers in operation), Camrae aimed his own Lightning Bolt high, smashing into the tree above the necromancer. The evil wizard wasn't harmed by the few branches which fell around him, and grew in confidence and prepared to cast a devastaing Fireball. Welcome to the flames of Hell, colleague! Chiasmus thought as he cast the Fireball so that it would burn elf, dwarf and Aletta, although it seemd that the mage was already dead from the Lightning Bolt's blast.
The elf had aimed carefully, and more wisely than Chiasmus realised. A huge split tore up to the top of the beech tree, and a heavy branch fell....
A crackling ball of death fires lept from the hands of Chiasmus, and smacked into the enormous branch that fell right in front of him! The spell detonated prematurely, and the backblast ignited the tree, but the terrified Chiasmus was unharmed, thanks to his protective barrier, which now flickered and died as its powers had expired. The magical forcefield couldn't have stopped the natural fires of ignited wood anyway, nor the hail of wood and broken branches that had been torn free by the falling limb and which now rained down on him. Thus the necromancer was flung from the burning tree, scorched and deafened, the Levitation spell saving him from an ignominious descent.
From near the halfling's position, a flashing metal blade spun, and tore into the vaporous form of Jal Vardiss,and went right through him. But the wraith was scourged by the enchanted blade just as badly as if he had flesh.
Chilled and numbed by the life draining attack of his undead nemesis, Karven burned white hot with rage as he swaw the dead body of his father, and fueled by that righteous, offended anger, he glared at the wraith, and roared his defiance.
"Jal Vardiss! You are dead! GO BACK TO THE GRAVE AND STAY THERE!" 
The wraith scremed in agony as a holy light flared around the paladin, who shoved  Tymaril's symbol into the monster's non-existant heart. Howling, the malevolent spirit of Jal Vardiss seemed to boil, and it fled back to the Gallows Hill.
Very painfully, CHiasmus came to the ground, moaning in agony and shock, but not in defeat. He was preparing to use his lightning wand again when he saw the screaming dwarf rush at him; frightened,and finally feeling vulnerable, he reached instead for the skull tipped rod. Blood dripped from a cut on his thigh, even a Steelshield couldn't cope with all that had happened tonight!
Ha! Dorn was going to splatter the necromancer's brains all over the place! The mixture of potions had fortunately strengthened the power of the healing draught. He saw the human point a device at him, and promptly dived flat. A dark, crackling bolt of energy flew over his head, just as a crossbow bolt from Gyrus did the same thing to the necromancer!
Hands trembling, Aletta crawled over to Camrae, she was covered in dozens of lacerations from the exploding wall. The mage was lying flat on his back, his chest moving in tiny, almost imperceptable movements--warriors at least had armour to protect them, the magical bracers were good, but they didn't absorb blows like good steel. The ranger wiped the sweat and blood soaked hair away from his eyes.
"Don't die on me you idiot!" ALetta said, and kissed him on the lips. She was smiling though, and happy, for he was still alive as she cast her healing magic. The elf's jade green eyes opened, and he slowly winked at her, moving anything else was beyond him.
Caught between desire to get the Scroll, and worry about his safety, Chiasmus almost let his indecisiveness get him killed. Just as the howling, vengeful dwarf was going to strike, he muttered the command word of his magical, scarab ring.
As the necromancer started to vanish, an infuriated and berserk Dorn flung himself onto the evil wizard. He wouldn't get away that easy! Not again!
The pair disappeared from sight.

              *                 *                 *                *                 *

Filled with grief, Karven sat rocking with his father's head in his lap. The kindly old man, after nearly sixty years, was dead. Beside him, Gyrus stood with fat tears running down his cheeks, feeling terribly guilty. A worried Arolith was searching around the tree where Dorn had vanished, and Aletta carried her elven love into the paladin's home.
"Hey, Karven, what goes on lad?" A somewhat battered Brother Marlin walked up the path towards them. He was followed by a squad of guardsmen (one of whom was actually big Vennia), and numerous town's folk, all armed to the teeth.
"That...b..bastard necromancer! Killed Dad!"
The tale unfolded, the cleric had hacked the undead troll apart with hs glimmering blade, for he had traveleld far in his day, and it would take more than a bunch of brainless undead to stop him. He had helped the besieged priests of Heijaniss with the aid of a Blade Storm and a dozen Crescent Blues, Vennia had chopped a dozen zombies apart with her deadly glaive. They had seen the flashes of Fireballs and magic on Unicorn Hill, and after destroying the remainig undead, set out to discover what was happening. Several people had spotted an unearthly giant walking this way, and numerous mutilated bosies and wrecked houses had been found.
After the place had been searched, Brother Marlin left for the Gallows Hills, where he had some business. His friend, Ilnahmohn Silver-beard, the town's most powerful wizard, an evoker of some note, went with him. There were more flashes of mage-fire that night.

              *                 *                *                   *               *

Chaismus materialized in the Great hall of his castle, with a swearing, spitting dwarf hanging grimly onto his legs!
"GUARDS!" the necromancer cried, as he kicked free of the spell-dazed dwarven scout. "Kill him! Quickly!"
A pair of men-at-arms rushed in, and grabbed Dorn before he could brain the scrawny human, the dwarf's vision was spinning as a result of the Teleport spell. The soldiers soon wished they hadn't intervened, for the enraged scout hit one of them such a wallop that he flew through the air, and crashed into another who was running from the pantry.
The still standing guard took one look at the mess in the doorway, and dropped his blade.
"Vhere'd the shit go?" Dorn snarled, pointing his gore encrusted mace under the human's nose.
"The Keep, through there...Gugh!" he said, and went flying as Dorn punched him in the guts. He still had the strength of a giant, which was why the guard went half-way through the panalled wall.
Never had CHiasmus been so badly frightened, somebody was here, in his castle! He just couldn't cope with the way everything had collapsed around him, and his nerves weren't helped any by the tremendous booming clangs coming from the heavy door he had locked behind him. Most of the powerful spells the evil wizard knew were too dangerous to use indoors, the backlash would almost certainly kill him, and, and his wand was gone! But he hadn't strived over the past fifty years for nothing, and he called forth the guard that served in his own, private part of the castle: a dozen Jotha' zombies. That dwarf would die!
Running down the hall to gain spped, Dorn hammered into the studded door feet first, and blew it straight out of its rotten frame, hurling the monsters on the other side around in the process.
"That hurt!" the scout swore. He was gouged and bruised by the collision, and the Jotha' zombies felt his injured wrath. Dorn's armour and Cho Bounty's bracers couldn't protect him from every blow of the numerous weapons wielded by his opponents, but at every swing of his own weapon, he blew one after another of the undead apart.
"Good hammer!" said Dorn, looking admiringly at the mithril weapon, which obviously held some powerful enchantment against zombies and the like. That's why the clerics were so interested in it! The battered warrior thought, remembering events during the party. "Pity it isn't an axe or cutlass!" He preffered weapons that could rip an enemy in two.
Slashed, bruised, bleeding and generally feeling like a giant had kicked his ribs in, the die-hard, fuming dwarf set out after the necromancer. The trail was easy to follow, the sight of blood spurred Dorn on, he was going to bash that rat's head in!
His own conceit had doomed Chiamus. Certain that no mortal foe could assail the castle without being destroyed by his spells, he had run down the number of soldiers his father had once employed. The bulk of his undead servants were in the underground caverns, and the few skeletons on these floors had been created merely to clean and tidy, they couldn't fight. His main bodyguards, Langanis and the flesh golem, were gone. The necromancer dropped into a chair in a hallway, took out a potion from his magical pouch, and relished the invigorating draught.
Still limping, Chiasmus was hurriedly making his way to his apartments when an alarm spell rang out. Damn, the dwarf was coming up the Western stairs! He had to change course.
Now Dorn was not as headstrong and foolish as he sometimes appeared, and as his rage cooled, he began to think. This place wasn't promising, and it would probably be trapped all to Hell, so he very cautiously explored everywhere he went. Running on instinct, and dwarven knowledge of architecture, the scout found another stair that led up; he wasn't going to follow right behind some sneaky wizard who was probably waiting in a corridor with a Fireball up his sleeve! A momentary tingle and then a feeling of weakness told him that the strength-enhancing potion had worn off, still, he seemed to have recovered greatly from the touch of the shadows.
The scout wasn't pleased when he heard the ringing bell go off, there were no mechanical devices, magic, ptuuh! But he heard the sound of running feet, and gave chase.
In a grim game of cat and mouse, the pair trailed through, and up the great keep. As Chiasmus quaffed another healing potion, the dwarf sneaked up beside him, and the solid metal hammer nearly burst the necromancer's arm open like a sausage, but his dark robes were enchanted and gave a measure of protection. But it wasn't all one sided, sizzling energies knocked Dorn into a wall. The wizard shrieked as his arm broke, but the healing liquids in his body worked to mend it somewhat. Realizing that his protective spells had failed, he ran off.
Dorn cursed through gritted teeth. Remember, don't hit him with anything your holding! The battered dwarf took a jar of healing ointment from a pouch and rubbed it thoroughly into his skin, then continued the chase.
As the scout warily advanced down the magically lit hallway, a tiny, screaming skull of spectral energies rushed at him! Although the battered dwarf tried to duck into a doorway, the horrid spell veered after him, and struck. A wave of pain and soul agonies caused Dorn to stagger for a moment, the Thanatic Skull spell had failed to kill him, but he was weakened by it never the less.
Would nothing stop that blasted dwarf! Chiasmus's thoughts were filled with growing dread, he took cover behind the curtains of a window alcove. He rubbed ointment into his shattered arm, the same type of ointment that Dorn had used not minutes earlier. Calming himself, the necromancer created a Soul Grasp spell, which took the form of an misty, floating hand. The hand floated up the corridor, and rose to the ceiling. 
Words of a spell chant reached Dorn's ears, he swallowed, gripped the mace tighter, and continued forwards. Something flew at him, and he lashed out with his hammer, striking the weird hand, but it continued on until it touched the scout's face. A brief glimmer of magic coated the dwarf, and he dropped to his knees. The spell temporarily liberated the dwarf's soul from his body, and for the first time, he could see himself, from outside! For a while, his spirit tried to come to terms with what had happened, then he desperately tried to get back into his body, but somehow he just kept bouncing off his own flesh! But the spell faded and he was suddenly catapulted back inside his flesh.
"Varheim! That I could have done vith out!" Dorn was nearly done for, head spinning, limbs jittering from the numerous physical and magical assaults, the scout wondered whether he should get out of here while he still could. Ah, goblins! He was not going to be beaten by a wizard, especially a human wizard, thank Varheim this bastard wasn't an elf! Despite his jests with Camrae, he knew that elven magic tended to 'bite' harder than human magic, although humans tended to be more powerful. If an elf cast a Fireball, his opponents would all be well cooked, while a human's Fireball would either incinerate them, or just leave them scorched. Stubbornly, achingly, he took to the trail once more.
He was not the only one in pain, the Soul Grasp had been created with a part of the necromancer's own spirirt, and he had been subtely injured when the scout's holy weapon had struck the spell-hand. Recovering from the backlash of his attack, Chiasmus crept painfull up the steps of the tall NeverWatch Tower. Not a whisper came from below, though he knew the dwarf followed--a link caused by the spell?
"NyshokadRII MATRAI!" he hurriedly screamed as a bearded face popped into sight, and a globe of viscous jelly hurled down the stair well. But the scout ducked his head, and the jelly spattered over the wall behind him--the stone wasn't harmed by the flesh-rotting spell.
The heavy door of the Chamber of Imprisonment opened, and the necromancer, almost sobbing, rushed into it. His circle of life was almost finished, here where he had started his journey into perverted magic, and here it would probably end.
A great feeling of power, danger and evil assailed the dwarf as he approached the rune-covered, open door. Senses tingling, he easily avoided the bolt of flesh-eating jelly that flew out from the room, and dived in after in a fast roll, eager to get the necromancer before he could let off another dweomer.
Holding the skulltipped wand in a shaking hand, Chiasmus beheld the scoeling, scar-faced dwarf. How had it come to this? His confidence was shattered beyond all repair, his much vaunted intellect and powers useless against a bunch of young, incompetent adventurers. Necromancers are skilled in death, and know that it is always a chancy affair, for a babe with a knife or hot coal can bring it, never mind dwarf armed with a mithril warhammer. But Chiasmus, for all his skill, was not a true necromancer, he was merely a  gifted amateur. Had his perception been greater, if he could have controlled his desires better, then he could have been a truly formidable necromancer. It was pity, for he was a great crafter of spells, and his powers could have done great good, instead of harm. Chiasmus could have claimed the Scroll had he been more practical, a trio of Sable Earls, backed up by his spells, the wereghouls and other undead, would have easily defeated the Company of the Axe and Dragon, but he had underestimated his foe. Also, the necromancer was interested in stuying his undead minions, and a clear trial of their powers and abilities couldn't have been achieved in a group of forces. 
So, by his own folly and misfortune, Chiasmus was staring Death in the face, and he was dwarven.
"I've got money, treasures, gold! Look, I'll show you..." Frightened for his life, the trembling wizard reached for his magical purse, which truly contained riches; but it was only a ruse, he wasn't going to be killed by some bearded moron! He jerked out with the skull-tipped rod once more.
"Barrow doom!" Chiasmus cried out, and unleashed another Thanatic Skull.
But the dwarf had been expecting something, just as the last syllables left the wizard's lips the mithril hammer smashed into them, shattering teeth, jaw and nose into a gory ruin, the blow also broke his neck. The body was flung backwards over the silver, runic circle, and crashed to the floor a few feet from the mithril box that lay in the center of the room.
Spasming, Dorn collapsed, and landed on his face. The scout had thrown the enchanted hammer, slaying the necromancer, but the evil spell had torn at his body and soul like a gale. The dwarf's great heart juddered, missed a beat, pulsed, pulsed, and stopped....
Blood from the necromancer's shattered skull spread and flowed across the stone floor like a red, licving organism. One tendril of it reached the box, the box where the ashes of the most ancient and reviled vampire in al the world, lay waiting. The red liquid started to congeal, thicken and slow. Yet, as if life truly resided in the blood, one rivulet, trickled, and moved forth in a gelatinous, frightening river.
Up the side of the mithril box crawled the blood, in defiance of the normal world, and slipped through the supposedly impenetrable seal that Chiasmus had foolishly opened years ago to peer at the contents.
A cold wind hurrled around the room! Dorn's body was blown out into the hall, and the river of blood, convulsed. Like a solid thing, the red pool contracted, and dragged the remains of Chiasmus nearer, nearer to the box. With a horrid, sucking noise, all the fluid was drained from the dead necromancer--and shot into the small container.
With a crack of doom the box exploded! The light faded until all was grey shadows, and like some obscene, dark toy, a head, shoulders and body thrust itself straight up through the floor, rising like an impossible pillar.
Clad in armour the colour of clotted blood, the fiend's head raised, showing the handsome features of a half-elf of middle age: delicate, yet arrogant cheek bones; a high forehead; and long, elegant grey hair that rolled down his back.
They eyes opened, and they seemed normal, although a trifle dark. And he laughed, long and high pitched, then he smiled.
Loyghan Sabboeth, Lord of the vampires, lived!

              *                 *                 *                 *                 *


                                      EPILOGUE



It seemd fitting, Karven thought as he viewed his father's body, laid out on the engraved, silver-topped table that Ardlen used for enchanting his clocks.
Gyrus, sitting  quietly in a corner, was depressed, guilty and morsoe, it was not a feeling he liked. All because of that damned scroll! Why did he have to take it in the first place? He reached angrily for his jacket, treasure be damned! But the halfling couldn't find the scroll tube! Something else though, he did find....
Mother and father, who else will I lose? Try as he might, Karven could not stop the tears trickling down his face, and splashing onto his armour, where the liquid cleaned patches of filth from the enchanted metal.
Outside, Aletta and Arolith were desperately searching the hillside for Dorn, not knowing whether he had went with the necromancer, or had been vapourized by his warding magic.
In Karven's room, the elven wizard was being tended to by the paladin's grandmother, the boisterous old soul smeared foul smelling ointmets over Camrae's lightning-burned flesh.
There was a dull flash of colour, and Halakiss of the Giants Doom suddenly appeared by the bedside. His eyes flashed angrily, but he studied the scene for a moment, and realized that his child was in good hands, obviously healing spells had been cast, for he could sense their lingering presence, Brother Marlin's work by the feel of it. The elven archmage put a vial of sparkling blue fluid on the simple table by the bed, Karven's grandmother nodded in understanding--a healing draught.
With a last, lingering look, Halakiss strode downstairs, and eventually entered Ardlen's work-room, and saw his friend, dead. It was a silent and deep time for him, thoughts of days long past crowded his mind, of an injured elven wizard, powerful, but bereft of spells and staff, and a grinning Formorian warlock. The grin had been erased when a crossbow bolt sliced through his chest, and a human warrior had finsihed him off with a single stroke of his claymore.
It was a debt he had tried to repay,and then discovered something more than a burden--a friend. But even for such a frind, dare he use his magic to restore life? He thought, and--
There was astrange noise, a whistling like leaves blown by the wind, and then a bright, dazzzling glow engulfed Ardlen's body, and vanished. Gnomish ears were not need to hear the harsh intake of breath that soon followed.
"Father?" Karven stood, and then embraced the gentle man whose loss would have drained so much from the world.
Halakiss smiled warmly, and then turned and stared. Gyrus gave him a sickly grin in return, and put the Coin of Tyche back in his pocket. Oh well! the halfling thought. I wonder if there are any Wishes left in it? There goes my harem....
Some minutes later, they all sat in the kitchen, Aletta and Arolith had returned. Halakiss used spells to bring his beloved son and human friend into the room, into the warmth. He listened as the young adventurers explained what had happened that night, and the ancient, wise elf's face grew grim indeed. Someone had dared attack a town under his protection, attacked his frinds, his son!
Even so, there was the matter of the dwarf. He took a crystall ball from one of his magically deep pockets, and peered into the rose-pink sphere. An image appeared: Dorn lying on his back, and looking terribly still. Arolith moaned in despair.
"I am annoyed!" Halakiss hissed in anger.
Just then, Brother Marlin and Ilnahmohn Silver-Beard entered, they had come back to see what they could do.
"Do? You can accompany me," the archmage suggested. "Are you ready for war?"
Shortly, a trio of very powerful and battle hardened folk teleported to a distant island. They left the young ones behind, despite their pleading, this was a job best left to those less injured.

               *               *                 *                 *                  *

With a cackle of unholy laughter, Loyghan Sabboeth raced for the dwarf's throat, and was hurled backwards by a titanic force!
"Not the innocent or the kindly will you hurt, hellspawned cur!" A mighty voice roared in the room, the voice of a god!
Loyghan spat foul words in response, and again the holy powers of a god drove the undead lord to his knees. It was Gecnawa himself who thundered now, of all the things that walked or crawled on the face of the world, this loathsome worm was the one the god detested most of all!
Snarling in frustrated pain, the vampire fled that dreadful room, and rushed down the stairway.
Valorath had discovered the terrible mess in his Lord's hall, and the soldier was going upstairs to investigate when he heard that monolithic voice. He paused, and then some dark shadow split his throat open with its nails, and drank his soul.
Not the innocent or kindly? Well he'd drain every whoring, murdering bastard's life that he could find! The beating hearts of a thousand souls stirred him, it had been a long, long time, and his thirst would take a long, long time to slake.
With a painful  sigh, Dorn came to, daggers of burning ice speared his chest and he ground his teeth rather than give in to the pain.
"The hammer! Get the hammer, your life depends on it!" a bone tingling, but somehow gentle voice spoke to the struggling dwarf.
Inch by painful inch, Dorn crawled to wher the mithril weapon lay, of the necromancer, there was no trace, save his robes and other wizard trash. At last! He had the weapon in his grasp, and soemthing appeared, huh?
It was as well for Halakiss and his two companions that the scout was in no state to fight, or he'd have brained them. Then they all heard that voice speak once more.
"I am Gecnawa, and if you value you souls, leave this place, and burn it to the ground! Warn the people of the village, they must take to the sea, Loyghan Sabboeth walks this night!"
The look of dread on the faces of those in the room were as nothing to those which presently tried to scream in the kitchens below.
Hurriedly they raced out and down, Brother Marlin carrying the injured scout, a heavy burden which he seemed to accomplish with ease. It was not so easy to pass by the pallid, mangled remains of Valorath the soldier, the old cleric hurriedly smashed a vial of holy water over the desecrated corpse. In all his life, he had never felt a sensation of such gellid, loathsome evil as he did in this castle.
That voice came again, softly though, urging speed and stealth, and they did so, while trying hard to ignore the shrieks of souls being damned. A small group of people were pushed into the safety of their band by a mystic wind, the servants clung to the wizards and priest as they left the gates.
"Strike now Halakiss! Only devils remain in there now!" 
The elven archmage, sickened by what he knew was happening, and who was doing it, unleashed a Giants Doom, the awesome spell that he had created, and for which he was named.
The elf grimaced fiercely as he spoke, while forcing his two hands together vertically, it seemed that he strained against some terrible force. Green wraith-like bands of energy formed around his closing hands, and then he screamed the final syllable of the spell. A titanic blast of energies spread out in front of him, a crescent of green, rolling, cool flames that spread over a hundred yards wide. A small shed was blown to dust by the shockwave as it hurtled forwards, and then the stupendous force of the sorcery hammered into the castle of Chiasmus. The great walls buckled and blew inwards as though they had been kicked by the foot of an invisible titan, and several towers folded up and fell in on themselves, collapsing in a tumbled mass. Searing flames rolled up and out as Ilnahmohn Silver-Beard huled crimson blasts of primordial, elemental fire into the holocaust. Works of man could not withstand such deadly force, stone exploded, crumbled and burned as the two eldritch wizards poured their blazing, fiery might into the domain of the dead necromancer.
With much shouts and screams, the people of the isle of Jolnach fled for their lives. Soon a dozen archmages stood upon its rocky shores, the Ard Cumacht himself was amonst them; the gods had given a warning, and for once it was heeded. The land was devoured by a firestonm that sucked the air into a collossal gale, sent lightning miles up into the sky, and burned the tear-filled eyes of the survivors far out to sea. Purging fire being used to cleanse the world of the horror of vampirism.
Yet Dorn did not see the end, for Halakiss teleported him to Ardlen's home for safety.

              *                 *                *                  *                 *

Will' Ash had not suffered as bad as most other towns might have, for a good portion of its folk were skilled with sword and spell; even so, Chiasmus had caused the deaths of more than four hundred people.
Many things happened over the next few days: Karven's soul had been damaged by Vermis's foul touch, to repair this, Brother Marlin used a powerful spell from one of his precious stock of scrolls, otherwise the paladin would have always suffered a malaise of the spirit; the injured healed, and Dorn regailed one and all with his gory description of how he had slain the necromancer. Councils were held, and words whispered, dark days were ahead, for no trace of Loyghan could be found. Life went on for folk across the land, but an eerie feeling was felt by most, as though something vast and dreadful had been wakened, opened an eye, and had fallen into an uneasy slumber.
A week after the battle for Will' Ash had ended, a certain halfling was talking to his friends. "Ah, well, you know that last ryhme? 'use his elven power' and all that? Well, it's Camrae's dad, isn't it? Want to see what else we can find?"
There was a long moment of thought--treasures, rebuilding, atonement, healing, glory, knowledge, companionship, and the stupid, crazy fact that flew in the face of reason, they liked being adventurers! There were also harsh words being spoken in town, accusations of blame, it might be a good idea to leave for a while.
"Vhy not? But no necromancers this time, just orcs and stuff. Maybe a small dragon or two, but not another big one!"
"Yeah!" Arolith joined in. "No necromancers! Just dragons, at least you know where you are with dragons-"
Karven interrupted the gnome before he could finish, "In deep sh-"

               *                *                  *                *                 *
 

High upon the mast of his beloved ship, Sevegar the Detroyer watched the Fortress of Ash slip from view, until only the shimmering spire of the Tower of Glass remained.
Things were going well...did a son not need his father? He chuckled, and spat out into the waters of the Rankar Deeps. Few ships had ever dared to cross the horrid stretch of calm, deceptive and treacherous sea, but the Iron Cobra ploughed through the quiet ocean like a slashing spear, Hell bent for Kalik.
Something was calling him to the land of the lash, Derag' and slavery, and not even the sea devils would slow him on his course. But another feeling warned him that another player had entered the game, an old adversary--Loyghan Sabboeth. Now there was someone he would enjoy killing, Sevegar looked on such a prospect as Fate's blessing, Loyghan and the NecroSphere! The vampire thought that his position as First Acolyte of Sabardine would keep him safe and immortal, well the vampire would get a nice surprise when his soul was wrapped in the god-fires of the NecroSPhere, and then he'd burn, burn, BURN! Oh, how often has the Formorian dreamed of using his own flesh ripping teeth to tear out the vampire's throat, the poetic justice of death! A dreadful memory of the days after the Blighting of Necron made him wince in despair, and his fingers bit deep into the iron guard-rail.
A tear of a thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand years ago ran down the warlord's cheek, and he stared into the Sun.
"LOYGHAN! YOU BASTARD! " Sevegar screamed from the mast head. "I'm coming for you! We're going to Hell, but you're going first!"



                                           THE   END


               *                 *                *                 *                 *
 


                                        GLOSSARY




Arcanism: A catch-all term meaning 'magical device or artifact'.
Dwarves: One of the peculiarities of the bearded race of warriors and artisans, is that they cannot use a 'w' at the front of a word, since it's a totally unnatural combination in their own tongue. Only dwarven diplomats and scholars can overcome this problem. The dwarven tongue has some similarities to the Alban accent, since Albans use so many dwarven words, and generally have good relations with the bearded folk.   
Elves: There are several races of elves, some of which are described below.
River elves: are the most commonly encountered elves, and have the closest relationship with humans. They live in valleys, by lakes and the sea shore. Able to live and breath under water or on land, river elves are fun-loving folk known for their amorous natures and, strangely, their piety (naturally they tend to worship easy-going deities). Despite their chaotic, indulgent lives, they are very religious, also, they are hard working, provided they labour for mutual benefit. River elves are highly sought after as sailors and entertainers, one of their special talents is the ability to weave the silk of giant water spiders into cloth, which is highly prized, especially for making silk armour. People who try to take advantage of river elves have found that when angered, they have nasty ways of getting revenge. However, most decent folk like them as they make friends easily and are unquestionably loyal. Most river elves are quite short, and have webbed fingers, their hair and skin colours vry between soft yellow to bottle green. River elves don't make very good wizards (unless they're water elementalists), but they are highly regarded as marine soldiers, priests and dancers. 
Dark elves: In ancient elvish, stjalos means "seeking shade", which is the name the dark elves use for themselves. During the rise of the Necronian Empire, many elves had been forced to flee, some to other lands, others to different Planes, the stjalos went underground. There, they had to carve out a living amidst the vile and deadly horrors that lurked in the shadows, worse, they angered the dwarves and were forced to flee deeper, ever deeper. In the bowels of the world, they had created their own kingdoms where they fought unceasing battles against foul entities long forgotten by even the dwarves. The stories of the dark elves' destructive abilities have filtered up to the surface, and it is widely known that they were a paranoid race who slay potential enemies on sight. There are also stjalos who have descended still further, and worshipped beings of loathsome evil. Normal elves considered dark elves to be unwholesome, kill-crazy lunatics, and fools for causing trouble with the dwarves. It was an irony that while dark elves are so called because of their habitat, their skin is as white as snow, for they are a race of albinos.                               
Glessairou: The most powerful of the elven races, the glessairou, or bronze elves as they are frequently called, tend to be very reclusive, and hide their wondrous cities deep in the forests and hillsides. Magic and artistry are their lifeblood, they have combined these skills to make some of the most powerful arcanisms ever known. They have a particular enmity against demons, which is mutual, the reasons for this are old and long forgotten. Bronze elves get their name from their hair, which tends to be a luxuriant copper-red colour.
Sword elves: The proper name for these folk is fersyetii, which is elven for 'sword elf', they are a race of warriors, hence the nomenclature! Taller than humans, their hair is always silver-grey, and they are the only known race of elf who can grow moustaches (but they don't have beards). Incredibly swift and dextrous, sword elves are holy terrors in battle, but they are generally content to vent their spleen on orcs and other evil creatures. Most other elves treat sword elves as poor relations as they are a bit grim (there is also the belief that they have dwarven blood running through their veins). The enormous forests in the Southeast of the Messenik Empire are firmly held by the sword elves, they and the Empire, after centuries of conflict, finally made an alliance.
Grey elves: A small, shy folk rarely averaging more than five feet high, the grey elves get their name from their skin and hair tones. The grey elves are the finest archers and silversmiths in the known world, however, their race is in decline. Forced out of their homelands by orcs and other vile monsters, some grey elves have found refuge in the cities of other humans and others, but their hearts still pine for lost homes and families. Seeing their old friends in peril, the gnomish races have begun to help the grey elves. Due to their similarity to moon elves, grey elves tend to be treated harshly in human settlements, which is unjust as grey elves are scrupulously honest.
Moon elves: similar to the grey elves, moon elves are short, but they are a fine featured, very attractive race. Naturally accomplished actors and bards (and thieves), moon elves live amongst other races, particularly humans and halflings. The greatest peculiarity of the moon elves is that they are strongly linked to the phases of the two major moons, their colouring, and nature, changes as the white and black moon crosses the sky. When Gealach (the white moon) is waxing, they are pale haired and skinned, and tend to be decent folk, the opposite is true when Duihn is waxing. At those times of the year when both moons are waxing (normally the Feast of Atrin), their personality changes get more extreme. The spiritual changes are not absolute, they are greatly moderated by the individual's ethics, so a kindly moon elf wouldn't turn into a homicidal maniac, but he would be short tempered and constantly tempted by his darker side. An evil moon elf is a creature to be dreaded when Duihn is full, thankfully such folk are rare. Despite their at times unpleasant nature, most people like moon elves because they have a talent for making people feel happy and confidant. Apart from the grey elves, the dark-skinned humans from Salamanca also suffer racial prejudice because of the infamous acts committed when moon elves' are under Duihn's influence. 
 Human speech: Most humans use Algandian Skriptor for their basic tongue. Created thousands of years ago by the Algandian Empire for use as a universal tongue, it was spread across the ancient world for several reasons. One, wizards decided it would make their work a lot easier, since it would save them having to learn dozens of obscure languages needed to converse with colleagues and decipher tomes of magic (wizards in those days had a lot of political clout, and still do). Two, the gods also decided it would help their cause, since it made it easier for their priests to talk to people and thus gain new converts; some gods were opposed to this (especially Chamlat, the god of chaos), but most viewed it as very useful. Three, rulers and merchants figured it made their work much easier. To ensure that Algandian Skriptor was standardized, thousands of magical dictionaries were created, and spread across the ancient world. In recent times, the Aschentium Merchant Guild and the Messenik Empire have helped maintain Algandian Skriptor's dominance. In less civilized areas other tongues are used; isolation, racial tongues and the devastation wrought by the Necronian Wars have also caused problems. Even those who speak Algandian Skriptor can have problems conversing with each other due to different accents, for instance, an Alban merchant working in the Messenik Empire may take several months to learn his clients' different speech patterns enough to understand them. However, if they have been properly schooled, the Alban and the Messeniks' should be able to read each others' written messages without problem (though there are many unofficial local words in use that cause problems). Wizards developed a spell that lets its recipient easily adapt to the differing accents, the spell is quite common, and regarded as a money spinner by the magic-using fraternity.
Rammy: An Alban institution that has spread to many other countries. Basically, it is a huge prize fight, all the competitors put their money into a prize fund, along with anything offered by the organizer, and then they fight until only one man (or creature) is left standing. The conditions of battle vary, but generally a rammy involves unarmed combat. The most famous rammy is held in Tomark in Southern Alba, competitors come from across the world to enter, and some years as many as ten thousand fight it out in the Cross Guard FIeld. It is a very rough sport.
N.W.E: Standard date used across Erynavar, it stands for Necronian Wars End, and is used in memory of the terrible destruction suffered by all, and in gratitude for survival. The system was set up by one of the Allechon Met-Ulnajhor (a grand conclave of wizards held once a century). Strictly speaking, the dateline starts on the day after the Black Sun rose and set, which signalled the end of the great conflicts which had started with the Algandian Empire declaring war on the Necronian Empire. No one would want to use the actually Day of the Black Sun for the basis of a calendar!
Age: People on Erynavar tend to live far longer, and stay far healthier, than they do on other Planes (if they survive that is). This is partially due to the energy fields of the world, which somehow endow creatures with great vitality, physically and spiritually. Another point is that because of the utter devastation, plagues, Blight and colossal magics that were unleashed during the Necronian Wars, survivors of that time tended to be extremely tough, and this has carried on to their offspring. Additionally, humans in Alba live even longer because there has been a many intermarriages with dwarves and elves over the centuries. A Alban human can live for up to two hundred years, but few do as Dauthos makes sure there are plenty of deaths.
Ch: in most Western lands, 'ch' is frequently pronounced kh, as in 'loch', especially when used in a name. This doesn't always apply, Chiasmus is prounced as in 'cheese', and Cho like 'chosen'. Uisich is pronounced OO-EE-SI-KH (as in 'do', 'me', 'sir' and 'loch').
Money: People on Earth frequently make the mistake that gold is extremely rare, since few folk ever see much of the metal, when in fact, hundreds of thousands of tons of it are stored away in vaults, never mind the vast quantities used in jewellery and industry. As dwarves have been mining the underground realms for aeons, Erynavar has enough gold to make Midas green with envy, one of the things that keeps its value up is that monsters (particularly dragons), value the stuff as much as humans, so it's not all in the liquid economy. Since gold is so soft, and silver corrodes, the two are alloyed together to make electrum coinage, which is hard and durable, and is thus more common. There are many types of coins across the world, made from a variety of substances. The Aschentium Merchant Guild has been slowly imposing its standard for weights and measures, especially money, on their customers, and these are being adopted as international trade becomes more common. Although wizards can transmute lead into gold, the problem with this is that it leaves the metal radiating magic, which is easily detected, and rulers treat such folk as counterfeiters. There are very powerful spells that perfectly transmute lead into gold (instead of just 'hold' the metal in its new form), but by the time a wizard gets that powerful he generally doesn't need to bother with cash.
Necromancers: Although it may seem strange, necromancers are an accepted part of the wizardly community, provided they don't descend into some of the truly foul practices. Many wizards study necromancy so they can combat the undead, or speak with ancient spirits, which are respectable goals. Others investigate the mysteries of life and death, such folk tend to be quite strange, but their magics can be useful and benign, or unbelievably  deadly. While making a few skeletal servants to guard your home wouldn't trouble most wizards, necromancers who truly embrace the undead are shunned.
Armour and weapons: Thanks to a hundred centuries of developement, the military equipment made and used on Erynavar is superior to that found elsewhere. Dwarven steel is similar to high quality stainless steel, but even better, and when alloyed with mithril and other metals it can be awesomely strong and hard. Even well-made human metals are as good as modern, Earthly equivalents, which are more than 50% superior to those used in Medieval and ancient times. To get an idea of the strength of dwarven steel, plate armour made from it could be struck with a sledge hammer without being dented, even a musket ball would have trouble piercing it. However, strong blows still rattle the person wearing the armour, and there are many creatures who can shred such protection, or even go through it! Naturally, weaponry has been improved as well to keep pace with armour, but not every one can afford high quality equipment, which is one reason why the Messenik legions conquered half the world (their soldiers are equipped with adamantine accoutrements, and their enemies weren't). Although cannons were used in times long past, they weren't common because wizards found it ridiculously easy to cause their powder to explode (so few folk even tried to make handguns). The equivalent to Greek Fire is called 'Chenvar's Oil' (after Chenvar Aschentium, who used it to terrible effect in battle), and is made from a substance similar to gunpowder, mixed with oil and alchohol. Alchemists also make virulent corrosives and even poison gas. 
Greydepths: The name comes from the dwarven tongue and is used to describe the vast underground realms that ly beneath the world's surface. The proper dwarven name has a lot of hidden concepts difficult for a human to understand, the proper translation is 'the grey and silent depths', but it has been shortened just to 'Greydepths'. Since dwarves have 'dark vision', which lets them see heat in quite good detail, they view their caverns in shades of grey. 'Silent', the underworld is never truly silent, for even rock moves, but it is quiet compared to the lands of the Sun. Greydepths also infers menace, for the shadowy world is haunted by things even the brave dwarves fear, and 'silent' is a warning of the 'silent places', which are strange, horrid areas that orcs and other evil creatures avoid, never mind more decent folk.  
Marstar: is the correct name for the star-shaped throwing weapon used by warriors (and others). Most people use a large, folding version about the length of a man's forearm that opens into a cross shape, Alban's are famed for using such devices. A throwingstar is a horrendous weapon favoured by ogres and giants, made from a wooden or clay ball studded with swords or daggers, with a rope or chain handle which is used to hurl it at enemies. These savage weapons are frequently poisoned, and are universally shunned.
Salamanka: A fabled land far to the South. Few folk had heard of Salamanka until earthquakes during The WInds of Wrathful Torment tore open a pass through the great mountains that seperated Salmanca from Torlan and the rest of the world. Although relations between the folk of Torlan and Northern Salamanka were at first friendly, the various small kingdoms in Torlan were taken over by the armies of Dalkomyr the Grand Tyrant. Under Dalkomyr's rule, Torlan became a harsh place, and the patron god of the new state was Baal. Torlan invaded Salamanka, to help finance this, the Torlan's sold the black-skinned Salamankan's they captured to the slavers of Kalik, who viewed their new 'goods' as a unique merchandizing opportunity. What the Torlan's didn't realise was that Salamanka is a continent unto itself, and after sweeping through the peaceful kingdoms in the North, the ensuing chaos let the Arnokombi advance towards them. The Arnokombi are a warlike race of human Salamankan's who worship Baal as well, and proved to be just as vicious and skilled as the Torlan invaders, plus they had superior numbers. At one point Torlan itself was nearly invaded, but the Arnokombi suffered massive casualties from disease and their enemies' superior defensive tactics; the Arnokombi are plains dwellers and the cold mountains proved just as lethal as the Torlans' castles and seige engines, which they had never encountered before. After a series of pointless conflicts, both sides have settled into an uneasy truce, and are presently looking for ways to best each other. Meanwhile, trade actually flourishes between the two lands, especially in slaves, neither side seems to mind selling their fellows. The slave trade has made Catha declare both the Torlans and the Arnokombi to be anathema. Interestingly, some of the slaves from Salamanka have been of races other than the Arnokombi, although similar in looks, these folk have spoken of their homelands. It seems that there are two vast nations at war with the arnokombi, explorers have tried to reach these people, for they are reputed to be  benign, but so far only one expedition has managed to reach these lands and return. One of the odd things about Salamanka is that certain areas are infested with large, reptilian monsters that seem unrelated to dragons. The locals use some of these creatures as draught or meat animals, and the Arnokombi utilize some of these terrifying creatures as battle-mounts.
Rangers: Originally an order of warriors started by the ancient Algandian Empire, their task was to patrol the countryside, seeking out monsters and dispensing justice. Since then, ranger groups have been created in many lands, and their composition and exact aims differ from place to place. In Alba, rangers are employed by the High King, most are warriors or priests of Korvis, the patron god of rangers and archers, but there are wizards and knights amongst them.
Mayguthay: the feared orcish shamen who could blow gouts of fire from their mouths, a gift of their dark lord, Garshog Firefang. Although that was their most well known power, they had many unholy spells and allies, and they were not to be taken lightly. Mayguthay were generally to be found only in the largest orcish cities.
Rods of  Lemrikch: Centuries ago, the great bridge-city of Skiriss was in danger of collapsing. This would have been a major blow to the the dwarves of Kaarth and the Messenik Empire, for Skiriss is the only land route between them. Both sides put up a huge reward for someone able to stop the bridge-city's demise. Lemrikch, a stone dragon archmage, managed to achieve this by creating three enormous rods of steel that rise up from the sea and support Skiriss. The rods are four hundred yards wide, a mile high, and so the story goes, partially hollow. It was a titanic feat of wizardy that unfortunately cost Lemrikch his life, for a vast elemental turned on him as he completed the spell, and tore him limb from limb. As ships pass along Saelon's Gulf, they pass under Skiriss, and between the Rods of Lemrikch. A series of huge, magical paintings cover the Rods: the Northern one depicts the dwarves of Kaarth; the Southern Rod portrays the white dragon crest of the Messenik Empire; and the center pillar shows Lemrikch, and tells of his deeds.
The Winds of Wrathful Torment: A series of devastating natural disasters that occured in 3,524 N.W.E. They were triggered by an arguement between Gervona the sea god and Zevalder, the trouble-making god of storms. Their conflict grew out of hand, and wrecked much of the world. Alba suffered little damage, but the entire land of Selik sunk, leaving it a swamp, and gigantic volcanoes burst up in the Pacint Ocean, creating the Fog Wall and the boiling hell of Maelstrom. Chang-Ti-Yhul fared worst, the Western part of the Triple Kingdom was laid waste by an earthquake that turned much of the land into mud (this was caused by a 'liquification' effect of the soft ground, plus the glacial soils were underlain with vast subterranean lakes). Following this, a huge glacier swiftly buried much of the Northern provinces. Monsters (particularly oni, loy-wangzoy, gesharns and frost giants), took over the affected areas and drove the civilized races out. This state of affairs still persists, and few traders ever manage to make the perilous crossing of the Fog Wall and the Marshes of Oinlu. The Messenik Empire dreams of opening up the trade connections again, as the Triple Kingdom was one of their strongest allies, despite (or perhaps because of), the distance between the two empires. As punishment for all this trouble, the gods bound Zevalder under the ocean for a century, where Gervona could torment him at his leisure. The reason storms at sea are so violent is that Zevalder and Gervona still fight, although they know to keep such conficts from getting out of hand.


